Allen Levi's Blog

If it has been our practice to wake up each morning, or even some mornings, and say prayers to center ourselves in a mindset of gratefulness and hope;

If it is the tenor of our hearts to live lives of love — imperfect but authentically — and to advance the life of the world;

If we are content daily, and over a lifetime, to do small things well — keeping house, working with excellence, loving our families, serving our communities, and nurturing a sense of habitual gratitude, quiet generosity, and unpretentious welcome to others;

If it is our aim, in this fractured world of broken hearts, to follow Jesus in becoming instruments of reconciliation;

If we can turn off the strident voices around us and listen to the wisdom of the ancient way that tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves;

If we are actively attentive and responsive to the needs and sorrows of others closest to us — in our homes, our neighborhoods, our classrooms, or our workplaces — no matter how unlike us they are;

If we are Red or Blue, but we want to count for something bigger than the mere blip of the present political season;

Then …

All we did and believed and aspired to yesterday,
Do that on the day of the election,
And the day after the election,
And the day after that …

Who is wise and understanding among you?

Let him show it by his good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from wisdom.

allen

In the original text of Theo of Golden, I had a detailed description— too detailed, we concluded — of the Promenade, the median where Theo met with recipients of his bestowals.

It helped me to have mental and visual images of the places where the action of the story took place. The median in my hometown of Columbus, GA, after which Golden is patterned, was my overall template but the median seemed too narrow and crowded for the scenes I had in mind. Here’s one of the sketches I drew to give me a frame of reference as I wrote.

​It has been a pleasure these past few months to sign and personalize copies of Theo for many of you. A number of the inscriptions I’ve written, including ones to people I don’t yet know personally, contain the phrase “with thanks for the Theo in you.” ​

Perhaps that begs the question: is there a Theo in each of us? ​

I say yes, on two grounds. ​

1) The word “Theo,” as you’ve probably perceived already, is a nod to deity. As a prefix, the two syllables are used in words like theology, theophany, theodicy, theocratic, and so on. Their presence hints at divinity, at sacredness, at the everlasting. So, is there something of the divine, something sacred, something everlasting about us? I’ll answer that question with some questions: aren’t we “all created in God’s likeness”? Doesn’t God’s image, marred though it might be, reside in us? Doesn’t the Book say that people are, like nothing else in creation, “the image and glory of God”? I like CS Lewis’s statement that we were designed and created to be ‘‘little Christs,” to reflect the love, the beauty, the goodness and fullness of life that is in God. The Theo DNA is in us all.

And then, ​

2) Isn’t there within all of us (precisely because of reason 1) a heart that is capable of great kindness, grace, and generosity. That is the kind of heart I tried to capture in the old man from Portugal, one which expresses itself winsomely in word and deed. The prospect of living as Theo lived is not at all fictitious. It’s a matter of surrender, of ‘art lovingly done.’ ​I’m thankful for the Theo in you today.

For personalized copies email info@allenlevi.com

I had the great pleasure recently of attending a concert performance by Drew and Ellie Holcomb. Just them and a couple of guitars. Simple, sweet, joyful. And there were a couple thousand other adoring fans in the opulent surroundings of the Gogue (pronounced ‘Googe’) Theater in Auburn, Alabama. What a night.

The Drew I know is ‘all that’ — superb songwriter, charming stage presence, thoughtful soul — whose notoriety is a good thing for the world. But the Drew I know begins when he was a teenager in Memphis, Tennessee; Hamp and Nancy’s son: YL kid; beginning guitar player. A few years later, he decided to take a crack at being a vocational musician. He stayed a night or two with me when he was playing a gig at a Bar in Opelika, AL, Eighth and Rail, pictured here.

I went to see him perform there — years ago, pre-Ellie, pre-Jimmy Kimmel, pre-sellout-shows-all-over-the-country — and marveled at the tenacity it took to perform in that environment. It was the kind of place where good songs go to die. Drew did a yeoman’s job back then.

The other day, in the morning, after Drew and Ellie played at the Gogue, I wrote him a note to simply say, ‘You’ve come a long way baby.”

Talented, witty, energetic. Drew is all that. But what I see is one of the hardest working, focused, disciplined, diligent guys I know. He earned his success. He worked for it. If he and/or Ellie ever get to your town, buy a ticket.

Though we’ve had some definite touches of springtime already — it was 80 degrees yesterday and trees are swollen with new buds — trees are still wintry in appearance. Branches are barren and sunlight easily finds its way to the forest floor.

One of my favorite trees in the forests here where I live is the American Beech. Silver, mottled, carvable bark. Thick, straight, imposing trunks. Sprawling, low-hanging limbs. And along with those appealing traits is its tendency to hold its leaves throughout the winter. Even after they’ve changed in autumn from green to bright yellow to dull gold, they hang on somehow until spring arrives. Then, when baby leaves begin to form as thin torpedo-shaped buds, the old ones give way to later winter breezes, turn loose, and depart with a flourish.

It’s been happening all morning

When I glanced out the window a little while ago, there was a beautiful downpour of gold confetti, in every way like a flock of small birds, blowing from treetops into the pond. The retired leaves, having endured the stresses of winter, are paper-thin, feather-light, and exuberant in flight. When they touched down lightly on the water, they looked like a flock of miniature golden geese, a flotilla of fishing skiffs, an armada of gold.

And now, they move gracefully wherever the water pushes them. Glad surrender.

The Latin name for American Beech is Fagus Grandifolia. Grand. Sounds about right.

I wish I had possessed the foresight, when I began work as a traveling musician in 1996, to keep a written record of some of the more unique people I’ve met in my travels. By now that record would be a tome but one, I think, well worth reading. And this past week I would have added an entry called “Mary Burkett.”

A couple of weeks or so ago, I received an email with links to maryburkettart.com and another for a documentary on Amazon Prime entitled “Beloved: Children of the Holocaust.” I visited the website and watched the documentary. Together, they tell the story of a genteel, gracious, neighborly soul who has stumbled onto the public stage in recent years after making a New Year’s resolution to “learn to draw a little bit.”

She makes clear at every opportunity that she is “just an ordinary person” and “not an artist.” I would challenge her on both of those assertions (and, in doing so, invoke CS Lewis’s memorable argument in “The Weight of Glory” that “there are no ordinary people.”) I am quite certain that I represent a consensus in my estimation of her “not art” work.

In a nutshell, Mary is a portrait artist who does drawings of children who died in the Holocaust. The portraits depict children prior to “the madness and the evil” of Nazi Germany. The innocence of those faces only underscores the horror of their loss and brings renewal to the call “never again.” Her work has been celebrated by the White House, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and millions who have seen her work in exhibitions and on social media.

I spent four hours with Mary last Monday. It was me asking questions and her enthralling me with stories and insights. It was to be in the presence of one whose work is an embodiment of “art lovingly done.’’

It was a pure gift. Meet Mary Burkett.

Confession 1: I am a sucker for a lush, emotive, (dare is say it) pretty movie soundtrack. . . . And by the way, you are too. (Tell me you didn’t cry when the family dog died and the little boy is sobbing at the graveside in the backyard when the string section, with that angelic oboe line, begins to swell in the background. Right?) 

So, what could that possibly have to do with writing one’s first novel?

I wrote most of Theo of Golden with headphones on. While, for most of the past thirty years (since moving to the farm), I have gravitated to silence (no television or sound system in the house; just a radio), the process of book writing has been steeped in music. At home, at the library, in the coffee shop, even sitting in the woods, I usually had music playing as I wrote.  

I gravitated to a particular genre. 

Songs with lyrics would have been a serious distraction to me. I would want to hear what was being said, what story was being told. And a wildly eclectic instrumental playlist, chosen by someone else (though there are some good ones) would also have derailed my easily-interruptible thoughts. So I made a playlist of my own on Spotify. 

I have always had a great fondness for nostalgic, thoughtful movie scores. Since the genre aims at matching a sound, a feeling, an audible palette to a storyline, it seemed the perfect choice for my purposes. Given too that Theo of Golden is a story about kindness and trust, I figured there would be songs that express those sentiments nicely.   

I don’t watch many movies so I didn’t have any particular selections in mind when I began assembling my playlist. I put in some search words — movie soundtracks, orchestral, beautiful, slow, emotional, sentimental — and began to listen. What a pleasure. I came up with a short list of selections that ‘felt like’ the story I was trying to write and, from time to time, added others. The song count is now at 292. 

The benefit to me of having music playing was that, at low volume, it blocked out distractions, lowered my pulse rate, and called up ‘the better angels of my nature.’ 

(Aside: maybe more importantly, I tried not to have my phone with me when I was writing. It was usually miles or long walks away from me. Blesséd freedom.) 

But I discovered an added, unexpected benefit of the playlist. There were scenes where I felt like the music (‘the muse’) was leading the narrative.  

Confession 2: I would probably be a bit embarrassed to tell you, if I knew, how many times I cried as I wrote or read various passages of Theo. A melody, appearing randomly, would give audible affirmation to the poignancy of a scene and practically telegraph what I was supposed to write next. The sweetness of the old man sitting on the bench at sunset, for example, was enriched by a song from The Secret Garden; the tenderness with which Theo gave the homeless woman her portrait was wonderfully expressed in a song from Dear John; the pathos of a Tony sitting in his bookstore on a rainy Christmas morning was captured beautifully in a melody from Meet Joe Black. 

I was in very good musical company as I wrote and I am certain that many of the lines in Theo of Golden were inspired by melodies by composers I’d never heard of before.  

Thankfully, when I read the final manuscript in silence, headphones off, the scenes still had weight to them. In my mind, I could hear faint echoes of movie tunes as I read them. 

And then there is this: the playlist inspired me to write melodies of my own to accompany various scenes. A good challenge. And maybe I’ll add those to an audible book if we decide to make one. 

If you’re interested and have access to Spotify, you can hear the playlist by looking for “beautiful movie music” under my name. It is a public playlist.   

Sit still and listen. You might hear a story. 

Confession 1: I am a sucker for a lush, emotive, (dare is say it) pretty movie soundtrack. . . . And by the way, you are too. (Tell me you didn’t cry when the family dog died and the little boy is sobbing at the graveside in the backyard when the string section, with that angelic oboe line, begins to swell in the background. Right?) 

So, what could that possibly have to do with writing one’s first novel?

I wrote most of Theo of Golden with headphones on. While, for most of the past thirty years (since moving to the farm), I have gravitated to silence (no television or sound system in the house; just a radio), the process of book writing has been steeped in music. At home, at the library, in the coffee shop, even sitting in the woods, I usually had music playing as I wrote.  

I gravitated to a particular genre. 

Songs with lyrics would have been a serious distraction to me. I would want to hear what was being said, what story was being told. And a wildly eclectic instrumental playlist, chosen by someone else (though there are some good ones) would also have derailed my easily-interruptible thoughts. So I made a playlist of my own on Spotify. 

I have always had a great fondness for nostalgic, thoughtful movie scores. Since the genre aims at matching a sound, a feeling, an audible palette to a storyline, it seemed the perfect choice for my purposes. Given too that Theo of Golden is a story about kindness and trust, I figured there would be songs that express those sentiments nicely.   

I don’t watch many movies so I didn’t have any particular selections in mind when I began assembling my playlist. I put in some search words — movie soundtracks, orchestral, beautiful, slow, emotional, sentimental — and began to listen. What a pleasure. I came up with a short list of selections that ‘felt like’ the story I was trying to write and, from time to time, added others. The song count is now at 292. 

The benefit to me of having music playing was that, at low volume, it blocked out distractions, lowered my pulse rate, and called up ‘the better angels of my nature.’ 

(Aside: maybe more importantly, I tried not to have my phone with me when I was writing. It was usually miles or long walks away from me. Blesséd freedom.) 

But I discovered an added, unexpected benefit of the playlist. There were scenes where I felt like the music (‘the muse’) was leading the narrative.  

Confession 2: I would probably be a bit embarrassed to tell you, if I knew, how many times I cried as I wrote or read various passages of Theo. A melody, appearing randomly, would give audible affirmation to the poignancy of a scene and practically telegraph what I was supposed to write next. The sweetness of the old man sitting on the bench at sunset, for example, was enriched by a song from The Secret Garden; the tenderness with which Theo gave the homeless woman her portrait was wonderfully expressed in a song from Dear John; the pathos of a Tony sitting in his bookstore on a rainy Christmas morning was captured beautifully in a melody from Meet Joe Black. 

I was in very good musical company as I wrote and I am certain that many of the lines in Theo of Golden were inspired by melodies by composers I’d never heard of before.  

Thankfully, when I read the final manuscript in silence, headphones off, the scenes still had weight to them. In my mind, I could hear faint echoes of movie tunes as I read them. 

And then there is this: the playlist inspired me to write melodies of my own to accompany various scenes. A good challenge. And maybe I’ll add those to an audible book if we decide to make one. 

If you’re interested and have access to Spotify, you can hear the playlist by looking for “beautiful movie music” under my name. It is a public playlist.   

Sit still and listen. You might hear a story. 

I don’t know that I’ve ever completely finished a song. I’ve worked on a few thousand and gotten them to the point that they were performable, or recordable. But there’s often the gnawing sense that, with more time and the help of others, the song could be better, maybe even, on rare occasions, almost perfect. (Cue up, “Abandon Hope.”) 

Scenario: Let’s say I’m booked to play a gathering three nights from now. It is a gathering to celebrate the 30th wedding anniversary of, pick some names, Todd and Susan. The gig is at 7:30 that night. So I begin writing a song for them. First draft, second, third, and so on. Change this chord; fix that lyric; sing the bridge a bit differently. Edit and rearrange. Play it for Dewayne so he can write out the keyboard part. All the while, the clock is ticking. And then 7:30 on gig day arrives. Win, lose, or draw, finished or not, zipped up tight or rough around the edges, I sing the song. And thank goodness, most every time, despite its imperfections, the song works. (Trade secret: people like to hear their names in songs. Please don’t tell anyone I said that.) . . . So, what’s that got to do with writing one’s first novel?

My point is this: the DEADLINE is your friend, especially if you’re your own boss, with no agent, editor, publishing house, or coach to set and enforce target dates. Unwanted perhaps but a friend just the same.

This is me speaking about me; maybe it doesn’t apply to you. If you think it doesn’t, it probably does. … Without deadlines, I’ve learned I’m prone to stall, procrastinate, deflect, wander. I am a master at finding something more important to do than finish that paragraph, that chapter, that verse. (“You know what,” I say to myself, “I should probably finish chapter 23 today, but I really need to change that lightbulb in the laundry room that burned out when Reagan was President. Dang, I need to do that right NOW.” Sound familiar? You do that too, don’t you?)

A reasonable deadline has the effect of an execution date, consistent with Mr. Twain’s observation, “Nothing so focuses the mind as the prospect of being hanged.”

The deadline forces completion.

It clarifies. 

It might even inspire hope, “I can do this. It is within my power and discipline to hit the mark.” 

The deadline is not inspiration but it can serve as a fence to keep inspiration from wandering off and getting lost in the weeds.

Even if it’s a soft target, arbitrary and movable, it helps me to have one or several [‘these chapters by this date, this draft by that date, completion by (drum roll)’]. I’ve also found it helpful to tell someone about my resolution and ask them to check on me from time to time. (That person: “Just calling to check on you. Have you made your deadline?” Me: “Not quite, but you know that lightbulb in the laundry room …”)

Don’t be the guy who said “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by.” Stay on task, allen Levi. You can do this.

7:30 is coming. Be ready to sing.

I don’t know that I’ve ever completely finished a song. I’ve worked on a few thousand and gotten them to the point that they were performable, or recordable. But there’s often the gnawing sense that, with more time and the help of others, the song could be better, maybe even, on rare occasions, almost perfect. (Cue up, “Abandon Hope.”) 

Scenario: Let’s say I’m booked to play a gathering three nights from now. It is a gathering to celebrate the 30th wedding anniversary of, pick some names, Todd and Susan. The gig is at 7:30 that night. So I begin writing a song for them. First draft, second, third, and so on. Change this chord; fix that lyric; sing the bridge a bit differently. Edit and rearrange. Play it for Dewayne so he can write out the keyboard part. All the while, the clock is ticking. And then 7:30 on gig day arrives. Win, lose, or draw, finished or not, zipped up tight or rough around the edges, I sing the song. And thank goodness, most every time, despite its imperfections, the song works. (Trade secret: people like to hear their names in songs. Please don’t tell anyone I said that.) . . . So, what’s that got to do with writing one’s first novel?

My point is this: the DEADLINE is your friend, especially if you’re your own boss, with no agent, editor, publishing house, or coach to set and enforce target dates. Unwanted perhaps but a friend just the same.

This is me speaking about me; maybe it doesn’t apply to you. If you think it doesn’t, it probably does. … Without deadlines, I’ve learned I’m prone to stall, procrastinate, deflect, wander. I am a master at finding something more important to do than finish that paragraph, that chapter, that verse. (“You know what,” I say to myself, “I should probably finish chapter 23 today, but I really need to change that lightbulb in the laundry room that burned out when Reagan was President. Dang, I need to do that right NOW.” Sound familiar? You do that too, don’t you?)

A reasonable deadline has the effect of an execution date, consistent with Mr. Twain’s observation, “Nothing so focuses the mind as the prospect of being hanged.”

The deadline forces completion.

It clarifies. 

It might even inspire hope, “I can do this. It is within my power and discipline to hit the mark.” 

The deadline is not inspiration but it can serve as a fence to keep inspiration from wandering off and getting lost in the weeds.

Even if it’s a soft target, arbitrary and movable, it helps me to have one or several [‘these chapters by this date, this draft by that date, completion by (drum roll)’]. I’ve also found it helpful to tell someone about my resolution and ask them to check on me from time to time. (That person: “Just calling to check on you. Have you made your deadline?” Me: “Not quite, but you know that lightbulb in the laundry room …”)

Don’t be the guy who said “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by.” Stay on task, allen Levi. You can do this.

7:30 is coming. Be ready to sing.