This is not a morose Monday in my neck of the woods.
If I had gotten up early and traveled to work and had to whip out a blogger post on my lunch hour, it could have been a traditional blah "do I have to be here?" Monday.
But I currently sit at my desk, in my new home office.
This is maybe a bit of a stretch. My office is a corner, and I am still surrounded by an unfinished remodel. Some drywall waiting for one more slap of mud, a yawning open closet packed with water heater and furnace, insulation covered in plastic in another spot, but if I focus on certain specific spots everything feels done.
Our bounced couch is cozy and turned so you'd never know it hurtled through space and hopscotched west on I-80 eastbound.
There is, of course, a spiritual application regarding focus in this post. But I think I'll let you ponder that on your own.
The most exciting thing about my little corner is that I am sitting at a lovely desk built by my talented husband, and I am hooked up to the computer that has long lain dormant.
Now I have no excuse not to write.
Oooh. I don't know how I feel about that so I'm not going to think about it right now.
I'm celebrating.
I have brand spanking new DSL, a chair with rolling wheels (which is really a bad idea considering I am five feet away from the unrailingized stairwell.)
I'm choosing not to ponder the implications of the wheels on the chair. Instead I am staring out my "office" window. Skeletal trees are blanketed with two inches of snow so they look like mutant pipecleaners. The sun glints off the bright white and through the icicles dangling, dripping like melting diamonds.
I've even accomplished laundry and dishes this morning. Ahhh. A good Monday, indeed.
Hope yours is good as well.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Serials and Scenarios - Chronicles of John Aubrey Anderson
John Aubrey Anderson in black and white. He's bold.
Fiction character you would most like to be or most identify with and why?
I would want to be me . . . with the heart of Reepicheep, the valiant mouse in The Chronicles of Narnia. Reep is the personification of chivalry; fear will never whisper to his decision-making process; and he is unalterably and unabashedly devoted to the King and His cause.
If you could change something in any novel, what would you change about it and why?
Is it okay to change two?
I'd change THE SHOOTIST to conform to the movie. I read the book because I liked the movie and I didn't like the written version at all.
And in John Grisham's THE PARTNER, I'd have the protagonist get a little better deal at the end . . . but I'm a sap.
Favorite turn of phrase or word picture, in literature or movie.
The Lt. Sam Weinberg character in "A Few Good Men" said, "I have no responsibility here whatsoever." I quote him often.
If you were assured of writing a best-seller, what genre would it be? Give us a sliver of information, a characteristic or glimpse of a scene.
I'd write action/suspense.
My protagonist would find himself in a bloody confrontation . . . in a hostile environment, surrounded by an overwhelming enemy force . . . he's weakened, exhausted and disheartened, stripped of hope . . . his survival is dependent upon whether or not he can muster the tenacity of purpose to take him beyond that point where normal men would surrender. And he may die there.
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.)
God has given the gift of writing in the genre that gives me energy.
I want to write intense suspense/thriller fiction that rivets truth to the hearts of men, women, boys, and girls.
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? – and why.
I flew for an airline for almost twenty-nine years, and I've been
lots of places, but I'm a dud in the travel department. From Bangor to Seattle, the California cities . . . they all have a lot to offer, I guess, but I always ended up on the same familiar streets . . . strolling, drinking coffee, and watching people. Years ago it was Bangkok, Madrid, London, Hong Kong, London, Rome, Athens . . . same streets and people, different accents.
Favorite season and why?
The one I'm in at the moment. Seasons pass pretty fast at my age . . . I like to enjoy them all.
Which compliment related to your writing has meant the most and why?
I have to bend the rules because this is not exactly a
compliment . . . and I didn't hear it firsthand.
When I went to my first-ever writers' conference, we were allowed to mail two proposals in ahead of time and chose which editors we wanted to have take a look at our work.
As it happened, the guy I had my sights set on ended up being inundated with proposals. While he was pouring over non-fiction proposals, his wife was rummaging around in his fiction slush pile. After reading my work, she walked into the room where he was working and held up my packet.
"This is the one."
The next day the editor and I sat down and talked. That was in the spring of 2003 . . . and he and I are talking about book four now.
What criticism has cut the deepest and why?
I know criticism is on the way, but so far it's been jot and tittle
stuff. There will come a day when someone will come down hard on my work, but unless their comments are supported by people I trust, I'll probably ignore them. If their words have merit, I hope I'll profit from what they have to say.
Favorite chore - Why?
I like taking care of our cars . . . keeping them clean and changing the oil. One of the worst things about being so busy for the last four years is . . . my car has only been washed about three times. I've kept the oil changed, but the interior looks like I've been using it to host styrofoam fights.
Thanks, John
Happy weekend, everyone.
Fiction character you would most like to be or most identify with and why?
I would want to be me . . . with the heart of Reepicheep, the valiant mouse in The Chronicles of Narnia. Reep is the personification of chivalry; fear will never whisper to his decision-making process; and he is unalterably and unabashedly devoted to the King and His cause.
If you could change something in any novel, what would you change about it and why?
Is it okay to change two?
I'd change THE SHOOTIST to conform to the movie. I read the book because I liked the movie and I didn't like the written version at all.
And in John Grisham's THE PARTNER, I'd have the protagonist get a little better deal at the end . . . but I'm a sap.
Favorite turn of phrase or word picture, in literature or movie.
The Lt. Sam Weinberg character in "A Few Good Men" said, "I have no responsibility here whatsoever." I quote him often.
If you were assured of writing a best-seller, what genre would it be? Give us a sliver of information, a characteristic or glimpse of a scene.
I'd write action/suspense.
My protagonist would find himself in a bloody confrontation . . . in a hostile environment, surrounded by an overwhelming enemy force . . . he's weakened, exhausted and disheartened, stripped of hope . . . his survival is dependent upon whether or not he can muster the tenacity of purpose to take him beyond that point where normal men would surrender. And he may die there.
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.)
God has given the gift of writing in the genre that gives me energy.
I want to write intense suspense/thriller fiction that rivets truth to the hearts of men, women, boys, and girls.
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? – and why.
I flew for an airline for almost twenty-nine years, and I've been
lots of places, but I'm a dud in the travel department. From Bangor to Seattle, the California cities . . . they all have a lot to offer, I guess, but I always ended up on the same familiar streets . . . strolling, drinking coffee, and watching people. Years ago it was Bangkok, Madrid, London, Hong Kong, London, Rome, Athens . . . same streets and people, different accents.
Favorite season and why?
The one I'm in at the moment. Seasons pass pretty fast at my age . . . I like to enjoy them all.
Which compliment related to your writing has meant the most and why?
I have to bend the rules because this is not exactly a
compliment . . . and I didn't hear it firsthand.
When I went to my first-ever writers' conference, we were allowed to mail two proposals in ahead of time and chose which editors we wanted to have take a look at our work.
As it happened, the guy I had my sights set on ended up being inundated with proposals. While he was pouring over non-fiction proposals, his wife was rummaging around in his fiction slush pile. After reading my work, she walked into the room where he was working and held up my packet.
"This is the one."
The next day the editor and I sat down and talked. That was in the spring of 2003 . . . and he and I are talking about book four now.
What criticism has cut the deepest and why?
I know criticism is on the way, but so far it's been jot and tittle
stuff. There will come a day when someone will come down hard on my work, but unless their comments are supported by people I trust, I'll probably ignore them. If their words have merit, I hope I'll profit from what they have to say.
Favorite chore - Why?
I like taking care of our cars . . . keeping them clean and changing the oil. One of the worst things about being so busy for the last four years is . . . my car has only been washed about three times. I've kept the oil changed, but the interior looks like I've been using it to host styrofoam fights.
Thanks, John
Happy weekend, everyone.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Serials and Scenarios - Wedgewood Grey
Happy Thursday. Hoping you all face a rejection-free day. Hang out for a bit and peruse Wedgewood Grey.
The Book:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446579505
The Author:
http://www.johnaubreyanderson.com/
The Review:
"Wedgewood Grey" plays out like a crime scene drama with facts layered upon each other while details of the situation's depth is fleshed out. Set in the south at a time when white men considered men of different skin to carry little value, and women of different skin to be worthless.
This story will likely be too gruesome for the Big Honken Chicken club, and may be a bit too scary. However, the tension and the potential of the spiritual warfare isn't so intense that you'll never sleep without a nightlight again.
"Wedgewood Grey" reminded me of early Peretti though the spiritual warfare aspect takes a backseat to Anderson's human characters. "Grey" carries a strong Christian message, with at least one character becoming born again after an encounter with a demon-possessed man.
John Aubrey Anderson crafts descriptive sentences, multiple characters, interwoven storylines and scatters the blend with wry humor.
I'm not a fan of omniscient story telling. I feel you lose the intimacy with the characters or gain too much intimacy with secondary characters who are just passing through. However, Anderson tells quite the story and manages to tie up the loose dangling threads he feeds into the mix. This impresses me, writing is not for the weak-kneed, and his cast of characters and storylines must require file upon file to keep them straight and tied together.
Compulsion to see what would happen next kept me reading, though some of the story lines didn't hold my interest as well as others and I skimmed a few times.
If you are a big fan early Peretti or you like omniscient narrated fiction with a strong Christian thread, I believe you'd enjoy "Wedgewood Grey."
Tomorrow...The Interview:
The Book:
http://www.amazon.com/exec
The Author:
http://www.johnaubreyanderson
The Review:
"Wedgewood Grey" plays out like a crime scene drama with facts layered upon each other while details of the situation's depth is fleshed out. Set in the south at a time when white men considered men of different skin to carry little value, and women of different skin to be worthless.
This story will likely be too gruesome for the Big Honken Chicken club, and may be a bit too scary. However, the tension and the potential of the spiritual warfare isn't so intense that you'll never sleep without a nightlight again.
"Wedgewood Grey" reminded me of early Peretti though the spiritual warfare aspect takes a backseat to Anderson's human characters. "Grey" carries a strong Christian message, with at least one character becoming born again after an encounter with a demon-possessed man.
John Aubrey Anderson crafts descriptive sentences, multiple characters, interwoven storylines and scatters the blend with wry humor.
I'm not a fan of omniscient story telling. I feel you lose the intimacy with the characters or gain too much intimacy with secondary characters who are just passing through. However, Anderson tells quite the story and manages to tie up the loose dangling threads he feeds into the mix. This impresses me, writing is not for the weak-kneed, and his cast of characters and storylines must require file upon file to keep them straight and tied together.
Compulsion to see what would happen next kept me reading, though some of the story lines didn't hold my interest as well as others and I skimmed a few times.
If you are a big fan early Peretti or you like omniscient narrated fiction with a strong Christian thread, I believe you'd enjoy "Wedgewood Grey."
Tomorrow...The Interview:
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Scribbles and Scrambles - Rejection R Us
I just got rejected again.
I should be used to it by now. This one wasn't even a big rejection or a mean-spirited one. A simple "I like this but it's not going to happen" kind of let-down.
Sigh.
What kind of crazy person works, crafts, sweats, cries and then starts all over again with a pile of words in an attempt to form them into a pleasing concoction? Offering the end product, imperfect, but the best conglomeration of the moment, to others who then shred it and give back the pieces? Who is this individual who survives that scenario and repeats it endlessly?
A writer.
Is it any wonder some of us snap, grow goatees and wear all black? Or that most of us spend many days of our lives surrounded by the whoosh of espresso machines and the scent of liquid ecstasy? I think it might be a miracle that any of us press the send, or save button at all, ever.
The mind of a writer forms many thoughts. Let me share a stereotypical morning self-talk of a writer. “Who wrote this crud? Ha. Fool. What idiot doesn’t know a comma from a hyphen? This piece of writing might be valuable to the bird, face down on the bottom of the cage.”
The writer then zips to e-mail or solitaire and drinks several mugs of coffee or tea. Some may even drink Jack Daniels on the sly. Then the urge hits again. No, not the urge brought on by a quart of coffee. The urge to express oneself. The writer alt/tabs back to Word, erasing everything on the page until virgin-white screen stares out at him/her.
“Oh, I feel a metaphor coming on, no, maybe it’s a simile, like the birth of a new morning it brightens the horizon…no, that stinks.”
“Similes are overrated. What do I think I am -- a poet? Ha. Fool. Wonder if Starbucks has any openings, maybe the library, then I can be around books, and with real writers?”
“I’m never writing again.”
The writer returns to the scene of the crime, I’d use the Biblical “as a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool returns to his folly,” but it would not help my current mental dialogue.
The following questions were posed twice in different words on two different loops today. “Why do you write? How do you overcome the yuck of writing? And why do you want to overcome it?”
I think the answer is in the above rant, but also in the unique make-up of me. For some reason, I have to write. This blog is almost a year old and I have 169 single-spaced pages of posted material in my Scrambled Dregs Word document. Much of it is lame, but some offered a random person a laugh here, and maybe a tear there.
I hope that what I write creates a spiritual ripple. When I laugh at ten in the morning, I may be nicer to the person in line at the grocery store at four-thirty. If I have to ponder someone’s words or things bigger than me for awhile, I treat people differently than when I focus on what I want.
Finally, I think the God of words expects me to use what He shows me and shares with me. I don’t want people to be dazed, lost and confused when I have access to the answer to their problems.
I write because Jesus is all about words, and healing and love and grace. And I want to be just like Him.
So, I guess I’ll go write something and submit it. They say what doesn’t kill you, makes your stronger. Rejection hasn’t killed any one that I know of.
Rejection – the new strength training.
I should be used to it by now. This one wasn't even a big rejection or a mean-spirited one. A simple "I like this but it's not going to happen" kind of let-down.
Sigh.
What kind of crazy person works, crafts, sweats, cries and then starts all over again with a pile of words in an attempt to form them into a pleasing concoction? Offering the end product, imperfect, but the best conglomeration of the moment, to others who then shred it and give back the pieces? Who is this individual who survives that scenario and repeats it endlessly?
A writer.
Is it any wonder some of us snap, grow goatees and wear all black? Or that most of us spend many days of our lives surrounded by the whoosh of espresso machines and the scent of liquid ecstasy? I think it might be a miracle that any of us press the send, or save button at all, ever.
The mind of a writer forms many thoughts. Let me share a stereotypical morning self-talk of a writer. “Who wrote this crud? Ha. Fool. What idiot doesn’t know a comma from a hyphen? This piece of writing might be valuable to the bird, face down on the bottom of the cage.”
The writer then zips to e-mail or solitaire and drinks several mugs of coffee or tea. Some may even drink Jack Daniels on the sly. Then the urge hits again. No, not the urge brought on by a quart of coffee. The urge to express oneself. The writer alt/tabs back to Word, erasing everything on the page until virgin-white screen stares out at him/her.
“Oh, I feel a metaphor coming on, no, maybe it’s a simile, like the birth of a new morning it brightens the horizon…no, that stinks.”
“Similes are overrated. What do I think I am -- a poet? Ha. Fool. Wonder if Starbucks has any openings, maybe the library, then I can be around books, and with real writers?”
“I’m never writing again.”
The writer returns to the scene of the crime, I’d use the Biblical “as a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool returns to his folly,” but it would not help my current mental dialogue.
The following questions were posed twice in different words on two different loops today. “Why do you write? How do you overcome the yuck of writing? And why do you want to overcome it?”
I think the answer is in the above rant, but also in the unique make-up of me. For some reason, I have to write. This blog is almost a year old and I have 169 single-spaced pages of posted material in my Scrambled Dregs Word document. Much of it is lame, but some offered a random person a laugh here, and maybe a tear there.
I hope that what I write creates a spiritual ripple. When I laugh at ten in the morning, I may be nicer to the person in line at the grocery store at four-thirty. If I have to ponder someone’s words or things bigger than me for awhile, I treat people differently than when I focus on what I want.
Finally, I think the God of words expects me to use what He shows me and shares with me. I don’t want people to be dazed, lost and confused when I have access to the answer to their problems.
I write because Jesus is all about words, and healing and love and grace. And I want to be just like Him.
So, I guess I’ll go write something and submit it. They say what doesn’t kill you, makes your stronger. Rejection hasn’t killed any one that I know of.
Rejection – the new strength training.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Scribbles and Scrambles - Pratfall Pats #4
I suppose I should tell on myself before I finish the Pat pratfall moments. Okay, here goes….keep in mind this happened before my first cup of coffee…this morning I used hair scrunching gel like fragrance.
Suppose that’s why my hair feels a little flat and my elbow pits make a horrid Velcro sound when I straighten my arms?
Back to Pat, who is getting ready to ride down the grassy knoll.
Boat shoes. For our family, those simple words conjure up snickers and the favorite phrase … “These shoes are outta here!”
I suppose boat shoes serve a purpose though the soles that can’t handle a little wet grass leave me scratching my head. Why on earth would someone design a shoe for a smooth wooden surface that is often covered in water?
Maybe they were invented by a sadist, or someone who loves a great water-bound pratfall. Or maybe the cheap knock-offs that Pat purchased ended up being the only brand in America that caused loss of limb, life or pride.
Who knows? If you do, I’m not sure I want you to shatter my carefully guarded naiveté, but if you must share your boat shoe wealth of knowledge you should be able to figure out how to comment.
But I digress. This post is not about boat shoes, it’s about Pat.
My mom and dad throw regular summer get togethers. Their place is perfect for them, a lush garden environment, great scenery, lots of room, a pool. Pat is always the last one to arrive even though he lives there. There are always projects and he’s usually neck deep in them as the first guests arrive.
Pat’s legendary pre-company protocol has become a “Where’s Waldo” sort of a game for the kids.
“Where’s Grandpa?”
“Oh, look, I see his crazy hair behind the horse tank.”
This particular get together was no different, except for the fine new boat shoes that clad Pat’s feet as he rounded the corner. We’d all settled at the side deck where the view was fine, the breeze was blowing and the hills gently sloped. Pat zipped toward us. He must have caught the gentle sloping hill just right though, because BAM! he was down sliding toward home. A baseball player would have been proud of the slide.
Pat’s head popped up over the hill. He sported a big, cheesy grin. “Oops.”
We all chuckled politely. Yeah, right.
Of course, the second time he road the same hill with the same shoes, his response was slightly more than “Oops.”
Hence one of our favorite family phrases.
Now that I ponder it, I think he still has those boat shoes.
Suppose that’s why my hair feels a little flat and my elbow pits make a horrid Velcro sound when I straighten my arms?
Back to Pat, who is getting ready to ride down the grassy knoll.
Boat shoes. For our family, those simple words conjure up snickers and the favorite phrase … “These shoes are outta here!”
I suppose boat shoes serve a purpose though the soles that can’t handle a little wet grass leave me scratching my head. Why on earth would someone design a shoe for a smooth wooden surface that is often covered in water?
Maybe they were invented by a sadist, or someone who loves a great water-bound pratfall. Or maybe the cheap knock-offs that Pat purchased ended up being the only brand in America that caused loss of limb, life or pride.
Who knows? If you do, I’m not sure I want you to shatter my carefully guarded naiveté, but if you must share your boat shoe wealth of knowledge you should be able to figure out how to comment.
But I digress. This post is not about boat shoes, it’s about Pat.
My mom and dad throw regular summer get togethers. Their place is perfect for them, a lush garden environment, great scenery, lots of room, a pool. Pat is always the last one to arrive even though he lives there. There are always projects and he’s usually neck deep in them as the first guests arrive.
Pat’s legendary pre-company protocol has become a “Where’s Waldo” sort of a game for the kids.
“Where’s Grandpa?”
“Oh, look, I see his crazy hair behind the horse tank.”
This particular get together was no different, except for the fine new boat shoes that clad Pat’s feet as he rounded the corner. We’d all settled at the side deck where the view was fine, the breeze was blowing and the hills gently sloped. Pat zipped toward us. He must have caught the gentle sloping hill just right though, because BAM! he was down sliding toward home. A baseball player would have been proud of the slide.
Pat’s head popped up over the hill. He sported a big, cheesy grin. “Oops.”
We all chuckled politely. Yeah, right.
Of course, the second time he road the same hill with the same shoes, his response was slightly more than “Oops.”
Hence one of our favorite family phrases.
Now that I ponder it, I think he still has those boat shoes.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Serials and Scenarios - Christian Market Guide 2007
Book of the Week....pretty sweet resource. Hope your Valentine's Day didn't turn out like St. Valentine's. If it did, I guess you probably aren't reading this.
The Link:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400071259
The Author:
http://www.stuartmarket.com/
The Review:
Christian Writers Market Guide 2007 is one of the books most writers suggest newbies purchase as soon as possible. I'm in my third year of taking writing seriously. I've bought many how-to's, have a subscription to Writers Digest, and have yet to open the Christian Writers Market Guide.
Why? I suppose it’s the anti-techie in me. I hate instruction manuals and feel I have to learn by touching and trying rather than following the road someone else has forged. Either that or I'm just an idiot.
I have three professional memberships that cost $35 to $40 a year. I don't use those resources like I should either.
I'm turning over a new leaf. This will be the year I actually listen and use the advice that those "who've been there done that" generously share.
With that new victory chant swirling around my brain, I opened the Market Guide. While baking cookies, I think you get awarded extra points when you multi-task. I could be wrong about that, so don't try it at home. Even with the aroma of triple chocolate filling the kitchen I managed to find a wealth of information in the Guide.
Sally Stuart provides a CD-ROM with 1,200 contacts so you don't even need to crack the book to benefit. (Actually, you have to open the back cover because that's where they put the CD, but you know what I mean. Right?)
Ms. Stuart includes a "How to Use This Book" guide which includes a plethora (I love to use this word) of books and websites for even more education on the ins and outs of Christian writing. Sites for new writers, legal sources, writing challenges and even some fun diversions for those suffering from a bit of block fill the pages.
Then she lists publishers of books in multiple categories and genres. You choose an area - youth, for instance - and find a list of youth material buying resources. Page over and look up the publishers alphabetically and find most anything you could possibly want to know about that house (except the candy bar preference of the editor). Keep digging and you can find out the number of books published and how many best sellers they produced last year.
Want to know the most popular subjects with publishers? Flip further.
Ms. Stuart repeats the process with magazines/periodicals.
Ready to start selling your work? Looking for new markets? Brand new to Christian writing and wondering where to go from here? You might want to invest in the Christian Writers Market Guide 2007.
Now. I'm going to eat another cookie or two and jot down some new information. After all, it is 2007.
The Link:
http://www.amazon.com/exec
The Author:
http://www.stuartmarket.com/
The Review:
Christian Writers Market Guide 2007 is one of the books most writers suggest newbies purchase as soon as possible. I'm in my third year of taking writing seriously. I've bought many how-to's, have a subscription to Writers Digest, and have yet to open the Christian Writers Market Guide.
Why? I suppose it’s the anti-techie in me. I hate instruction manuals and feel I have to learn by touching and trying rather than following the road someone else has forged. Either that or I'm just an idiot.
I have three professional memberships that cost $35 to $40 a year. I don't use those resources like I should either.
I'm turning over a new leaf. This will be the year I actually listen and use the advice that those "who've been there done that" generously share.
With that new victory chant swirling around my brain, I opened the Market Guide. While baking cookies, I think you get awarded extra points when you multi-task. I could be wrong about that, so don't try it at home. Even with the aroma of triple chocolate filling the kitchen I managed to find a wealth of information in the Guide.
Sally Stuart provides a CD-ROM with 1,200 contacts so you don't even need to crack the book to benefit. (Actually, you have to open the back cover because that's where they put the CD, but you know what I mean. Right?)
Ms. Stuart includes a "How to Use This Book" guide which includes a plethora (I love to use this word) of books and websites for even more education on the ins and outs of Christian writing. Sites for new writers, legal sources, writing challenges and even some fun diversions for those suffering from a bit of block fill the pages.
Then she lists publishers of books in multiple categories and genres. You choose an area - youth, for instance - and find a list of youth material buying resources. Page over and look up the publishers alphabetically and find most anything you could possibly want to know about that house (except the candy bar preference of the editor). Keep digging and you can find out the number of books published and how many best sellers they produced last year.
Want to know the most popular subjects with publishers? Flip further.
Ms. Stuart repeats the process with magazines/periodicals.
Ready to start selling your work? Looking for new markets? Brand new to Christian writing and wondering where to go from here? You might want to invest in the Christian Writers Market Guide 2007.
Now. I'm going to eat another cookie or two and jot down some new information. After all, it is 2007.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Scribbles and Scrambles - Pratfall Pats #3
I learned to drive in a Vega. A real live Vega. At the time I drove it, all systems had sprung leaks and I believe it probably was classified as either a lethal weapon or a death trap, maybe both.
The beauty of the Vega was the hatchback.
We also owned horses during the season of the Vega. Mainly pet horses as they tended to try to kill me, and once the other family members scraped me off the gravel, no one else wanted to ride them either.
As nice as a hay-filled barn is with all the warm horse and dried grass scents, someone has to stock the barn with hay. Enter the Vega and its wonderful truck-like back end.
Dad “let” me head out with him to gather some bales of hay. My brothers and I loved it when Dad “let” us help him. We rolled the Vega down the hill. It could travel up to three miles at a time and fortunately we were on a hay gathering mission less than a mile away. We pushed the seats down and slid glistening 800 pound golden rectangles of horse sustenance into the Vega. Okay, they weren’t 800 pounds, but they were really heavy.
We’d load three of four of the little scratchy gems, putt-putt up the hill, unload them in the barn, coast back down the hill and repeat. On one of the final passes I heard a grunt. I ignored it. Pat makes many noises, a grunt is not uncommon.
Peripherally my eye caught something. Maybe more of an absence of something. I glanced over my shoulder to discover my dad missing. I craned around then discovered the reason for the grunt.
Maybe it hadn’t been a grunt at all, possibly it was a desperate squeak for help. Pat’s toes were wedged between two hay bales. His body a perfect bridge between the pile of hay and the Vega, a bridge spanning his entire five-eleven frame, three feet off the ground. White-knuckled fingers clutched the edge of the Vega.
I froze. Once again, I struggled with controlling the hysteria that tickled the back of my throat. My eyes watered and the bridge who was my father quivered slightly. Oh boy. What to do? My voice cracked. “Dad, you need some help?”
“That’d be nice.” Then he laughed.
I eventually got around to helping him, once I could stand up straight again.
Coming up – Pat’s Public Pratfall.
The beauty of the Vega was the hatchback.
We also owned horses during the season of the Vega. Mainly pet horses as they tended to try to kill me, and once the other family members scraped me off the gravel, no one else wanted to ride them either.
As nice as a hay-filled barn is with all the warm horse and dried grass scents, someone has to stock the barn with hay. Enter the Vega and its wonderful truck-like back end.
Dad “let” me head out with him to gather some bales of hay. My brothers and I loved it when Dad “let” us help him. We rolled the Vega down the hill. It could travel up to three miles at a time and fortunately we were on a hay gathering mission less than a mile away. We pushed the seats down and slid glistening 800 pound golden rectangles of horse sustenance into the Vega. Okay, they weren’t 800 pounds, but they were really heavy.
We’d load three of four of the little scratchy gems, putt-putt up the hill, unload them in the barn, coast back down the hill and repeat. On one of the final passes I heard a grunt. I ignored it. Pat makes many noises, a grunt is not uncommon.
Peripherally my eye caught something. Maybe more of an absence of something. I glanced over my shoulder to discover my dad missing. I craned around then discovered the reason for the grunt.
Maybe it hadn’t been a grunt at all, possibly it was a desperate squeak for help. Pat’s toes were wedged between two hay bales. His body a perfect bridge between the pile of hay and the Vega, a bridge spanning his entire five-eleven frame, three feet off the ground. White-knuckled fingers clutched the edge of the Vega.
I froze. Once again, I struggled with controlling the hysteria that tickled the back of my throat. My eyes watered and the bridge who was my father quivered slightly. Oh boy. What to do? My voice cracked. “Dad, you need some help?”
“That’d be nice.” Then he laughed.
I eventually got around to helping him, once I could stand up straight again.
Coming up – Pat’s Public Pratfall.
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