I constantly wrestle with what is the right tone, content, and emphasis of this blog. After every third essay I publish, I hate myself for being narcissistic. Who really wants to read my loving ode to extinct Disney attractions or my Honda Accord? Who cares—besides (maybe) my mom and grandmothers—how I feel about my inadequacies of articulation or memory? But then I think, Well, this is a personal blog. Isn’t it assumed I’ll be writing about myself? Referring back to the charter I outlined in my maiden post,

this here blog will be a place where I log the things that I’m thinking about, things that are happening in my life, things I would like to see generate some discussion, and funny videos of cats getting hurt.

Now, I’ll admit, there has been an embarrassing dearth of cats-getting-hurt videos, and indeed, anything cat-related. But I’d say the general promise from that inaugural essay is pretty much what I’ve delivered on (which just goes to show how craftily safe I played it on the campaign trail).

Feedback to a recent Facebook question assured me that my readers enjoy a more buffet-like approach (topically) to the blog, rather than a single concentration. This came as a relief—both as affirmation of the blog as it is, and because I have so much more freedom when I’m only limited by my own creativity.

Here’s the rub. The one area of my life which is, arguably (and ideally), the most significant is my faith—and that’s the one area I’ve been shy to explore on here. Partly that’s because I have a pretty diverse audience (which I am thankful for), and the rule at any polite dinner table is “no politics or religion.” I don’t want to chase any one group off by favoring a niche topic, and I especially don’t want to scare readers off with soapbox, and potentially suffocating, material.

This was never “a Christian blog,” and I don’t really want it to be. But I also feel it’s dishonest for me to muffle the most important element in my life. So how do I broach topics of cosmic and spiritual proportions without smoking out my nonreligious friends or offending my religious friends (and family) who might be shocked at my stance on various doctrinal matters? I definitely don’t want this to turn into a platform for religious debate or heated discussions, and yet I would love to stimulate deep discussion in the comments.

Yes it’s my blog, my turf, my party. I can write about anything I want. But I’d prefer not to end up standing here talking to myself.

Over the weekend, Alison and I hosted our second out-of-towner houseguests since moving to Pittsburgh. With a moderately spacious place of our own, we have eagerly invited many of our friends to make Pittsburgh a destination vacation and to lodge with us—promising an unforgettable sampling of this hidden American gem—but alas, few have obeyed the call. (I have truly come to love this city, and I invite with such fervor because I instinctively want to share it.) Finally some friends took us up on our near-beggarly offer.

Like being new to marriage, home rental, and many other grown-up things, this was really the first time I was required to employ my hosting muscle. I’ve “helped” host in various ways and various settings during my life, and my mother taught me plenty of the good manners and habits that are prerequisites to being a good host. But this was the first time that it was on my turf and I was the man of the house, where the onus was on me (and my wife) to provide the towels and guest bed and accommodations and food (or at least a good restaurant recommendation).

I won’t comment on my efficacy as a rookie host this weekend, other than to say that I really enjoyed the role, and was relieved to discover that I wasn’t utterly incompetent at it. But this weekend found me contemplating and drawing on my many experiences over the years on the other side of the guest room door. I thought of all the friends, family, and even relative strangers who have “put me up for the night,” and the qualities that I have come to appreciate in a good host.

Being a good host, in my book, begins with the sheer offering of keeping someone. The fact that you are willing to open your doors and let another human being occupy your temple—and drool on your best sheets and stink up your bathroom and raid your refrigerator—is the first and most significant comment on a host’s character.

Beyond that, though, a good host primarily makes their guest feel at ease, makes them comfortable. The oft-uttered phrase, “Make yourself at home,” is the perfect encapsulation of this idea. A good host makes their guest feel like they’re sleeping in a bed and sitting on a couch and brushing their teeth in their own home. It goes without saying that a bad houseguest can abuse this privilege, but the very fact that a host would run that risk says something complimentary about them.

Good hosts go out of their way to offer items of comfort (food, entertainment, or even privacy), and make it plain that it is a genuine pleasure to offer such things and not a begrudged sacrifice. When I am the houseguest, you can make me feel like what you’re offering me is a burden or a delight. One ensures my comfort in your home, the other chokes it.

The many, many wonderful experiences I have had staying in the homes of others around the country (and internationally) inspire me not only to host out-of-town travelers myself, but to aspire to a very high standard in doing so. Even when it means sleeping on air mattresses and sharing a tiny bathroom, lodging with good people who are good hosts beats a five-star hotel any night of the week.

On the recommendation of two writers whose opinions I highly value, I am reading Stephen King’s marvelous On Writing—a kind of memoir/how-to hybrid about the writer’s craft. I remain largely unfamiliar with and uninterested in King’s body of fiction, but On Writing is shaping up to be a practical, inspiring, and surprisingly poignant read. It has lit the fires of writing for me, and has me reevaluating my habits, strengths, and vices.

One of these vices—about which I was previously half-ashamed, half-ignorant—is what King refers to as “dressing up vocabulary.” He writes:

One of the really bad things you can do to your writing is to dress up your vocabulary, looking for long words because you’re maybe a little bit ashamed of your short ones. This is like dressing up a household pet in evening clothes. The pet is embarrassed and the person who committed this act of premeditated cuteness should be even more embarrassed.

Make yourself a solemn promise right now that you’ll never use “emolument” when you mean “tip”…Remember that the basic rule of vocabulary is use the first word that comes to mind, if it is appropriate and colorful.

I take (foolish) pride in my vocabulary, and I never (okay, rarely) use a word that I didn’t already know the definition of. But I confess that I suffer from chronic thesaurusitis—an incessant compulsion to look up smarter synonyms for words that I want to use.

It’s not that I’m embarrassed (as King assumes) of my shorter, “pedestrian” words. I think I’ve simply bought the same lie that too many high school English students buy, that I need to use big, fancy words to write a good, smart paper. King’s curt dismissal of this behavior has strengthened the (heretofore) weak conviction I’ve held that this over-reliance on the thesaurus is a crutch. That’s not to say that the resource shouldn’t be wisely used to locate a word that my slippery memory has temporarily misplaced, by means of a related word. The sin, I believe, is accessorizing my writing with too many of these cute, shiny trinkets that I overspend on at the synonym store.

King has me convinced that the best writing is clear writing, and that my best tools—meaning here vocabulary—are the ones already in the “top drawer” of my toolbox. I should reject the lie that the amount of syllables is proportionate to the amount of cleverness. I should favor clarity over gloss, simplicity over complexity. All I need to do to see the wisdom in this principle is read someone else’s prose overburdened with what are clearly nonindigenous fancy words. It reads clumsy and unclear, and it taints or even dams up the writer’s message. It’s more than enough to make me go home and take the tuxedo off my poor pug.

From one vantage point, this past year in Pittsburgh might easily look like a wasted one. Unable to land any of the permanent positions I’ve applied for, I’ve worked fairly tedious temporary assignments outside of my field for the past six months. I’ve been stuck on a holding pattern awaiting graduate school, which has kept us from making any major commitments. On a temp’s income, we’ve had difficulty setting aside any savings, and we live on a very tight budget that doesn’t allow for many luxuries.

But that’s one vantage point. In reality this year has been an incredible one. In addition to venturing out onto the glorious, uncharted waters of marriage with Alison, this year has offered a wealth of experience, education, and relationships that will surely benefit me for the rest of my life. And of all the lessons I’ve learned this year, one of the most valuable has been the sheer logistics—and rewards—of living on a shoestring.

Having been equipped with a thirteen-week course in the Dave Ramsey school of finance during our engagement, Alison and I entered the risky land of unemployment, low income, and first-time independence armed and ready to conquer. Determined to be purposeful with our money and not to become slaves of debt, we have consistently created a detailed budget at the beginning of each month (made all the sweeter by the accompanying, once-a-month “fancy drink” at Caribou Coffee)—and with very few, minor exceptions, we have diligently obeyed the numbers on the almighty spreadsheet.

I’ve learned so many things deliberately living on a little, and many preconceptions have been duly debunked. First of all, it’s possible. Neither Alison nor I were terribly disciplined with our money before we got married; I would say that I was, at the very least, quite lazy about it. The word “budget” instilled the same fight-or-flight emotional response as the post-it note from my mother telling me to clean the bathroom. But, together, we’ve made it work. And it does work, and it’s not that hard.

I’ve learned that you can survive despite only going out to eat once or twice a month—in fact, the dining out experience is highly augmented when it is rare. I’ve learned that I can obtain just about any book or movie I could hope to watch or read through the interlibrary loan system, if I only exercise a little patience. I’ve learned that small gifts and treats and luxuries are far more delightful when they are limited to a specific and conservative amount. I’ve learned that going on walks, seeing movies at the dollar theater, playing chess, and reading are just as enjoyable as anything that costs much money to do. I’ve learned that a lot of the things I spent money on “in my former life” either a) were totally unnecessary, b) could have been obtained much less expensively, or c) were worth a wait.

One of the most helpful ideas (for me) espoused by Dave Ramsey is that living on a budget is simply telling your money what to do. Organizing and planning your spending does not have to be a depressing, suffocating, humdrum way of living life. It is simply exercising control and dominion over your hard-earned paychecks, and making them do what you need and want done. If your paychecks are small, you simply have to be a little more creative. And that should appeal to someone who purports to be an artist.