Storytellers embrace questions.

Before a single word finds the page, I probe an idea. And questions are my favorite tools, helping me dig for the hidden pulse of a tale.

I’ve learned to begin with the end in mind. And while there are other foundational pillars such as audience, genre, and point of view, those are not my focus here.

So, let’s say I’m writing a novel. To uncover its bones, I lean on 17 deceptively simple prompts. These reveal if my ideas have enough muscle to carry the weight of a full story.

• Who/what does the hero care about in their ordinary world?

• What belief does the hero state that will be overturned at the end?

• What event rattles them hard enough to shatter their status quo?

• How do they stall, dodge, or debate the call to change?

• What does this new “upside-down” world look like and what immediate challenge awaits?

• Who steps in as the new friend, mentor, rival, or love interest?

• How does the hero either flounder or succeed in this new world?

• What would the hero NEVER think, say, or do… before it happens in this moment?

• How do they look in the mirror and confront the truth?

• What “door” must the hero open to glimpse resolution?

• What “bad guys” are working against the hero?

• How is their life worse off than the start of the story?

• What forgotten object, memory, or symbol sparks their courage to keep fighting?

• How does the hero finally grasp the story’s deeper theme?

• How do they put their plan into motion?

• How do they dig deep down when the original plan doesn’t work?

• At last, how has the hero changed?

Seventeen questions. Seventeen doors opening one by one, letting the light spill out from within, like finding hidden treasure.

When you ask them, the story will speak back.

A picture of determination.

Last year, Sam and a friend tackled a hike. They left before sunrise for a 3 1/2 trip to the mountains and spent the day winding through trails before heading back late that evening.

But when he unpacked his bag at home, his iPhone was missing. He remembered slipping it into a side pocket near the end of the hike but then dozed off in the car, forgetting to check. Only when he got back did he realize the device had vanished.

Years ago, losing technology meant goodbye forever. But Apple’s built-in location services make recovery a lot easier.

So Sam pinged the phone, and the map showed it resting at the path's end. His heart sank. I told him not to worry since we’d file an insurance claim and get a replacement.

But determined, he and his buddy woke up early the next morning and made another long journey to the mountains. Hours later, following the ping, they found the untouched phone where it had fallen.

Amazing.

That kind of single-mindedness is rare in everyday life. But losing something precious can ignite an intensity, somehow shifting the mind into a different gear and refusing to rest until the mystery is solved.

For Sam, the search felt almost epic, and the return trip became part of the quest. As the years go by, he and his buddy probably won’t remember the hike as much as the rescue mission.

Which brings me to one of my favorite definitions: Determination is hope made stubborn.

Sam, thanks for showing me what that looks like.

The older you get, keep this in mind.

This week, I read a fascinating article about “super-agers,” people in their 80s who perform well on memory tests, often rivaling those thirty years younger.

Researchers found a common thread among those who age gracefully, beyond eating kale salads or playing pickleball.

The secret? Friendships.

Those who socialize are more resistant to cognitive decline. But isolation is a major dementia risk, as dangerous as smoking 15 cigarettes a day.

Science tells us healthy aging means movement plus mental exercise. Still true, but also remember to foster the friendships.

Brains thrive when they’re in company with others.

So… before you forget… call your BFF for brunch.

Why?

Some things leave me baffled, such as the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, or how socks vanish in the dryer.

But here’s another one I recently read about: a new ice cream hitting the market that tastes like… wait for it… breast milk.

Huh? While not made of the real thing, this frozen dessert mimics it.

Breast Milk Ice Cream is “sweet, a little salty, smooth, with hints of honey and sprinkles of colostrum, and features a distinct… yellow tinge.”

Uh, nope. Hard pass. I haven’t had this flavor since I wore Pampers, and that’s good enough for me.

What’s next for sweet treats? “Wet Dog Delight” or “Gas Station Sushi”?

Thanks, but I’ll stick with the cookie dough.

The last one out the door.

Sam left for his sophomore year today. Our youngest, our final summer holdout, the remaining thread between this season and the next.

The house pulsed with life while he was here because he always brought friends, filling the downstairs with laughter and the sound of poker chips clattering past midnight.

But this morning, after hugs, he pulled out in a loaded car, to an off-campus rental filled with his buddies. No more dorm living.

As he turned off Spring Branch, the summer sounds went with him. All gone with one right turn.

We’ve been here before, so this ritual isn’t new. But that doesn’t make it easy. These days, the goodbyes have less shock, but more ache. We know the kids will return, but the empty chairs at dinner are proof of the passage of time.

Yeah, our home stays cleaner. The laundry pile shrinks and the grocery bill drops. And yet the silence in the hallways and bedrooms is louder than Swifties at a Tay Tay concert.

We usually keep a living room light on for late-night arrivals. But tonight it went dark early. There’s no reason to leave the lamp burning.

Life goes on, and we’ll have adventures of our own. But we’ll also be waiting for the familiar creak of the side door opening when fall break rolls around.

Proud of you, Sam.

I’ve cheered for the Dallas Cowboys since the ‘70s.

Tom Landry in a fedora. Roger Staubach scanning the field. “Too Tall” Jones, Aikman, and Irvin. Then there’s Tony Dorsett, the Hall of Fame running back who once mailed me an autographed photo.

As a kid, I stayed up late on Friday nights to watch the intro to the TV show Dallas because they showed a clip of Cowboys stadium. Always the best part.

Each school year, I bought a pack of NFL pencils. Over the months, I sharpened them down to stubs. Except the Cowboys pencils, which remained untouched and in mint condition.

Which brings me to my excitement. Luke hatched the plan of a father-son trip to Texas, and this week he purchased our tickets for a November matchup.

After all these decades, I’ve never attended a Cowboys game, and I can’t think of a better person to see the silver-and-blue with than Luke, who knows more stats and roster details than I ever did.

We’ve talked about doing this for a long time. And now the day is finally happening, the culmination of years of cheering from the couch and firing off group texts after big plays or wins.

But more than anything, I look forward to hanging with Luke, which is more important to me than AT&T Stadium or watching Dak sling a TD pass.

When a child grows up and moves away, the time with one another becomes rarer and richer. This trip is more than football; it’s about the conversations, grabbing meals, and laughing at the same things we always have.

On a Monday night in November, we’ll find our seats and gaze at the star in the middle of the field. For a few moments, we’ll probably just stand there, letting it all sink in.

Our team, our first game at Jerry World, and a memory we’ll talk about for years.

But for now, I suddenly have the urge to buy vintage Cowboys pencils.

It feels like being shot in the chest with a shotgun.

Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration.

But that’s the best metaphor to capture the ache when any of the kids leave for an extended time. There’s a hole left.

Today, Jake backed out of the driveway for his junior year of college. For me, the most depressing days are when everyone scatters after summer break.

The sunshine season collapses into goodbye tail lights. Even Cali looks sad.

I’ll miss the daily touchpoints that keep us connected. Over the summer, our parenting routines bend around them — their late mornings, the later nights, their shifting plans, the energy.

It’s not all doom-and-gloom, though. I know fun times are ahead, and I’m truly excited about their adventures and connections with friends.

But almost as soon as they’re gone, my mind skips forward to the next break, picturing them walking back into the kitchen with their duffel bags, tired but smiling.

Missing you already, Jake.

For a long time, my flossing was hit or miss.

Not from lack of desire, but from forgetting. So, I set the floss right next to my toothbrush, and now the container stares at me every evening. Problem solved.

Business habits form in much the same way: through repetition and prompts. Any great company knows the slow, stubborn push of deliberate change.

Consider Chick-fil-A, which took a decade for a simple phrase to become second nature. When a customer says “Thank you,” the employee answers, “My pleasure.”

Founder S. Truett Cathy introduced the expression, but employees needed continual reinforcement before it stuck and became part of the brand.

Culture change needs more than a memo or a one-off training. To rewire muscle memory requires constant reminders.

Kind of like flossing — you have to see it enough times before the act becomes a reflex.

So tonight, if you remember to clean between your molars, maybe this little blog had something to do with it.

You’re welcome. Or rather, “My pleasure.”

I desire a simple funeral.

No church service or casket. No crowd in neat rows. I want my send-off to feel like a gathering rather than an event to be managed.

Just scatter my ashes in the ocean at a nice beach somewhere. Enjoy the quiet breeze, the sound of waves, and maybe a glorious sunset.

Then, go out for a good meal. Tell the stories that make you smile. Laugh at the old jokes we’ve told a hundred times before. Let the day overflow with gratitude for the time we had without being an obligation to mark its ending.

Recently, I read about Brooke Hogan choosing not to attend the funeral ceremony of her father, Hulk Hogan. She explained her desire to honor him privately because he hated formality.

So she went to a beach he loved and took a picture of herself, her husband, and her twin babies playing in the sand together. In doing so, she honored her dad’s memory in a way that felt the most authentic.

Sounds good to me.

After I kick the bucket, don’t mourn in some chapel. Go to the oceanfront. Find me in the salt air and the sunlight on the waves.

And if you need to have music, may I suggest “Staying Alive” by the Bee Gees.

When McKenzie was 6 years old, High School Musical premiered on the Disney Channel.

This made-for-TV movie became a cultural tidal wave. The soundtrack churned out instant anthems, and everyone wanted to master those choreography moves.

McKenzie loved it, and I bet we watched that film 5,000,000,000 times. Resistance was futile. Pretty soon, we knew the words to every song.

The next year, High School Musical 2 came out, and the week leading up to it felt like waiting for Santa. Finally, the big day arrived, along with plenty of snacks. And on that summer night, our living room transformed into a Broadway theater.

This week, I saw a viral video of a dad visiting the golf course featured in the sequel. Across the greens, he belted out popular HSM hits and nailed Troy Bolton’s dance steps.

Instant nostalgia.

Like Troy and Gabriella, McKenzie and I were Team Wildcats. And Get’cha Head in the Game still feels like the best life advice.

Recently, I watched a Will Packer interview with Mel Robbins.

He shared the concept of “Healthy Arrogance,” a steady confidence that shuts down imposter syndrome before it starts. The unshakable belief you belong in any room you enter, no matter who else is there.

It has nothing to do with titles or credentials and whether you have them or not.

This is not “toxic” arrogance which assumes you’re superior than others. Instead, it’s knowing you bring value — your unique skills and your story — which others cannot offer.

Your presence makes things better simply because you walked in.

This isn’t only for athletes or performers but for leaders, creators, parents, and students. Anyone called to show up and deliver.

So don’t shrink. Walk in with your gifts and use them well.

When you hold back, the whole room misses out.

Growing up, we had a screened side porch.

It was mostly overlooked, with peeling paint on the steps and spiderwebs in the corners. Then one day, my dad decided on a change.

So we transformed it into an actual room with walls, lights, bookshelves, and a couch and computer. The neglected porch became our family’s office. From useless to useful, just like that.

Something similar happened this week with a thin strip of land between our house and the neighbor’s. We’ve always called it “the side yard,” but it was more of a boundary. Overgrown and tree-choked.

Then we started cutting back the thicket. A couple of trees came down, and we hauled away vines and brush. Beneath it all, we saw possibility. A place somehow missed for years.

This afternoon, Jake brought out the power washer and made the area shine, blasting grime off the house and fence.

Suddenly, we have vision. Maybe a hammock or a winding path, or perhaps potted herbs, smooth stones, and string lights. Once a jungle, now a blank canvas.

There’s something satisfying about reclaiming space, discovering what was always there.

Sometimes the biggest changes come from clearing, not adding. Pulling away the layers and noticing the beauty beneath the mess.

Every home (and life) has forgotten corners worth recovering. There are often spaces that we dismiss as unimportant, but they hold potential if we give them a second look.

What you ignore doesn’t go away. It just waits.

At first glance, it looks like a sad little pancake.

But it didn’t fall off the griddle. No, it came from somewhere else.

In the south, we call it a cow chip, the gift our bovine friends leave behind in a field which then hardens into a crusty, sun-baked souvenir.

In college, a buddy took a dare and bit into one. I’m not sure what possessed him. Probably the cheers of a hyped-up crowd and an undeveloped frontal lobe found in young males.

I thought about that today when I read about water bottles being left in cars. Seems harmless. Just clear liquid under a cap, right?

But whoa. Scientists say microbes grow in partly consumed beverages, especially at warm temps, and these liquids become a tropical Club Med for germs.

So next time you reach for a forgotten bottle rolling under your seat, think twice. You may be drinking millions of tiny stowaways throwing a microscopic party in your mouth.

Your innocent Aquafina becomes a Petri dish.

Cow chips, water bottles.

Stay safe out there.

A year into marriage, Jess and I bought our first home.

A small house tucked into a quiet Norfolk neighborhood, just five minutes from her parents. It was the place where our first two newborns lived, and we decorated a colorful nursery in the front bedroom. Oh, the sweet times.

We stayed there for only a few years, but two decades later, we often take the long way to drive by. Pulling up to the curb, we lower the windows and let the memories rush back, sharp as yesterday.

Today, Jess and I walked through another couple’s first home, this time belonging to McKenzie and Will. In a few weeks, the keys will be theirs.

The rooms stood silent and bare. Waiting. But soon, life will spill into each space, and the everyday moments will become something… sacred.

There’s magic standing inside a story yet to unfold. A blank page, already pulsing with promise.

Every home holds memories.

But the first one stays in your heart forever.

Why are we even meeting?

That’s the question I ask far too often, usually around minute 47 of a discussion which should’ve been an email.

It’s not that I dislike people, and I’m not against all gatherings. Some serve a real purpose.

But too many feel like using dial-up internet to download The Lord of the Rings. It’s a long slog in a foggy field with no end in sight. Just a slow drift toward the next Outlook calendar invite.

Then I found a smart framework from Rahim Charania, a real estate investor who uses a “What Why What” rubric.

Before scheduling any get-together, three questions must be answered:

• What are the issues?

• Why do we need to meet?

• What is the best possible outcome?

The time allotted is 15 minutes and rarely goes over. As Charania says, “It forces everyone to do the majority of their thinking before the meeting.”

Most 60 or 90-minute conferences could be trimmed down to fifteen if people show up prepared. When they’re not, things unravel like a lazy spool of yarn.

The fix is simple: What Why What.

So, unless your meeting involves snacks, just send me an email.

Easy games sometimes become legends.

When my kids were little, I invented a game that could be played anywhere. And they begged for it constantly.

The entire setup required nothing more than a blanket and imagination. The best part? Zero prep or cleanup.

I called it Mud Man.

Here’s how it worked.

1. The kids sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch.

2. I held up a blanket and announced it was mud. Not just any mud, but this goo contained whatever disgusting things I could dream up. Dirty toenails, moldy cheese, horse poop, mystery slime — all with the goal of making them scream, “Ewwww!”

3. The kids were told to sit completely still.

4. I tossed the blanket high into the air, letting the wind choose the target, and whoever it landed on got “slimed.”

Somehow, the game never grew old. The sillier the storytelling, the more they laughed.

This week, I read about a mom who entertains her kids at the airport using AI. While waiting for a flight, she asks it to create a scavenger hunt of items around the specific departure gate. And off they go, snapping pictures of each clue.

That’s clever. But not every game needs the internet or technology. Some of the greatest ones are purely analog.

All you need is a blanket and the willingness to imagine worms in it.

If cereals had a Mount Rushmore, these faces would be carved into the stone.

Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble
Lucky the Leprechaun
Tony the Tiger
Toucan Sam

Fruity Pebbles, Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, Froot Loops.

They may not win awards from the American Heart Association, but nothing compares to that final slurp of sugary milk at the bottom of the bowl. A sweet reward for dangerous living.

Which brings me to Froot Loops.

Some truths are shocking to learn. Such as Santa Claus. The birds and bees. How your parents are cooler than you think.

And then I recently discovered something about the Froot Loops “fruits” — you know, the red, green, blue, orange, and purple rainbow rings?

They’re the same flavor, completely identical.

There’s no citrus. No cherry. No grape. Despite what your eyes want to believe, it’s just one mysterious taste pretending to be five.

What?!

The greatest breakfast illusion of our time.

Oh well, the last slurp still tastes good to me.

I used to sleep through anything.

As a kid, I once slept through my neighbor’s house fire. Sirens wailed and lights flashed next to my bedroom window, but I kept on snoozing. Even when someone tried waking me, I was out cold, unaware of the chaos just a few yards away.

Now? I wake up when a floorboard creaks. Sleeping past sunrise feels like a lifetime ago. These days, as soon as morning light peeks through the blinds, my eyes snap open.

I usually get about 6 1/2 hours each night, but everything I read recommends 7-8. Time to upgrade my game.

Recently, I’ve been learning that shut-eye is a daily commitment to future brain health. Scientists say it plays a critical housekeeping role.

In the quiet hours, our brains kick into spring cleaning mode, sweeping out toxins and harmful proteins linked to Alzheimer’s. Like a rinse cycle clearing out the clutter. An overnight detox.

Skimp on slumber, and mental garbage piles up fast, which can speed up cognitive decline.

Sleep is insurance. A ritual of repair. More than a luxury, it’s an investment.

Not because I want to snore through another fire, but so I can stay sharp enough to remember it.

Who are you trying to be?

Everyone knows the story. When David defeated Goliath in battle, it was the upset of the ages.

But there’s a part that often gets skipped. Before facing the giant, David strapped on King Saul’s armor. The massive plates swallowed him whole and clanked like a rusty gate. He stumbled around, weighed down and off balance. A ridiculous fit.

So he shook it off and walked out onto the battlefield as himself, a simple shepherd boy, carrying only a slingshot and a few stones. No armor. No pretending.

I thought of David when I read a quote from Melinda French Gates, sharing her mother’s advice: “Set your own agenda or someone else will.”

Setting my course doesn’t have to be rigid. But it means naming my priorities and moving in that direction.

I’ve learned not to wait for approval. Often, the only permission slip I need is the one I write myself. It’s about choosing my own adventure, instead of handing the map to another person.

When the armor doesn’t fit, throw it off.

The stones work better anyway.

The class that will never be forgotten.

My college offered a Christian Ethics course taught by one of the most respected professors on campus.

He was wise and compassionate, grounded in both scholarship and faith. Before launching into deep lectures, he opened every class with prayer.

Then came that day.

The syllabus included controversial topics. And one morning, just after prayer, he looked out at the room and did something no one expected.

He started cussing.

Not a mild slip or a single sharp profanity. But a full-throttle, rapid-fire, machine gun style explosion. Every scandalous, eyebrow-raising, did-he-just-say-that dirty word you can imagine.

Students froze with jaws open. Was he having a breakdown?

When he finally stopped, silence hovered like smoke in the air.

Then he said, “Why are you so shocked? They’re just words. Vowels and consonants created by humans. They have no power beyond the meaning you give them. Even ‘innocent’ words become swears if your intent is wrong. It’s more of a heart issue than a mouth issue.”

Boom. An unforgettable lesson that had the whole campus talking.

I thought of it again today when reading about celebrity couple Dax Shepard and Kristen Bell. In an interview, Dax said they let their kids swear, as long as it stays in the house and only “when it’s called for.”

His explanation? “These are noises that come out of your mouth and you assign what they mean to you.”

Hmmm. Sounds familiar.

I think my new cussword will be... son of a motherless goat. Next time I stump my toe, I’ll try it.

Unless my intent is wrong.