Scribbles and Scrambles - Twisted Formation - Part 1

Humor is subjective. Some people don’t find the Stooges amusing. Others are left cold by some of the more popular newspaper comics. Napoleon Dynamite is a perfect example. Either you loved it or thought it was the stupidest movie ever to grace celluloid. (Do they still use celluloid or am I mixing up my vocabulary words again? Forgive me if I just laid out some nasty medical condition for your perusal, especially if you’re eating.)

My aunt thinks there should be a DVD with snippets of the great one-liners and comic bits from all of her favorite funny movies, so she could just pop it in and laugh herself sick when she’s having a bad day. But her set of “must have” movies might not be anyone else’s.

This has me wondering why I laugh at the things I laugh at. I have gotten hysterical over some of the most benign and bizarre things. My family loves to see me wind up for a laugh attack. They laugh at me, but hardly ever at what set me off. The most recent attack was during the movie Elizabethtown. A little kid has a temper tantrum, and his screams set me off. I even entered silent laugh mode which is where I laugh so hard no sounds come out except the occasional Smedley-type – “har, har.” Trust me, I’ve lived through many a temper tantrum, and usually they don’t make me laugh. Go figure.

One of the strangest things that gets to me is heavy objects. My husband loves this. This condition (it is probably in medical journals under abnormal psychology) started when I was very young. Mom asked me to pour milk. Every time, and I kid you not, I’d be perfectly fine, normal, and laid-back even, as I opened the fridge. Walking to the table was no problem, but something happened when the lid was off, and I was poised over the cups. Suddenly, the act of pouring milk was off-the-charts hysterical.

I wonder how many nervous breakdowns my mom had. She hid them well, except for the occasional twitches.

Sophistication dawned with motherhood. I now have no desire to laugh when I pour milk.

But moving heavy objects is another story altogether. As long as I bear the burden alone, I’m fine. I can haul boxes with nary a grin. I’ve pushed/humped/heaved heavy furniture across miles of carpet in my day. But if my husband asks me to help him haul something, I lose it. Any psychiatrists out there -- feel free to diagnosis this problem.

Tomorrow, I’ll share a very formative event…entitled Aunt Har-Har.

Serials and Scenarios – Mary and Susan - Swirling Leaves

Happy May Day – the legal ring and run holiday. Not that I know anything about ringing and running.

I asked some authors to add to a couple of story starters (a sentence or two – for the non-writers in the group). Today I want to share two.

Susan Meissner and Mary DeMuth added to the same starter and took it different directions.

I love how creative people think.

I suppose since I focus on dregs, I should come up with some random numbers and give them to mathematics genius (genei? What’s plural for genius?) It’s not fair to leave the logical out, right? Can’t do it… breaking out in…cold sweat. Must stop…thinking about it…now.
Stay tuned…likely for a really long time. Math free site folks.


My story starter is in red italics and their comments are in bold blue.

Susan:
Swirling leaves riding the icy wind, danced up Liesel's skirt. The leaves weren’t the only things stirred up by the breeze which now carried the cloying scent of death.
The tattered pages of the manuscript that lay at the dead man’s feet began to fly about the barn floor. She reached down to grab at them, but a gust of wind snatched them away from her grasp. She ran back to the huge wooden doors, forced her body against them and closed them shut and the papers and leaves settled to the ground in a hush. Liesel knelt down to gingerly peel away a yellowed piece of paper that had plastered itself to her ankle. She carefully turned it over. The printing was smudged in places but she could still make it out. Which meant anyone else could, too, were they to look at it. She grabbed the other pages at her feet, crumpling them into a wad. They would burn quicker that way.
http://susanmeissner.com/

Mary:
Swirling leaves riding the icy wind, danced up Liesel's skirt. The leaves weren’t the only things stirred up by the breeze which now carried the cloying scent of death.
She felt the gun under her skirt, caressed its long handle tucked into her nylons. “That terrible Rolf,” she whispered to herself. “How dare he turn in the Von Trapp family.” She turned the corner. In perfect formation, Rolf stood in the front row of the Young Nazi Brigade, three from the left. She had a perfect shot.
Mary E. DeMuth Blog. Website.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Life's a Circus

My mother must have been crazy. Or maybe not.

Maybe there was brilliance in her madness.

Either way, I’m sure my brother’s usual behaviors and a chance of freedom for a few hours had something to do with her flash of wisdom or complete loss of sanity.

She let us go to the circus without adult supervision.

If memory serves me accurately, I was twelvish, my brother was sixish. Cory, one of my friends, tagged along, probably to help me with David since it took two kid leashes to keep him corralled. Unfortunately, they hadn’t made a kid leash that would keep him in tow very long. We called him Houdini, among other things.

A brief aside……. A Sunday school teacher once asked him his middle name. “David Dammit,” he replied.

This circus adventure opened up a whole new world for the three of us.

A very scary and sticky world.

I suffer from circus dread. Similar to the feeling you experience on roller coasters. Kind of like you almost want to be there, coupled with a swelling dread that causes rumbling and swirling of your three previously consumed meals.

My circus dread began when I encountered a clown. I’m going to be very honest here, please no hate mail or scathing comments. A clown scared the liver out of me when I was five, and to this day clowns cause a nervous sweat to bead my lip and uncontrollable shakes, therefore, I loathe clowns.

I once had to teach a clowning class to Brownies and I required hours of psychotherapy to get beyond the nightmares -- I think – I’ve lost those months.

So, ever since I tossed my popcorn as a young impressionable pup, I’ve suffered from circus dread. Because if there’s a circus in town, there’s lurking clown (s, es – what do you call a herd of clown).

Early on in the excitement of the very warm and muggy Nebraska day, David discovered that the lovely young women on the elephants and horses wore very little clothing. Distracting him became a goal that we soon gave up. Too many women and a pair of binoculars did make it less likely that the place would go up in flames or implode, though. (Not that I’m implying that he blew things up or set things on fire, of course. (Legal/Noogie protection notice)

My friend, Cory, and I relaxed and set out to enjoy the circus. David was glued to the railing right in front of us, and there were three rings of activity to watch. We blew money on the normal circus fair. Cotton candy, popcorn – you get the picture. At one point I purchased a huge cup of Sprite.

As I sat there, inexplicably, I launched the full cup onto the green polyester pant-suited woman in front of me.

In the slow-motion horror of it, I watched the cup turn, douse, land, douse, bounce, douse her entire head and back. Of if only the cotton candy crusted floor had opened up and swallowed me.

I froze. And swallowed hard, lest I follow the Sprite with a bright pink vomit chaser. She turned. It would’ve been a great time for the rapture.

With wobbly bottom lip and tear filled eyes I screeched, “I’m so sorry!”

She stood, looked at the puddle of sugary pop on her seat, probably calculating how long it would take in the heat and humidity for the polyester to dry. It may still be wet and sticky to this day. She smiled, looking a lot like a drowned spotted rat. “That’s okay honey, I’m a klutz, too.”

She disappeared, came back with towels and cleaned up the area. Cory reported all this to me because I had curled up into the fetal position. When I recovered, I noticed that her chair contained someone else. One of her kids. Wonder if he’s still in psychotherapy.

Serials and Scenarios – Deb Raney/Mary DeMuth – Wait a Minute…..

I hope this whole Character, plot, prose thing isn’t going to turn into some sort of literary cat fight. Paper cuts are the worst.

Deb Raney chimes in with her thoughts...

Character, plot or prose? Which grabs you by the heart? Why?

Definitely character! You can write the most exciting, page-turning scene in the world, but if I don’t care about WHO it’s happening to, I’m not going to finish the book.

Visit Deb’s Plog @ http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0373785623/sr=8-3/qid=1144348398/ref=pd_bbs_3/102-7286102-5764904?%5Fencoding=UTF8
Or her Blog @ http://deborahraney.blogspot.com/

June 2006 marks the 10th anniversary of Deb’s first novel’s first release. An updated version of A Vow to Cherish will be reissued by Steeple Hill in June. Read a review of the anniversary release of A Vow to Cherish @
http://novelreviews.blogspot.com/2006/04/deborah-raneys-vow-to-cherishreviewed.html

and Mary DeMuth echoes Deb’s sentiment:

Character, plot or prose? Which grabs you by the heart? Why?

Character. Character is what makes me want to turn the page. I can read a rip-roaring plot, but if I don’t care about the character, I’ll put it down.

You remember Mary -

Mary E. DeMuth
Christ Follower. Novelist. Freelance Writer.
Author: Building the Christian Family You Never Had
and Watching the Tree Limbs: A Novel
Blog. Website.

Oooh, ze plot thickens....

Serials and Scenarios – Gina Holmes - Counter Point

Isn’t it fun to be different? Really.

All my life I’ve encountered people who reel back, shake their heads and say, “You’re different!”

Sometimes they use other words, but they pretty much mean different.

That’s what I tell myself anyway.

I also tell myself that this is a good thing, hence the question above.

I’ve asked a couple other authors for the answer to the question posted Monday.

Susan’s answer resonates with me. When I encounter meaty prose my heart beats a little faster. A photograph can't fully capture the beauty of creation, but it hints like a shadow or a whisper of something just out of my grasp. Splendid prose is a window cracked open on a warm spring day and every time a slight breeze wafts, you get a whiff of what must be very close to the scent of heaven.

I mentioned Peace Like a River. Mr. Enger penned a vomiting scene unlike anything I’ve ever read. Pure poetry. About vomit… Yeah, only on Scrambled Dregs do you get stuff this funky.

So, back to differences…. Here’s Gina….

Character, plot or prose? Which grabs you by the heart? Why?

All of the above. Though the least would be the prose. I love good writing but story is king and without interesting characters, the story doesn't matter as much. So, in this order: Plot, character, prose. (However, if the writing isn't at least decent, I won't read on far enough to get into character or plot.)

Gina Holmes runs the popular fiction writer's blog, Novel Journey and assists with sister site, Novel Reviews. She has interviewed many of today's greatest authors from Ted Dekker to Karen Kingsbury to Walter Wangerin Jr. She is wife, mother, writer, blogger and Registered Nurse. She is currently working on her third suspense novel. www.noveljourney.blogspot.com www.novelreviews.blogspot.com

Serials and Scenarios – Susan Meissner Waxes Poetic on Prose

I purchased Peace Like a River a few weeks ago. This novel seems to crop up on the “favorites” list of most of the authors I admire or love to read. So, I used my tightly guarded Barnes and Noble gift card and splurged. If nothing else, it would look great on my shelf next to all my “writerly" books, I told myself.

But on Friday night, while I waited for my husband to come home from work, and while attempting to avoid cleaning the house, I opened the novel.

Oh, I want to write like Mr. Enger. Or at least I want to read everything he writes and weep at the beauty, or gnash with envy at his masterful talent.

Halfway through the book, I am enthralled with the story. The characters squeeze my heart and prime my tear ducts, and the word weaving is similar to a freshly spun spider web baptized with dew aglow in the light of the early morning sun.

I put a lot of stock in endings, and I’m not there yet. So, I will bite my fingernails and hope for hope, and resolution, and a hint of peace.

Minnesota produces fine writers. Thoughts from Minnesotan, Susan Meissner will be posted today. I recommend The Remedy for Regret and In All Deep Places, both poignant and rich. Her first two novels Why the Sky is Blue and A Window to the World are on my must read list. I reviewed In All Deep Places – click here to read it. http://novelreviews.blogspot.com/2006/01/meissners-in-all-deep-places-reviewed.html

BIO:
Susan Meissner is the author of four contemporary fiction titles, including "A Window to the World," named to Booklist's Top Teen Fiction for 2005. Her fifth novel, "A Seahorse in the Thames," will release in July 2006, followed by "Widows and Orphans," the first of three mystery novels, in October. Her current release is "In All Deep Places," now on bookstore shelves. She lives with her family in rural Minnesota and enjoys good coffee, real cheese and the occasional malt ball. http://susanmeissner.com/

I posed the following question:
Character, plot or prose? Which grabs you by the heart? Why?

And here is Susan’s answer.
Prose, hands-down. I honestly don’t know why. It’s like trying to explain why I love the color red. I just do. Prose moves me — awakens me — more than anything else. I loved Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, even though God kind of gets a bad rap in the plot and the characters don’t become the people I long for them to become. But the way Kingsolver weaves words is stellar. That’s why I’m especially glad for writers like Leif Enger. His Peace Like a River is a tale exquisitely told, his characters are people I can easily identify with and God doesn’t take a beating.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Funeral Pyre Pat

Funerals are rarely funny.

It’s in bad taste to laugh during a funeral.

But then, some rules are meant to be broken by certain types of families. I belong to one of those rule breakin’ funeral laughin’ families.

In our defense, let me explain the situation.

Great Grandma Mame was bigger than life. Oh, she was tiny in stature, but big in drama. At the time of her death, her mind had already been in a better place for several years. Ninety plus-plus-plus, she’d lived a full life. She earned a master’s degree in her sixties, and taught school into her seventies. She was a woman who embraced life, ate dessert first, wore purple and any other dang color combination she dang well felt like wearing. She was a woman who took command of the room, kissed her great-grandchildren sloppy and did I mention drama?

So, if her funeral had been someone else’s and she was in her full mind, she would have laughed at the events. And, just for the record, she had a relationship with Jesus. Long in coming and a great celebration of a homecoming.

My aunts and my mother may have looked overcome with grief. They sat in the front row and their shoulders shook with emotion. Unfortunately, the emotion was hysterical laughter. The young preacher read a lengthy scripture about immortality. The word was repeated many times. Each time he read it he said immorality.

That’s mild compared to the Pat moment.

Pat may have been taught to drive by a stunt or race car driver. I’ve never checked into this, or maybe it was a preacher, because every time I ride with him I feel closer to God.

We were a little late to the funeral. This is also a common theme in my family. I am the only one who arrives on time. I believe this is a rebellious streak.

Did I mention that the virtue of patience somehow skipped my dad?

We arrived at a yellow light. A yellow light in a left turning lane on the way to my great grandmother’s funeral. The car in front of us stopped, as we are all taught to do in driver’s education class. They must not teach that in stunt driving school.

On the light that was so yellow it was orange, Pat whipped around the car in front of us, which necessitated a pass on the right, and careened left, while the light turned red.

Silence filled the car.

Then I came up with some clever headlines. “Entire family wiped out on the way to matriarch’s funeral.” “Discount given for mass burial of family.” “Main Street becomes a funeral pyre for overeager family.”

And we laughed.