Serials and Scenarios - TL Hines - Waking Lazarus

I had the opportunity to read Waking Lazarus in May. What a read! See below for links to my CBD review, Tony's Amazon page and his blog.

Since you'll have to wait a couple of days to get your hands on the book - I thought you might like to know a little bit more about the author and the inside story of Waking Lazarus.

I read somewhere, a long time ago, that one of the quirky cartoonists spent some serious formative time in his basement. Apparently he had an older brother who had a lot of fun at his expense. Do you have any strange life-shaping quirks that show up in your writing style?


That's interesting. I grew up in the country, away from other kids my age, so I spent a lot of time by myself. Oddly enough, I spent a lot of that time in the basement of our family's home, listening to music,reading, writing and drawing. So I think that obviously shaped me as a writer: any writer has to be comfortable spending chunks of time alone.I do have some mild obsessive compulsive tendencies--very minor forms of the kind of thing Jude Allman struggles with in the novel. For instance, I tend to count letter groupings in words, over and over,when I'm not actively thinking about something. I'll find myself looking at a sentence, or repeating what someone has said, and grouping what they've said into letter clusters of two, then three, then four letters. Does that shape me as a writer? I don't know. But my mind tends to chew on words and patterns, and I love repetition and patterns in my storytelling. I don't think that's a coincidence.


How many times did you second-guess your subject matter? Waking Lazarus' sub-plot includes child endangerment and is intense in some spots. Did you rewrite, hesitate, cut or pray?

You know, I didn't really ever second-guess my subject matter. I was always comfortable that I was writing the story I was meant to write.I've had reservations about it being in the CBA market; but then, I had reservations about it being in the ABA market, as well. It seemed to me to be in the gap between the two. When it came time to write some of the hardest scenes, I chose, very consciously, to let the worst stuff happen off stage. First, because I didn't see any need to concentrate on that--it's not what the story is about--and two, because the reader can do a much better job envisioning it than I can explaining it. I think some of those parts are very creepy for readers precisely becauseI don't describe them. One scene was cut in the final edit that, now that I think about it, I'm glad stayed on the cutting room floor. Dave,my editor, wanted to cut it because it was extraneous; I was fine with it because I think it might have pushed a few people over the edge,creepiness-wise.

Your writing is tight and compelling and I found myself pulled into the story immediately. My husband even got sucked in because I left it on the kitchen table. He rarely picks up a book for pleasure. Where does your story weaving skill come from?

I don't know, to tell you the truth. I'm a voracious reader--a couple books a week, when I'm on track--and I think anything you read can impact you as a writer. I don't consciously try to emulate anyone,although I do have to say I read a lot of Stephen King when I was ayoung teen. That formed me as a writer, in many ways.


My husband struggled with and was a bit angry with the choice in subject matter and almost set the book down a couple of times, but couldn't. He's now glad he chose to finish the book. What would you like to say to people who might get angry or hostile over the content of Waking Lazarus? What difference would it make if those people had not actually read the book?


Interesting, and I'm glad he finished it. I've taken to telling people it's a book that deals with dark subject matter, but it's not a dark book. Seems like an oxymoron, I know, but I really think that's true:the ultimate message of the book is positive. I'm not out to glorify the darkness in the book at all; it is what it is. And I don't have any problem with the dark subject matter. After all, the Old Testament itself deals with some rather grim subjects. But I will say this: in the darkest places, a ray of light shines all the brighter. I hope folks can read the story, and see that I was concentrating more on that ray of light than on the darkness surrounding it.


What's next for you?

I'm working on my second book for Bethany House, which will release Summer of 2007. It's tentatively titled VALLEY OF SHADOW, and it's about a woman who hears her dead father speaking to her from the shadows. He tells her the spirits of the dead occupy the shadows of our world, and recruits her into a secret government network that communicates with the shadow operatives. But all is not as it seems.Soon, she discovers the true nature of what the shadows are--and the true nature of what they want.


See my review and more comments from Tony here: http://www.christianbook.com/Christian/Books/product?item_no=202049&netp_id=431423&event=ESRCN&item_code=WW
or earlier comments on Scrambled Dregs......
http://kellyklepfer.blogspot.com/2006_05_04_kellyklepfer_archive.html

Waking Lazarus Amazon page is -http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764202049

TL Hines blog is -http://www.tlhines.com/blog/

Scary and Sensational - Til Death Do Us Part

My husband, Rob, and I have been married almost twenty-five years. This is a miracle.
I’m not kidding. Someday, I’ll have to share bits and pieces of how God intervened when we selfishly set out to destroy each other.

Our pastor ended Sunday’s sermon by announcing the name of a couple and requesting that they join him. This isn’t a common event.

The couple left their chairs and headed forward. She leaned on him because she normally uses a cane. It was a slow journey.

I’ve shared a few laughs with them, and a few paragraphs of dialogue. I know she suffers from arthritis and that he’s a hard worker. One of their sons and his family attend church with us, and I’ve noticed that the females seem to have a good relationship.

As they climbed the stage steps, the pastor shared his reason for calling them. This couple has been married forty-three years and the husband requested the opportunity to publicly renew their wedding vows.

They stood, facing each other, and recommitted their lives to the other. Her eyes didn’t leave his face, nor did his leave hers. Overhead light revealed all the wrinkles, bald spots, and pounds that had crept up on them during their time together.

Then he sang to her. A song he has sung for forty-three anniversaries, whether in the midst of sickness or health, want or plenty, joy or sorrow, he sings the same song. I’ve never heard it before, it’s all about longing and patience and desire.

No flowers, one song sung a cappella, no attendants, reality etched on the faces of the bride and groom – I’ve never seen a more beautiful ceremony.

And Hollywood thinks it understands reality.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Keep Me Away From Scissors

If I had a few missing front teeth I’d pass for a first grader. Okay, I’m short, but that’s not why I look like a seven-year-old.

It’s the bangs, as defined – hair chunk(s) commonly used as forehead covering. Except my forehead isn’t so covered.

I should know better.

Artistic license comes with curly hair which I, for the most part, possess. With straight hair, one has to be extremely careful because every scissor stroke shows. With curly hair, you can slice and dice and still show your head in public. And maybe that’s why God gave me a mop, because I don’t look so good in hats.

My bangs aren’t curly just a touch wavy, which is sometimes nice, but not when it comes to cutting them. I have to be very, very careful when I take scissors to those precious few inches of self-image.

When I was a wee lass my mom acted as my beautician. My bangs were always a bit on the short side because she’d get concerned about the left and right side of the bangs being similarly located on my forehead.

At sixteen I ventured into trimming my own bangs. I didn’t realize that hair shrinks when it dries. I ended up with something that resembled the fuzzy, sticky-outy corner brush on some vacuum cleaners.

That wasn’t so cute at sixteen.

Of course, I’m not so thrilled with myself at forty-three either.

My eldest daughter had a stab at my bangs. Once. And I have a picture to immortalize the event. Yeah. Everyone in my family, near and extended, got a big kick out of the grand idea of letting a twelve-year-old cut my hair. In hindsight I would’ve at least waited a day or two after my grandma’s big eightieth birthday celebration.

Yesterday, I’d had enough of seeing the world through dark fringe, and enough of my hubby’s cute comments, “Hey, I wondered where you went.” and, “It has eyes!” from his repertoire of clever quips.

I ducked into the bathroom and chopped. I cut below my eyebrows and didn’t try to even up or get creative or anything deviating from my hard and fast rules for bang shearing.

And this morning I woke up needing a plaid jumper, shiny Mary Janes, and a lollipop to complete my school-girl ensemble.

Hmmm. I guess at forty-three I should be thrilled to look young. Think this could catch on in Hollywood?

I could design a bang cutting ruler that would guarantee instant youth. A face lift is worth what, twenty years max? I could get you thirty-five – easy.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Mud Wrestling with Polly and Mel

I’m sure this title will mislead many.

Before you go any further – I’m talking about Pollyanna vs. Melancholy. So do what you must.

Do you ever get tired of the way you act? I do – often -- actually.

When I find myself getting sucked into melancholia, I get crabby. I hate being blue and negative and wading through the reasons why I do the things I do, and even worse, using those things as excuses to remain stuck.

I’ve felt the slide into self-absorption over the past few weeks. It always starts out with little choices. I can choose to pray and read my Bible, or not, and then believe that God has stopped communicating with me. Or I can choose to be kind and respectful and generous with my husband, or I can find a hidden insult in anything he says or does and then lament about the sad state of our relationship.

Instead of stopping the slide from melancholy to maudlin by regrouping, I often wade in further.

Crazy -- since I hate it so much.

There are things I’ve learned about myself that help me regroup – when I choose to use them.

Being with people energizes me – sometimes -- I also need times of quiet and peace.

My life is like an off balance washing machine right now, and I’m not working on getting my equilibrium back. I’m reading the Bible and praying, but as a habit, rather than a desire to be close to God. I’m focused on the negatives -- the little things that wouldn’t even tweak me on a good day are burrowing into my thoughts and attitudes.

Creativity is not happening and that frustrates me further. I’m snarky and edgy, and even though everyone who loves me thinks my sarcastic sense of humor is funny, I’m pretty sure snarky and edgy aren’t cute.

I’m stopping now and putting melancholy on notice! I am going to get a good night’s sleep, spend some time with God, focus on the things that build my relationships and not the junk that will tear at them. I’ll keep plugging away at what I know I’m supposed to do, and choose to think happy thoughts while I do it.

And maybe, just maybe, Pollyanna’ll get melancholy wrestled down and pinned for the count.

Oh, look, the sun is shining after all. And no, I am not going to complain about the heat.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Bears and Rats and Hamsters – Oh My - Part 4

Sweet, little Pepe joined our family a few months after we began accepting rodents as pets. Pepe, the Siberian hamster, was actually not so sweet. He bit his owner every time she wanted to cuddle. He even went out of his way to make sure his tiny, needle-like teeth connected with the tender web of flesh between her index finger and thumb when she reached into his cage.

But poor Pepe was excused for the excessive biting.

After all, he’d undergone serious trauma and a near death experience shortly after joining our family.

If humans had brains the size of raisin runts, we’d probably become biters, too. Pepe didn’t even receive counseling. You gotta admire his constitution. Freud would find a strong connection with the oral response to the incident.

My family does learn from mistakes contrary to what you might have assumed from previous posts. When Pepe joined us, we were smart enough to avoid introducing him to Bear.

We didn’t count on Bear introducing himself.

Pepe, like most Siberian Hamsters was a teeny-tiny fellow, a little bigger than a roll of stamps, when he joined our family. Young Pepe, like all hamsters had a lot of energy, so we put him in the hamster ball.

In case you are uninitiated, a hamster ball is a transparent plastic ball that opens for insertion of a hamster so that the stupid hamster wheel inside the cage gets a rest. I suppose the change of scenery as the hamster runs all around the house is good for hamster psyches.

Great fun, unless the hamster is Siberian.

Featherweight Pepe didn’t do much sight-seeing.

Bear walked into the room, zeroed in on the epic struggle of hamster versus Plexiglas, and shot me a glance.

Hmmm. Pepe’s safely encased in a large plastic object, right? I glanced at my daughter who wore the same nervous expression.

Bear sniffed the ball, and turned back toward me.

The ball, now in two halves, was empty. Two females screamed. I copied my husband’s heroic life-saving actions of earlier. Thrusting my hand in Bear’s face, I yelled, “Bear! Give!”

A soggy hairball rolled into my hand. It squirmed. It was alive. A little crazy-eyed, but alive.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Bears and Rats and Hamsters - Oh My - Part 3

I hope PETA wasn't overwhelmed with phone calls because of the unfortunate rat/dog situation that was left unresolved over the weekend. Does PETA handle complaints where one animal takes a fancy to another? I suppose it was in bad taste for me to blog about it. But I believe I warned you about my penchant for strange situations and milking them for all they're worth.

If you will recall Friday's post wherein our big Black Lab had just inhaled a baby pet rat.

Yes. The hand that had held the rat was empty. Four people stared with round eyes and open mouths. One big, black dog stared back at us with a mixture of triumph and dread lining his face.

All of this took place within the mere tick of the second hand.

My level headed husband flew into action. He trust his hand toward the clamped lips of the dog and yelled, "Bear! Give!"

Mute onlookers shifted eyes and worried frowns back and forth. A collective whimper rose.

The dog opened his mouth. A sodden rat tumbled, alive and well, into my husband's hand.

A murmur rushed through the group. A few "good boys" and sighs punctuated the charged stillness. Bear thumped his tail against the cabinet a few times and wandered into the kitchen to see if anyone had dropped any food during the drama.

We understand this situation as a bizarre phenomenon we now call the "Two Second Warning." We accidentally trained Bear to pause before scarfing objects. I think this all started with the socks. Bear would visit the laundry hamper and pick out a choice smelly sock. He usually brought it into the room that contained most of the humans. The humans, especially the parental units, learned that if Bear was asked to give up the sock within a few seconds of entering the room, the sock was saved. If not, the sock was shredded, spindled and mutilated.

Either the rat smelled like a sock or the proximity of all the humans saved it's little rat neck, we were unsure but grateful. And the theory was left untested for about eight months. Until Pepe moved in.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Bears and Rats and Hamsters – Oh My Part 2

Bear loved rodents. One of his favorite things to do was go to work with my husband. Nose to the ground he’d snort through building materials until he smelled a mouse. The dog could haul 4’ x 8’ sheets of plywood and 2’ x 4’s, and he did, rearranging the jobsite into sort of a post-tornado look. Every once in awhile he found a mouse that hadn’t run for its life during the reconstruction of the construction site. Bear yelped in victory, let loose an excited bark, and broke into his traditional found-a-mouse-dance. If that didn’t take care of the mouse problem, Bear raised a huge paw and stomped the poor creature.

It never occurred to us that the mice would whet Bear’s appetite for furry critters.

Our son, Jordan, decided he needed some rats after being inspired by Flowers for Algernon. We went to the pet store and purchased some feeder rats for a reasonable cost and cage paraphernalia for an amount that probably would’ve provided a month of lodging for a small third world country.

Bear met us at the door. He must’ve smelled a rat. Jordan stood still as Bear circled him and did a quick nose vacuum.

Jordan leaned down and scratched behind Bear’s big, floppy ear. “Hey, Bear, you want to meet your new friend?”

Bear wagged his black plume-tail. The rest of the family gathered around.

Jordan reached into the little rat box and displayed the pink-toed, blinking creature. The rat hunkered down into Jordan’s palm. Jordan extended his hand toward Bear. We all waited for the bark. None came.

But I noticed that Bear’s tail stopped wagging, and a strange look danced across his doggie features. He almost looked guilty. I opened my mouth to mention it. And Bear opened his.

Silence followed. And we all stared at Jordan’s empty hand.