Baseball season – ahhh, the memories that flood over me at the sound of the crack of a home run and the cheering crowds.
Yep. One is the memory of being chosen pretty much last for PE forced ballgames. And the church mixed gender softball league, when as an adult they asked me to play once….
I’m sure there are great benefits from being able to hit little white balls and beat the pounding enemy feet to the base – unless they’d reached up and scooped the beautiful hit right out of the air, so we could switch sides and I could attempt to catch the ball. Yeah, no claims of sport prowess here at all.
My most memorable ballgame was during the spring season of my eleventh year. I didn’t play, but a friend and I rode along with my grandparents to watch my cousin’s little league team.
I believe I mentioned I’m not a big fan of baseball/softball, right?
Boredom set in quickly. Across the adjoining football field stood a playground. Late afternoon sun glinted off the peeling equipment. I think I may have heard the song of the sirens luring me…. With insistent cajoling and begging, we got permission to go to the playground.
At first it was great. Okay the equipment didn’t shine quite so beautifully, but hey, we were cynical kids and we pretty much expected that. My friend, I hesitate to give her real name, was a bit of a girl jock. Somehow, as she slid down the huge slide, her jacket hooked something and she executed a perfect somersault and gracefully finished her descent.
She jumped up, arms in the air with the universal sign for victory. “That was really fun. You should do it.”
All moisture left my mouth, traveled south and gathered in my bladder where I suddenly felt the need for a run to the bathroom. “No way!”
“Come on. It’s really fun.”
Did I mention that I have no athletic prowess or instinct? Did I or didn’t I? To be continued…..
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Monday Defined
Monday snuck up and slapped me upside the head again. I’m going to have to prepare Monday’s post on Thursday or Friday so this doesn’t happen anymore. I always have great intentions scrawled on my mental to-do list and then reality greets me at the door.
To begin this process of wrestling Monday into submission, I think I need to get a good handle on exactly what Monday is. There are the obvious things. First day of the work or school week. Yuck. It follows activity filled weekends. Which is probably why I need to suck down several cups o’joe before I begin to feel human.
If you recall from a previous post – I took many years of French language training, and when given the opportunity to use it, managed to squeak out a “Merci!” But I do remember Monday being Lundi and a discussion of the meaning of the word having to do something with the moon.
http://www.answers.com/topic/monday#after_ad2 gives all the information you might ever want on the origin of Monday's name, and many useless facts, too. I am thrilled to announce that this write-up includes the French word for Monday and I remembered and spelled it correctly. (excuse me while I clap for myself).
Happy day after Monday to you all.
To begin this process of wrestling Monday into submission, I think I need to get a good handle on exactly what Monday is. There are the obvious things. First day of the work or school week. Yuck. It follows activity filled weekends. Which is probably why I need to suck down several cups o’joe before I begin to feel human.
If you recall from a previous post – I took many years of French language training, and when given the opportunity to use it, managed to squeak out a “Merci!” But I do remember Monday being Lundi and a discussion of the meaning of the word having to do something with the moon.
http://www.answers.com/topic/monday#after_ad2 gives all the information you might ever want on the origin of Monday's name, and many useless facts, too. I am thrilled to announce that this write-up includes the French word for Monday and I remembered and spelled it correctly. (excuse me while I clap for myself).
Happy day after Monday to you all.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Serials and Scenarios - Change-Ups - Mary DeMuth
I thought today was an appropriate day to share Mary's thoughts. Thanks, Mary.
If you could change something in any novel, what would you change about it and why?
I would change the horrific dialogue in the DaVinci Code. Here’s something I wrote about it:
Living in France, where the DaVinci Code is THE thing, I needed to know what all the hubbub was about.
So, I read it.
Here’s my take.
The first part of the book was suspenseful and had a unique premise, but halfway through I got very bogged down. My big beef (besides the fact that Brown needed my editor-who would have hung me out to dry for some of his lapses) was his terrible use of dialogue, particularly when the main characters are chatting in the library. He uses something called Author Convenience: telling readers information through narrative or dialogue that sounds preachy or didactic.
Here’s my take on the way he uses Authorial Convenience. (This is not from his book, just my tongue and cheek rendition):
“Hmm, tell me, what Jesus really Mary Magdalene’s husband?”
“Well, yes,” the kindly professor pulled a book off the shelf. “It’s been my life’s work. You see, I’m an EXPERT, so you must listen to me.” He leafed through some pages of the rather large book. “It says it right here on page 459 of Why Everyone Knows Mary and Jesus Were an Item. George Longwind, distinguished professor of Heresy at Norbridge asserts that Jesus and the Divine Feminine had to be one. And that for God to truly redeem mankind, Jesus had to have offspring.”
“No kidding? It says that in the book?”
“Yes, and if you turn to page 985, you’ll be assured this view is widely held by Leprechauns.”
“I don’t believe in Leprechauns.”
“Well, you should, because according to my research, Leprechauns invaded Ireland and invented the potato. It’s right here on page 25 of Why We Can Thank the Leprechauns that Ireland is Green.”
“I don’t believe in Ireland.”
“That’s illogical. You need to study Anselm’s ontological argument, and then you’d understand everything. Just like me.”
“Um, well, do you have a bologna sandwich?”
“I do. But first let me tell you about the origin in bologna.”
OK, so I’m a bit weird, but you get the idea. Dialogue should not be used to parrot information back and forth. The only time you would write dialogue that way is if your character were off-the-charts prideful and wanted to boast of everything he knew. Find other ways to get large pieces of information to your reader.
Bio:
Mary E. DeMuth has been crafting prose since 1992, first as a newsletter editor, then as a freelance writer, followed by a fiction and nonfiction author. Mary’s articles have appeared in Marriage Partnership, In Touch, HomeLife, Discipleship Journal, Pray!, Bon Appetit, Kindred Spirit, P31 Woman, and Hearts at Home. For two years she penned a lifestyle column for Star Community Newspapers in Dallas (circulation 100,000). Mary’s books include Ordinary Mom, Extraordinary God (Harvest House, 2005), Sister Freaks (Time Warner, 2005, one of four contributing authors, Editor Rebecca St. James), Building the Christian Family You Never Had (WaterBrook, 2006), Watching the Tree Limbs, and Wishing on Dandelions (NavPress, both novels releasing in 2006). In 2003, she won the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference’s Pacesetter Award. Mary loves to speak about the art and craft of writing as well as the redemptive hand of God in impossible situations. She’s spoken in Munich, Vienna, Amsterdam, Portland, Dallas, Seattle, Florence, Monaco and San Jose. A thirty-nine-year-old mother of three, Mary lives with her husband Patrick in the South of France. Together with two other families, they are planting a church.
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.
If you could change something in any novel, what would you change about it and why?
I would change the horrific dialogue in the DaVinci Code. Here’s something I wrote about it:
Living in France, where the DaVinci Code is THE thing, I needed to know what all the hubbub was about.
So, I read it.
Here’s my take.
The first part of the book was suspenseful and had a unique premise, but halfway through I got very bogged down. My big beef (besides the fact that Brown needed my editor-who would have hung me out to dry for some of his lapses) was his terrible use of dialogue, particularly when the main characters are chatting in the library. He uses something called Author Convenience: telling readers information through narrative or dialogue that sounds preachy or didactic.
Here’s my take on the way he uses Authorial Convenience. (This is not from his book, just my tongue and cheek rendition):
“Hmm, tell me, what Jesus really Mary Magdalene’s husband?”
“Well, yes,” the kindly professor pulled a book off the shelf. “It’s been my life’s work. You see, I’m an EXPERT, so you must listen to me.” He leafed through some pages of the rather large book. “It says it right here on page 459 of Why Everyone Knows Mary and Jesus Were an Item. George Longwind, distinguished professor of Heresy at Norbridge asserts that Jesus and the Divine Feminine had to be one. And that for God to truly redeem mankind, Jesus had to have offspring.”
“No kidding? It says that in the book?”
“Yes, and if you turn to page 985, you’ll be assured this view is widely held by Leprechauns.”
“I don’t believe in Leprechauns.”
“Well, you should, because according to my research, Leprechauns invaded Ireland and invented the potato. It’s right here on page 25 of Why We Can Thank the Leprechauns that Ireland is Green.”
“I don’t believe in Ireland.”
“That’s illogical. You need to study Anselm’s ontological argument, and then you’d understand everything. Just like me.”
“Um, well, do you have a bologna sandwich?”
“I do. But first let me tell you about the origin in bologna.”
OK, so I’m a bit weird, but you get the idea. Dialogue should not be used to parrot information back and forth. The only time you would write dialogue that way is if your character were off-the-charts prideful and wanted to boast of everything he knew. Find other ways to get large pieces of information to your reader.
Bio:
Mary E. DeMuth has been crafting prose since 1992, first as a newsletter editor, then as a freelance writer, followed by a fiction and nonfiction author. Mary’s articles have appeared in Marriage Partnership, In Touch, HomeLife, Discipleship Journal, Pray!, Bon Appetit, Kindred Spirit, P31 Woman, and Hearts at Home. For two years she penned a lifestyle column for Star Community Newspapers in Dallas (circulation 100,000). Mary’s books include Ordinary Mom, Extraordinary God (Harvest House, 2005), Sister Freaks (Time Warner, 2005, one of four contributing authors, Editor Rebecca St. James), Building the Christian Family You Never Had (WaterBrook, 2006), Watching the Tree Limbs, and Wishing on Dandelions (NavPress, both novels releasing in 2006). In 2003, she won the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference’s Pacesetter Award. Mary loves to speak about the art and craft of writing as well as the redemptive hand of God in impossible situations. She’s spoken in Munich, Vienna, Amsterdam, Portland, Dallas, Seattle, Florence, Monaco and San Jose. A thirty-nine-year-old mother of three, Mary lives with her husband Patrick in the South of France. Together with two other families, they are planting a church.
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.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Serials and Scenarios - Change-Ups - Gina Holmes
I’ve been reading a lot of fiction lately. Some of it has been stellar, other titles okay to good.
My worst reading experience was years ago. I don’t remember the author or the title of the novel, but it was a best-seller and about a divorced couple who wound their way back toward each other. I invested hours into that book and the lives of the characters. It ended hideously with one of main characters sudden death. I hated that I invested my heart in the book, with not only an unsatisfying ending, but a depressing ending.
Read on….I asked others their thoughts on what they might change about a novel.
If you could change something in any novel, what would you change about it and why?
We're getting on dangerous territory. I better pick someone I don't know. Let's see. I loved Dean Koontz's, Door to December. It was a fantastic book but I remember being disappointed with the ending. It felt like he slapped one on in a hurry to get it turned in. I would have liked for a little more thought to that otherwise great book.
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
Tomorrow Mary DeMuth will share her timely comments.
My worst reading experience was years ago. I don’t remember the author or the title of the novel, but it was a best-seller and about a divorced couple who wound their way back toward each other. I invested hours into that book and the lives of the characters. It ended hideously with one of main characters sudden death. I hated that I invested my heart in the book, with not only an unsatisfying ending, but a depressing ending.
Read on….I asked others their thoughts on what they might change about a novel.
If you could change something in any novel, what would you change about it and why?
We're getting on dangerous territory. I better pick someone I don't know. Let's see. I loved Dean Koontz's, Door to December. It was a fantastic book but I remember being disappointed with the ending. It felt like he slapped one on in a hurry to get it turned in. I would have liked for a little more thought to that otherwise great book.
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
Tomorrow Mary DeMuth will share her timely comments.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Parallel Parking Pat
I don’t parallel park.
That’s not entirely true. I will parallel park if there are two spots available so I can nose in and
straighten out.
I have issues.
You’ve heard of Pavlov’s Dogs. The guy – Pavlov, of course – trained the dogs to salivate by ringing a bell every time he fed them. Soon they salivated at the sound of a bell. After having a huge, slobbering creature dog (pun intended) my heels every time I set foot in my kitchen for seven years, I’m not so impressed. I think training dogs to salivate is kind of crazy, why not train children to do chores at the ding of a bell?
So this Pavlov thing factors into my parallel parking anxiety. When I see a lone parking spot that would require proper technique I break out in a sweat.
My father, Pat, taught me to parallel park.
He wasn’t the first to attempt. Let’s just say I was remedial.
I was chosen to take the actual physical driving test for the state because my Driver’s Education driving grades left a lot to be desired. If my instructor had been a little less spastic with the multiple usages of the passenger safety brakes I’d have done better.
Pat was irritated that I hadn’t mastered parallel parking. My brothers were in the car which always intensified Pat’s frustration level, not to mention mine.
Pat has this endearing quirk – he expects people to understand what he means with the minimum of explanation. When he gets a “duh” response he repeats the identical instructions with a bit more passion.
My brothers wrestled in the back seat as I jockeyed into parallel parking position. Poised, ready to go, I waited.
Pat said, “Turn the wheel.”
It occurred to me as cars whizzed past and a sweat beaded on my upper lip that there are two ways to turn the wheel. “Uh, which way?”
Pat sucked in a deep breath and forced a smile and explained with enough detail that I got step one nailed. Then said, “Turn.”
I looked at him, no doubt, like I assumed the strange word that popped out of his mouth was Swahili. He shot me a concentrated glare and increased volume. “Turn.”
It was a long afternoon.
I can announce proudly that I did learn to perfectly parallel park, once. And I left the Driver’s License Bureau with a card with a horrific picture of someone who was supposed to be me.
That’s not entirely true. I will parallel park if there are two spots available so I can nose in and
straighten out.
I have issues.
You’ve heard of Pavlov’s Dogs. The guy – Pavlov, of course – trained the dogs to salivate by ringing a bell every time he fed them. Soon they salivated at the sound of a bell. After having a huge, slobbering creature dog (pun intended) my heels every time I set foot in my kitchen for seven years, I’m not so impressed. I think training dogs to salivate is kind of crazy, why not train children to do chores at the ding of a bell?
So this Pavlov thing factors into my parallel parking anxiety. When I see a lone parking spot that would require proper technique I break out in a sweat.
My father, Pat, taught me to parallel park.
He wasn’t the first to attempt. Let’s just say I was remedial.
I was chosen to take the actual physical driving test for the state because my Driver’s Education driving grades left a lot to be desired. If my instructor had been a little less spastic with the multiple usages of the passenger safety brakes I’d have done better.
Pat was irritated that I hadn’t mastered parallel parking. My brothers were in the car which always intensified Pat’s frustration level, not to mention mine.
Pat has this endearing quirk – he expects people to understand what he means with the minimum of explanation. When he gets a “duh” response he repeats the identical instructions with a bit more passion.
My brothers wrestled in the back seat as I jockeyed into parallel parking position. Poised, ready to go, I waited.
Pat said, “Turn the wheel.”
It occurred to me as cars whizzed past and a sweat beaded on my upper lip that there are two ways to turn the wheel. “Uh, which way?”
Pat sucked in a deep breath and forced a smile and explained with enough detail that I got step one nailed. Then said, “Turn.”
I looked at him, no doubt, like I assumed the strange word that popped out of his mouth was Swahili. He shot me a concentrated glare and increased volume. “Turn.”
It was a long afternoon.
I can announce proudly that I did learn to perfectly parallel park, once. And I left the Driver’s License Bureau with a card with a horrific picture of someone who was supposed to be me.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Snippets and Sound Bites - Dying
Sometimes the melancholy moments of life make me pause and consider.
Today is one such day. If you’re looking for a laugh – you probably won’t find it here unless you’re one sick puppy.
A friend of a friend lies dying. One of those long drawn-out, pain-infused deaths. Adding to the angst is the huge hole she’ll leave behind in the lives that will continue beyond her passing, two children who’ve barely reached adulthood, a grandchild, a husband and countless friends and family members.
Why am I haunted by the fact that hospice is delivering a bigger bed so that her husband can sleep with her? Tears scald my eyes when my friend describes the tender actions of the seventeen-year-old son who realizes that he will graduate, and marry, and raise his children – without his mom. Her bravery in calling friends and relatives inviting them to come and say good-bye leaves me with a lump in my throat that no amount of swallowing minimizes.
Wars, tragedies, disease – this is so not what life is supposed to be.
We’ve been praying for this family even though that seems so cheap and easy. After all, I’m not holding her head while she vomits or watching the rise and fall of her chest, waiting for it to cease. This dying woman who is reaching out to loved ones has asked my friend to come. My friend wants to make sure that this dear woman who faces eternity within hours, knows where she’s going to spend it, and that she’s not only leaving a place where she is loved, but could choose to go to a place where she is loved.
Last month, a delightful friend of my family died. She was talented and beautiful, exotic and intelligent. She, too, fought cancer and lost. Death claims us all, doesn’t it?
I shared my testimony of faith with her, as did my parents, and aunts and uncle. My family is unable to spend much time together without talking about what God has done in our lives. Of course, we also get a little goofy -- we’re great that way – zooming from profound depth to the depths of poor taste -- but I digress. Several family members get together and pray regularly, and tears fall as our hearts and concerns are taken to the throne of the Creator of the Universe. This woman spent many months in our prayers.
She said she could not believe in a God as close minded as ours.
I wonder if my pain and my sorrow are just a hint of what God must feel when someone enters eternity without entering into Jesus.
Today is one such day. If you’re looking for a laugh – you probably won’t find it here unless you’re one sick puppy.
A friend of a friend lies dying. One of those long drawn-out, pain-infused deaths. Adding to the angst is the huge hole she’ll leave behind in the lives that will continue beyond her passing, two children who’ve barely reached adulthood, a grandchild, a husband and countless friends and family members.
Why am I haunted by the fact that hospice is delivering a bigger bed so that her husband can sleep with her? Tears scald my eyes when my friend describes the tender actions of the seventeen-year-old son who realizes that he will graduate, and marry, and raise his children – without his mom. Her bravery in calling friends and relatives inviting them to come and say good-bye leaves me with a lump in my throat that no amount of swallowing minimizes.
Wars, tragedies, disease – this is so not what life is supposed to be.
We’ve been praying for this family even though that seems so cheap and easy. After all, I’m not holding her head while she vomits or watching the rise and fall of her chest, waiting for it to cease. This dying woman who is reaching out to loved ones has asked my friend to come. My friend wants to make sure that this dear woman who faces eternity within hours, knows where she’s going to spend it, and that she’s not only leaving a place where she is loved, but could choose to go to a place where she is loved.
Last month, a delightful friend of my family died. She was talented and beautiful, exotic and intelligent. She, too, fought cancer and lost. Death claims us all, doesn’t it?
I shared my testimony of faith with her, as did my parents, and aunts and uncle. My family is unable to spend much time together without talking about what God has done in our lives. Of course, we also get a little goofy -- we’re great that way – zooming from profound depth to the depths of poor taste -- but I digress. Several family members get together and pray regularly, and tears fall as our hearts and concerns are taken to the throne of the Creator of the Universe. This woman spent many months in our prayers.
She said she could not believe in a God as close minded as ours.
I wonder if my pain and my sorrow are just a hint of what God must feel when someone enters eternity without entering into Jesus.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat and the Thanksgiving ABC's - Part 2
Did I mention Mom has a touch of Irish?
Cleaning the pantry cupboard was not okay with her. Pat proceeded to unload the cupboard contents onto the kitchen table that was being used for Thanksgiving preparation.
Did I mention Pat has a penchant for danger?
Most of the interaction between the two that morning has blurred into fuzzy, amusing memories, though I do remember seeing several lightning bolts shoot from Mom’s eyes.
Thanksgiving set-up took twice as long. We either had to wait until a can laden Pat scurried out of closet toward the table, or we went the back way around. I stopped asking “what?” when I realized Mom’s mutterings were probably best left as mutters.
The pantry cupboard sure started looking nice. Pat’s running commentary was unnecessary, though, except for his personal danger/adrenaline factor. He felt the need to point out odd or out-dated things, often with a laugh or wisecrack. To this day, I am impressed that Pat doesn’t walk with a permanent limp.
As was usual, the project got a little more involved. Apparently, Pat was inspired by the pristine shelves. He disappeared. Mom and I took advantage of the lull in cross traffic and rushed to the china cabinet to retrieve the serving dishes. Pat returned with an El Marko.
“What are you doing now?” Her knuckles clenched white around the turkey baster.
“Organizing.”
Mom’s mutterings increased in quantity and volume. I hummed happy songs and looked nervously between the two of them.
Pat grinned, turned around and got to work.
He finished about the same time the little temperature button popped on the turkey. And brandishing his victorious El Marko, he disappeared into the bathroom.
Mom’s pantry cupboard is alphabetized and organized. A shrine to her husband’s near loss of limb or life.
The woman deserves a great Mother’s Day.
Happy Mother's Day to all...
Cleaning the pantry cupboard was not okay with her. Pat proceeded to unload the cupboard contents onto the kitchen table that was being used for Thanksgiving preparation.
Did I mention Pat has a penchant for danger?
Most of the interaction between the two that morning has blurred into fuzzy, amusing memories, though I do remember seeing several lightning bolts shoot from Mom’s eyes.
Thanksgiving set-up took twice as long. We either had to wait until a can laden Pat scurried out of closet toward the table, or we went the back way around. I stopped asking “what?” when I realized Mom’s mutterings were probably best left as mutters.
The pantry cupboard sure started looking nice. Pat’s running commentary was unnecessary, though, except for his personal danger/adrenaline factor. He felt the need to point out odd or out-dated things, often with a laugh or wisecrack. To this day, I am impressed that Pat doesn’t walk with a permanent limp.
As was usual, the project got a little more involved. Apparently, Pat was inspired by the pristine shelves. He disappeared. Mom and I took advantage of the lull in cross traffic and rushed to the china cabinet to retrieve the serving dishes. Pat returned with an El Marko.
“What are you doing now?” Her knuckles clenched white around the turkey baster.
“Organizing.”
Mom’s mutterings increased in quantity and volume. I hummed happy songs and looked nervously between the two of them.
Pat grinned, turned around and got to work.
He finished about the same time the little temperature button popped on the turkey. And brandishing his victorious El Marko, he disappeared into the bathroom.
Mom’s pantry cupboard is alphabetized and organized. A shrine to her husband’s near loss of limb or life.
The woman deserves a great Mother’s Day.
Happy Mother's Day to all...
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