Insanity is my middle name. Okay, it’s actually Sue, but for the purpose of illustration today, it’s Insanity.
It has a nice ring, I think. But we’ve already established I’m insane.
Not only have I taken on two classes to teach on top of the other November happenings, I have decided to do NaNoWriMo again.
Last year I finished well, won a certificate of completion which I framed in a nice, red 8x10.
NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. In the month of November many foolish and/or driven people set out to conquer a novel.
My posts on Scrambled Dregs will no doubt take an interesting slant as I reel from the sheer number of words and hours spent typing them.
I’d like to ask you, my dear readers, to throw out a name worthy of my heroine.
She’s in her twenties, quirky, loves kids and coffee. Give it a shot. If I choose your suggestion I will award you with an autographed copy should any ever see the light of day.
If anything good flows from my fingers onto the screen, I may share a few scenes with you. Why not, it seems like something an insane person might do.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Serials and Scenarios – Jerome Teel - The Election
Jerome Teel’s “The Election” is our book of focus for this week’s Christian Fiction Blog Alliance Blog Tour. I haven’t read either of Mr. Teel’s books, so I asked him a few questions.
Check out his book… “The Election”
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1582295778
And his website
http://www.jerometeel.com/
And now get to know the man behind the book – in Scrambled Dreg fashion.
What would you write if there were no rules or barriers? (epic novels about characters in the Bible, poetry, greeting cards, plays, movies, instruction manuals, etc.)
[Jerome Teel] Probably exactly what I'm writing now. I'm a lawyer who enjoys politics. So the ideas come easy. The discipline to write is difficult and finding time even more so. I'm still learning the craft of writing but I enjoy storytelling. Jesus Christ used parables to teach and I think Christian fiction is an excellent mode to utilize to convey a message.
What makes you feel alive?
[Jerome Teel] Spending time with my wife and children. We have a very busy life with multi-faceted children. Although at times it can be very exhausting, I wouldn't miss it for the world.
Where would you most like to travel -- moon, North Pole, deep seas, deserted island, the holy land or back to a place from your childhood, somewhere else? Why?
[Jerome Teel] I've never been to Europe and hope to go there some day. I enjoy the mountains and the beach, and would like to spend weeks traveling through the Caribbean.
Which compliment related to your writing has meant the most and why?
[Jerome Teel] The people who e-mail or call and say something like, "I couldn't put The Election down. The dirty clothes piled up; the dishes went unwashed; and I stayed up until 3:00 a.m. just trying to finish it."
What criticism has cut the deepest and why?
[Jerome Teel] Honestly I'm so new at this that I really haven't had a lot of criticism. I'm sure it is coming as more and more (hopefully) people read my work. The only criticism I've had -- if you can call it criticism -- were rejections from publishers. But I don't really consider that criticism. I saw it more of a business decision than a commentary on my work.
Unidentifiable antique, the scent of pipe tobacco and the drizzle of rain – make a scene.
[Jerome Teel] Joe McClatchy ran his hand along the wooden edge of the desk. It was old, he knew. But how old he wasn't certain. The mahogany wood was smooth and recently polished. The knee well went all the way through and there were drawers on both sides. The top of the desk was laden with leather. He had never seen anything like it. He spun slowly and absorbed the entire room. The ceiling was tall and the walls were dark and rich. The carpet beneath his feet was thick and soft. The furniture both elegant and purposeful. It was a room befitting the office of the Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.
Joe was both intimidated and excited. He had worked hard and long hours at Harvard Law School for an opportunity to serve as a law clerk to the chief justice and he was confident he had earned the position. He inhaled deeply and enjoyed the scent that remained in the room from Chief Justice Williams' pipe. Joe's grandfather smoked a pipe and Joe tried to determine the type of Justice Williams' tobacco from the fragrance. Was it Virginian?
Joe returned to the front of the antique desk and peered over it at the drizzle that pelted against the window behind the desk.
"So you're Joe McClatchy?" he heard a deep voice behind him speak. He pivoted and found Chief Justice Williams standing in the doorway. He was taller than Joe imagined and his presence filled the room. It was as if every object in the office rose to attention and Joe even found himself standing more upright. He pressed his red and navy tie with his hand and buttoned the top button of his suit coat.
"Yes, sir," Joe replied. "I was just admiring your antique partners' desk. It appears to be from the early eighteen hundreds."
"You have an impressive eye, Mr. McClatchy," Justice Williams said. He moved further into the room and circled behind the desk. He, too, ran his hand along the smooth wooden edge. "It is quite an important piece of furniture in the history of our country. Many decisions by my predecessors were written on this desk."
Joe gazed again at the desk and it took on a different significance. It no longer was just a beautiful piece of furniture. He now realized he was looking at a part of American history.
Justice Williams settled into the leather chair behind the desk and smiled at Joe. "But you were wrong about it's age," he said. "It's from the seventeenth century. It's first owner wasn't a supreme court justice because there wasn't a supreme court yet. Would you like to know who was the first person to own it?"
Check out his book… “The Election”
http://www.amazon.com/exec
And his website
http://www.jerometeel.com/
And now get to know the man behind the book – in Scrambled Dreg fashion.
What would you write if there were no rules or barriers? (epic novels about characters in the Bible, poetry, greeting cards, plays, movies, instruction manuals, etc.)
[Jerome Teel] Probably exactly what I'm writing now. I'm a lawyer who enjoys politics. So the ideas come easy. The discipline to write is difficult and finding time even more so. I'm still learning the craft of writing but I enjoy storytelling. Jesus Christ used parables to teach and I think Christian fiction is an excellent mode to utilize to convey a message.
What makes you feel alive?
[Jerome Teel] Spending time with my wife and children. We have a very busy life with multi-faceted children. Although at times it can be very exhausting, I wouldn't miss it for the world.
Where would you most like to travel -- moon, North Pole, deep seas, deserted island, the holy land or back to a place from your childhood, somewhere else? Why?
[Jerome Teel] I've never been to Europe and hope to go there some day. I enjoy the mountains and the beach, and would like to spend weeks traveling through the Caribbean.
Which compliment related to your writing has meant the most and why?
[Jerome Teel] The people who e-mail or call and say something like, "I couldn't put The Election down. The dirty clothes piled up; the dishes went unwashed; and I stayed up until 3:00 a.m. just trying to finish it."
What criticism has cut the deepest and why?
[Jerome Teel] Honestly I'm so new at this that I really haven't had a lot of criticism. I'm sure it is coming as more and more (hopefully) people read my work. The only criticism I've had -- if you can call it criticism -- were rejections from publishers. But I don't really consider that criticism. I saw it more of a business decision than a commentary on my work.
Unidentifiable antique, the scent of pipe tobacco and the drizzle of rain – make a scene.
[Jerome Teel] Joe McClatchy ran his hand along the wooden edge of the desk. It was old, he knew. But how old he wasn't certain. The mahogany wood was smooth and recently polished. The knee well went all the way through and there were drawers on both sides. The top of the desk was laden with leather. He had never seen anything like it. He spun slowly and absorbed the entire room. The ceiling was tall and the walls were dark and rich. The carpet beneath his feet was thick and soft. The furniture both elegant and purposeful. It was a room befitting the office of the Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.
Joe was both intimidated and excited. He had worked hard and long hours at Harvard Law School for an opportunity to serve as a law clerk to the chief justice and he was confident he had earned the position. He inhaled deeply and enjoyed the scent that remained in the room from Chief Justice Williams' pipe. Joe's grandfather smoked a pipe and Joe tried to determine the type of Justice Williams' tobacco from the fragrance. Was it Virginian?
Joe returned to the front of the antique desk and peered over it at the drizzle that pelted against the window behind the desk.
"So you're Joe McClatchy?" he heard a deep voice behind him speak. He pivoted and found Chief Justice Williams standing in the doorway. He was taller than Joe imagined and his presence filled the room. It was as if every object in the office rose to attention and Joe even found himself standing more upright. He pressed his red and navy tie with his hand and buttoned the top button of his suit coat.
"Yes, sir," Joe replied. "I was just admiring your antique partners' desk. It appears to be from the early eighteen hundreds."
"You have an impressive eye, Mr. McClatchy," Justice Williams said. He moved further into the room and circled behind the desk. He, too, ran his hand along the smooth wooden edge. "It is quite an important piece of furniture in the history of our country. Many decisions by my predecessors were written on this desk."
Joe gazed again at the desk and it took on a different significance. It no longer was just a beautiful piece of furniture. He now realized he was looking at a part of American history.
Justice Williams settled into the leather chair behind the desk and smiled at Joe. "But you were wrong about it's age," he said. "It's from the seventeenth century. It's first owner wasn't a supreme court justice because there wasn't a supreme court yet. Would you like to know who was the first person to own it?"
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Mt SitzMark - The End
The October sky is a perfect shade of blue.
Sunshine bathes the hills and jewel-toned leaves glow in ambers and scarlets. Beautiful.
This makes it difficult to pull my mind back to the cold, white winter long ago when I still felt a bit of a thrill when choosing to do dangerous and foolish things.
I’m choosing not to look out the window, and I’m thinking about what today might have in common with that day in Steamboat Springs.
The brilliant sun. Yes. That’s it. Intense sunlight playing off the glittering whiteness (except for that unfortunate blue “bottom” acre at bunny hill.)
Snow blindness. Good times.
I’m going to blame my aunts’ loss of sanity on snow blindness.
I’m sure the condition impacts the mind.
This is the only reason I can imagine why they would take me, Miss Remedial-Ski-School-Flunkie-No-Can-Do-the-Snowplow-to-Save-Her-Life, to the top of the mountain.
“We have the perfect run for you.”
Boy was it.
Glistening snow, sloping gradually through the pines, marked with a sign labeled “intermediate.”
“Uh. I flunked snowplow. I’ll hurtle to my death and likely take you with me. You understand that, right?”
In my family we laugh in the face of danger. “Ha! What better way to learn the snowplow. Shall we push you, or do you want to start on your own?”
So, go I did. Shwoosh, thud, slide -- at least down the steepest part. It seemed safer than the hurtle option.
As the trail lost the steepness, I eventually stood, and believe it or not, I snowplowed.
The rest of the day and week blurs in comparison to that shining moment when I became a skier.
Even the rescue snowmobile incident is forgotten in comparison to the glory of conquering. Sigh.
Sunshine bathes the hills and jewel-toned leaves glow in ambers and scarlets. Beautiful.
This makes it difficult to pull my mind back to the cold, white winter long ago when I still felt a bit of a thrill when choosing to do dangerous and foolish things.
I’m choosing not to look out the window, and I’m thinking about what today might have in common with that day in Steamboat Springs.
The brilliant sun. Yes. That’s it. Intense sunlight playing off the glittering whiteness (except for that unfortunate blue “bottom” acre at bunny hill.)
Snow blindness. Good times.
I’m going to blame my aunts’ loss of sanity on snow blindness.
I’m sure the condition impacts the mind.
This is the only reason I can imagine why they would take me, Miss Remedial-Ski-School-Flunkie-No-Can-Do-the-Snowplow-to-Save-Her-Life, to the top of the mountain.
“We have the perfect run for you.”
Boy was it.
Glistening snow, sloping gradually through the pines, marked with a sign labeled “intermediate.”
“Uh. I flunked snowplow. I’ll hurtle to my death and likely take you with me. You understand that, right?”
In my family we laugh in the face of danger. “Ha! What better way to learn the snowplow. Shall we push you, or do you want to start on your own?”
So, go I did. Shwoosh, thud, slide -- at least down the steepest part. It seemed safer than the hurtle option.
As the trail lost the steepness, I eventually stood, and believe it or not, I snowplowed.
The rest of the day and week blurs in comparison to that shining moment when I became a skier.
Even the rescue snowmobile incident is forgotten in comparison to the glory of conquering. Sigh.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Serials and Scenarios - Karen Kingsbury - Like Dandelion Dust
A momentary rest from the ski saga.
Hope you can make it through the weekend without knowing where I ended up.
Karen Kingsbury is this week’s author of interest.
I haven’t read her new book “Like Dandelion Dust” but I like the title. I’d give it a 8.2 out of 10, but I’m fond of alliteration (must be the poet in me – ha).
I’ve read one Karen Kingsbury novel – “A Time to Dance.” A well-written, heart-wrenching novel that stayed with me for quite awhile.
My daughter developed a love/hate relationship with “One Tuesday Morning.” When whimpering floats from the living room it's a good sign my daughter is reading Karen. Karen should take this as a compliment since my daughter chooses titles carefully.
Visit Amazon for reviews of “Like Dandelion Dust” http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1931722854
and Karen’s Website to get to know her and the rest of her books.
http://www.karenkingsbury.com/
Have a great weekend.
Hope you can make it through the weekend without knowing where I ended up.
Karen Kingsbury is this week’s author of interest.
I haven’t read her new book “Like Dandelion Dust” but I like the title. I’d give it a 8.2 out of 10, but I’m fond of alliteration (must be the poet in me – ha).
I’ve read one Karen Kingsbury novel – “A Time to Dance.” A well-written, heart-wrenching novel that stayed with me for quite awhile.
My daughter developed a love/hate relationship with “One Tuesday Morning.” When whimpering floats from the living room it's a good sign my daughter is reading Karen. Karen should take this as a compliment since my daughter chooses titles carefully.
Visit Amazon for reviews of “Like Dandelion Dust” http://www.amazon.com/exec
and Karen’s Website to get to know her and the rest of her books.
http://www.karenkingsbury.com/
Have a great weekend.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Mt SitzMark - Part 3
Snow-magnified brightness burst into the hotel room. Disoriented, I jumped out of bed. The painful reality of squealing calves reminded me of where I was and what I had spent the entire previous day doing. Or not doing -- the snowplow.
Today I would hit the beginner hill. The one on the side of the mountain. There I would practice all that I had been unable to master with Viktor the wonder-instructor’s careful instruction.
I limped to the hotel draperies and the crooked crack of light. Maybe I’d feel better with an eyeful of a majestic mountain. I pulled the curtain sideways and faced my destiny.
Unfortunately, the intense light had awoken the aunts. One hopped up and stood beside me. This was not good, because the landscape before us would be something I would never live down.
She screeched, alerting the other aunt of the opportunity for fun. There, in blue and white starkness, lie the evidence of my day spent in ski-bunny-school or Beginning Skiing and Repeat Beginning Skiing for the Inept and Pathetic (RBSIP).
I’d worn dark denim jeans power sprayed with waterproofing protection. As my jeans got wet, they bled. And they bled all over the hill. Every square foot contained a bright blue sitzmark, and there were a lot of square feet. This answered the mystery as to why my long underwear had turned a nice shade of chambray.
After a jolly giggle-fest, my aunts were ready to tackle the mountain. Hello! Someone should’ve taken the colorful snowpatch as a sign I wasn’t quite ready for a mountain. I slid on my blue long underwear and dressed to meet my fate.
Today I would hit the beginner hill. The one on the side of the mountain. There I would practice all that I had been unable to master with Viktor the wonder-instructor’s careful instruction.
I limped to the hotel draperies and the crooked crack of light. Maybe I’d feel better with an eyeful of a majestic mountain. I pulled the curtain sideways and faced my destiny.
Unfortunately, the intense light had awoken the aunts. One hopped up and stood beside me. This was not good, because the landscape before us would be something I would never live down.
She screeched, alerting the other aunt of the opportunity for fun. There, in blue and white starkness, lie the evidence of my day spent in ski-bunny-school or Beginning Skiing and Repeat Beginning Skiing for the Inept and Pathetic (RBSIP).
I’d worn dark denim jeans power sprayed with waterproofing protection. As my jeans got wet, they bled. And they bled all over the hill. Every square foot contained a bright blue sitzmark, and there were a lot of square feet. This answered the mystery as to why my long underwear had turned a nice shade of chambray.
After a jolly giggle-fest, my aunts were ready to tackle the mountain. Hello! Someone should’ve taken the colorful snowpatch as a sign I wasn’t quite ready for a mountain. I slid on my blue long underwear and dressed to meet my fate.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Mt SitzMark - Part 2
I couldn’t post yesterday. I had to work extra hours and at a desk that terrified and tortured me. I learned much, like how much I appreciate my co-worker who knows who to call to find a hidden medical document that was needed ten minutes ago. (background violin music)
But I’m back at my desk today -- where I’m able to leave when my job is done, and write during breaks.
Now we’ll return to the ski-slopes, or in my case, we could probably call it a bump. Okay a sloping bump -- when at 14, I attended ski school with four-year-olds.
Those four-year-olds are quick learners.
Some finished the morning class and whizzed off to the advanced hills. I spent two sessions…Beginning Skiing and Repeat Beginning Skiing for the Inept and Pathetic. (RBSIP)
One of our first lessons, after how to stand in skis was how to navigate the small leg grabby ski lift. After many failed attempts, I just referred to it as the skier drag.
I must confess a positive happening, though. After an hour of falling and rolling around in the nice thick blanket of snow, I did become numb enough that the pain level dropped drastically.
Snowplowing basics seemed to be the biggest frustration for my ski instructor Viktor (not real name to protect innocent German ski instructors) (maybe he wasn’t German, he may have been Transylvanian). Viktor may have been the world’s greatest snowplower and snowplow teacher but my rebellious legs only snowplowed when they should have been doing something else.
Poor Viktor passed me at the end of the day. All the little ones (now expert skiers after a few short hours) skied off with their tanned parents, I waited, the last to be picked up. Viktor stopped his nervous pacing when he spied my aunts on the horizon. He smiled, shook hands, and bid me good luck. I’m sure he bee-lined immediately to one of the cozy bars in Steamboat.
We headed to the hotel room to warm up and get dressed for dinner. My aunts quizzed me and laughed when I told them of my spectacular crashes and up hill draggings.
My tomato red legs finally calmed to a nice pink and the tingling ebbed.
We scarfed a great Mexican meal, and headed back to the room for an early bedtime. The next day would be my first attempt to ski the mountain. My dreams were fitful. But full of youthful foolishness, I looked forward to redeeming myself the next morning. I would snowplow – even if it killed me.
But I’m back at my desk today -- where I’m able to leave when my job is done, and write during breaks.
Now we’ll return to the ski-slopes, or in my case, we could probably call it a bump. Okay a sloping bump -- when at 14, I attended ski school with four-year-olds.
Those four-year-olds are quick learners.
Some finished the morning class and whizzed off to the advanced hills. I spent two sessions…Beginning Skiing and Repeat Beginning Skiing for the Inept and Pathetic. (RBSIP)
One of our first lessons, after how to stand in skis was how to navigate the small leg grabby ski lift. After many failed attempts, I just referred to it as the skier drag.
I must confess a positive happening, though. After an hour of falling and rolling around in the nice thick blanket of snow, I did become numb enough that the pain level dropped drastically.
Snowplowing basics seemed to be the biggest frustration for my ski instructor Viktor (not real name to protect innocent German ski instructors) (maybe he wasn’t German, he may have been Transylvanian). Viktor may have been the world’s greatest snowplower and snowplow teacher but my rebellious legs only snowplowed when they should have been doing something else.
Poor Viktor passed me at the end of the day. All the little ones (now expert skiers after a few short hours) skied off with their tanned parents, I waited, the last to be picked up. Viktor stopped his nervous pacing when he spied my aunts on the horizon. He smiled, shook hands, and bid me good luck. I’m sure he bee-lined immediately to one of the cozy bars in Steamboat.
We headed to the hotel room to warm up and get dressed for dinner. My aunts quizzed me and laughed when I told them of my spectacular crashes and up hill draggings.
My tomato red legs finally calmed to a nice pink and the tingling ebbed.
We scarfed a great Mexican meal, and headed back to the room for an early bedtime. The next day would be my first attempt to ski the mountain. My dreams were fitful. But full of youthful foolishness, I looked forward to redeeming myself the next morning. I would snowplow – even if it killed me.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Mt Sitzmark - Part 1
“They” say writers should read newspapers to glean ideas for stories and articles. Beyond the whole “they” conversation we could launch, I must share what I gleaned yesterday while reading the Sunday World Herald.
Truth is stranger than fiction. I’ve heard it said by a famous “they” – and I believe it. But the tidbit I’m sharing is not fictionalized at the moment, so brace yourself for cold, hard facts.
Yesterday, in the column written by the genius Mensa chick (yes, I read it) I discovered the word “sitzmark” means “a mark or hollow made in the snow by a skier’s backward fall.”
Ha. I’ve never heard this word, yet I identify with it.
My aunts took me on lots of great Colorado vacations when I was but a wee little lass. One year we skied in Steamboat Springs. (The town may remember me.)
At 14, I imagined myself pretty cool and able to accept the challenge of downhill skiing. Instead of ski pants, we purchased a pair of slightly oversized jeans and waterproofed them with 47 cans of Scotchguard, in case I fell. (disclaimer – the number of cans may be a slight exaggeration.)
This was in the day when denim didn’t undergo coolifying processes that affect color and fabric stiffness.
Day one in Steamboat dawned beautiful and bright. We dressed in our ski bunny finery and donned sunglasses. Fittings for boots and skies took a while.
My aunts had mastered flying down the side of a mountain and they stared with longing at the intermediate hill. At the school of non-initiates, they dropped me like a used tissue, and gracefully swished toward the ski lift.
I suppose my instructor was an amazing beefcake of a guy. This I don’t remember. “They” say that ski instructors are hunks so I’m sure he was. He may even have been European. For the purpose of illustration I’ll call him Instructor Hunky Sitz (and make him German).
Though I’ve forgotten Instructor Hunky Sitz, other things were burned into my brain.
To be continued…
Truth is stranger than fiction. I’ve heard it said by a famous “they” – and I believe it. But the tidbit I’m sharing is not fictionalized at the moment, so brace yourself for cold, hard facts.
Yesterday, in the column written by the genius Mensa chick (yes, I read it) I discovered the word “sitzmark” means “a mark or hollow made in the snow by a skier’s backward fall.”
Ha. I’ve never heard this word, yet I identify with it.
My aunts took me on lots of great Colorado vacations when I was but a wee little lass. One year we skied in Steamboat Springs. (The town may remember me.)
At 14, I imagined myself pretty cool and able to accept the challenge of downhill skiing. Instead of ski pants, we purchased a pair of slightly oversized jeans and waterproofed them with 47 cans of Scotchguard, in case I fell. (disclaimer – the number of cans may be a slight exaggeration.)
This was in the day when denim didn’t undergo coolifying processes that affect color and fabric stiffness.
Day one in Steamboat dawned beautiful and bright. We dressed in our ski bunny finery and donned sunglasses. Fittings for boots and skies took a while.
My aunts had mastered flying down the side of a mountain and they stared with longing at the intermediate hill. At the school of non-initiates, they dropped me like a used tissue, and gracefully swished toward the ski lift.
I suppose my instructor was an amazing beefcake of a guy. This I don’t remember. “They” say that ski instructors are hunks so I’m sure he was. He may even have been European. For the purpose of illustration I’ll call him Instructor Hunky Sitz (and make him German).
Though I’ve forgotten Instructor Hunky Sitz, other things were burned into my brain.
To be continued…
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