Serials and Scenarios - Tribulation House

Click on book to go to Amazon page.

My Review:

I didn’t get my copy of Tribulation House until after the blog tour several weeks ago. Since I’ve now got a copy in my hands, I’m going to share my review.

Chris Well is truly a creative writer. In his hands words, grammar and punctuation take on artistic and unusual configurations. Unless you are a phobic regarding proper book-stylings, this is a good thing.

Unique blends of POV are woven throughout. Well obviously knows writing rules and then he transcends them.

Not only is Tribulation House a wild and crazy read like you might imagine from the premise. It is touching and spiritually and emotionally challenging. Well is similar in style to Ray Blackston and a newcomer, Geoffrey Wood, using humorous situations to penetrate and weave a story that will stick with the reader.

I’m giving Tribulation House 4.5 stars.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat and Polly

Pat has a fowl history.

A certain fowl, one which lives in the spare bedroom at Pat's house, would like to write the final chapter.

Pat and Phyllis aka Mom and Dad purchased a parrot many years ago. I'm not sure how they found said parrot. It's a little sketchy to buy a used parrot -- but this was the situation. Mom sucumbed to parrot ownership because of compassion, Pat, well, I'd guess it was the challenge.

Sonny had a checkered past involving violent outbursts and bird temper tantrums. His name was the first thing changed, as his given name was reflective of the not-so-pleasant parrot personality.

Sonny is a one woman bird. Unfortunately, his woman is married to Pat. This weird triangle has not eased over the years. Oh, the males in the house have grown to respect one another, but it's a cold war.

Sonny doesn't get out of the cage often. He prefers the solitude and long distance relationships. He's a little bit of a control freak. His woman lets strangers into the home, or family members, even Pat -- and these situations cause Sonny's deep issues to stir.

On quiet days when stress is at a minimum Sonny gets a taste of freedom. Generally, this taste ignites some hunger for a piece of Pat. A hunting game of sorts has developed between man and bird. Pat's voice is all that's needed to ruffle Sonny's feathers, and Pat has the adolescent need to speak to Sonny when he is on one of his walkabouts. You've heard the phrase "them's fightin words" well, there is such a thing.

Several man vs. bird skirmishes occur during these moments. Mom says she can predict who'll win. When Pat is fully dressed his jean clad legs prove a fine defense. But oh the joy of Sonny when he catches Pat unaware. A man in his BVD's is no match for a parrot with an attitude.

Serials and Scenarios - These Boots Weren't Made for Walking

Click on the book cover and go visit the Amazon page.

Hopefully, we'll be back on Friday with an interview.

My Review:

Believe it or not, this is the first Melody Carlson book I've ever read. My youngest daughter loves her teen color series, but not only have I never picked one of those up, I've not grabbed one of her adult books either.

Cassie, the first person pure chick-lit protagonist, is both amusing and cynical. Already a positive in my book. Much mention of shoewear and clothing designers guarantees that chick-lit purists will find much to like in this novel. No spa, but there is a fitness center and an active social climate. The passel of girlfriends is also present with the twist being that one of the biggest social thorn's in Cassie's side ends up being very closely related.

Several attractive men walk in and out of the picture.

As Christian label chick-lit, and because teens who've read her material may want to pick up These Boots Weren't Made for Walking - I want to warn those who may struggle with Christians drinking alcohol -- this read is likely to be an issue for you. If you aren't stumbled by Christians who drink without getting drunk, and you love chick-lit, you'll find this charming and fun.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Drama, Drama, Drama

Because of the risk of offending one or more of my faithful readers, I tremble as I type.

You see, I’m going to say a few things that may cause balking, gagging, retching or straining in some certain effusive and entertaining friends.

Even though I’ve taught a drama class or two. Even though I took a bit part in a high school play and turned my character into a scene stealer…I am not a thespian at heart.

Oh, I can play a thespian. But I am not one.

That said, I transported my child to a drama club meeting last night. She invited me to stay. Oh, the roil and boil of emotions unleashed within. Rapid-fire scenes flashed through my mind. My acting debut, the laughs, the applause. Then the scene in which I played an extra during a training video…the one where on-lookers were supposed to view a scene with horror. The director stopped everything with “Cut! Hey, you in the brown, stop smiling, this is a serious scene.” Of course my friend had to nudge me and point at my brown sweater before I realized that he was talking to me. Oops. My Bad. Then my thoughts jumped to Saturday Night Live’s Jon Lovitz, actor extraordinaire shouting, “I was only acting!”

I shook my head, sadly. “No thanks, but have fun.”

What does one do at a drama club meeting?

Do they all share stories and the one who elicits the most enthusiastic response wins? I don’t think I want to know.

I’m pretty sure I’d rather be in an invisible box with 150 mimes than in a drama club meeting.

Hey. I was only acting!

Scribbles and Scrambles - The Walk

My modified family took a walk last week.

Our oldest, a son, grew up and got married.

But we are still five, we've just added another female to take his place. Not the same.
She smells much better. But I digress.

Smell -- have you ever noticed that smells are huge memory triggers?

We walked through a park that is designated as a "wild prairie" and the "wild flowers" and/or weeds as some call them are about mid-thigh high. (If you are 5'2" like certain individuals who choose to remain nameless.) Not that we actually walked through them -- Iowa is known for chiggers -- if you don't know what those are, be grateful.

As we walked through the patch I was instantly transported back to my bean-walking days. Bean-walking -- oh my -- I don't know that it gets any better than that. A person wakes before dawn to get a good start. Water jugs, filled with tepid water at the end of endless rows of moist green leaves, dirt and bugs, the only reward for a job well done. Literally, bean-walking is a stroll through a bean-field ridding it of weeds. Good times. Oh, and a laborer got a whole $2.75 an hour when I had the privilege.

Next, after the girls squealed past us on their roller blades, we hit a stand of pine trees, and I mentally revisited Colorado. The sharp pine bouquet eclipsed the bean-field earthiness and bloomed into a mountain setting. I thought of many early mornings I've spent in Colorado. Stepping out the cabin door and sucking in the beauty of the awakening mountain sense-fest as the sun creeps over the range.

Then the squealing of the girls and the rumble of their skates across the bridge snapped me back to reality. And reality is a pretty nice place to be, too.

Serials and Scenarios - Nicole's Weavings

Nicole had a little fun with this Q & A. So did I.

She went crazy in the creative corner. I dare you to read her off-the-cuff short stories and not want to read her novels...

Thanks, Nicole.

Can't wait to read what you're cooking up next.


Fiction character you would most like to be or most identify with and why?

Hmmm. That would be Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz or Alice in Alice in Wonderland because their imaginative worlds come to life for them. I feel a bit like that, being a writer.



Some out there in writing land have strange rituals. Share yours.

I write whenever the inspiration strikes, which may be at interesting times—in the
shower (I get some really creative ideas in there), while driving, etc. My ideas usually start out as scribbles on scraps of paper and receipts. I’ve also learned to write with The Wiggles and Teletubbies playing in the next room.



What crayon in the box describes you on a good day? Bad day? Which one do you aspire to be?

On a good day? Smooth Sailing Blue. On a bad day? Orange Frazzle. I aspire to be Peace of the Lord White.



Pick one…..Pink iguana, purple cow, periwinkle giraffe. Which one and why? Can be negative or positive.

I have one sitting in my cow collection right now, so I have to go with Purple Cow. My mother decided I needed to collect things in college, and she started sending me droves of cows. Voila, I have a collection.



Favorite turn of phrase or word picture, in literature or movie.

As a Southerner, I think it says it all when in Gone with the Wind, Rhett Butler says, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a diddly.” Oh, wait. That’s the Christian fiction version : )



What makes you feel alive?

Watching my children share their chicken nuggets (it doesn’t happen very often), painting when it turns out well, writing when the words flow out effortlessly, singing a really cool song at church (we have a great band) and connecting with God. Oh, and finding new gray hairs. Wait, no. That just makes me feel old.



How does something worm its way into your heart? Through tears, truth, humor or other?

I’m a sucker for sentimental commercials. I may be tough as nails in daily life, but show me a cute little boy with a hoppy toad on TV, and I’m all tears.



Book, music, person, food you would take with you on a very long trip.

I’d have to take my kids because I’d miss them too much, so let’s make that a very short trip, okay? And my husband should come along because he’s lots of fun.



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’ve always dreamed to going to Greece to view the ancient ruins. I’d also love to see the Egyptian pyramids for myself. But if possible, I’d like to travel back in time to see my parents together when I was a child. That way, I’d have all my facts straight and have the truth instead of my childhood being some far-off fairytale that I put too much time and energy into mourning. Oh, wait. Let’s just save that tidbit for my next book, shall we?


Favorite season and why?

Spring. You know, flowers blooming, birds singing. getting into shorts again. Oh, wait, let’s make that winter.



Favorite book setting and why?

Not sure why but every now and then, I find myself in the common area in Harry Potter’s dorm room in front of that fire. Anyone else do that too? Anyone? Anyone?



Which compliment related to your writing has meant the most and why?

My next book, Trouble the Water (coming in Feb 2008), is inspired very loosely by my deceased aunt Bonnie. My mother read the book and said, “Well, you captured her. The way she thought, everything.” That was my biggest complement because I realized the power of words then. I was able to bring my mother’s best friend back for just a short while.


What criticism has cut the deepest and why?

I think sometimes readers forget that as novelists, we are writing fiction. The comment that stings the most is from a reader who just doesn’t “get” my writing, yet takes it a step further and assumes that any and all opinions of my characters must be my own. I’ve been surprised at how judgmental a few people can be and how quickly some can question the faith or intention of a writer. This ain’t non-fiction folks. Just wait for the memoir : )

What would you do today if you knew you had only a week to live?

I’d gather all my loved ones and spend every second with them. Not even sleeping. And I’d try to memorize every single thing about them and tell each person exactly what they mean to me and how much I love them. I’d also read my Bible and pray to God, mostly that my family would be alright without me.


What is your favorite word?

Serendipity.


What word annoys you more than any other?

Uggh, I hate to even write it –“butt”. Can I say that here? Can’t stand the word. It seems so crude and crass. I much prefer “tushie” or “rear” or “behind”.


Favorite chore

Is this a trick question?


Anything you'd do but don't because of fear of pain? What is it? Ex. Bungee jumping, sky diving, running with scissors.

I’ve always thought skateboarding looks like tons of fun, but I really prefer my un-skinned knees. Funny how we get so attached to our bodies as we get older.


Grammatical pet peeve…sound off.

“Where’s it at?”
Excuse me? It’s not “at” anywhere.


Societal pet peeve…sound off.

Credit card companies preying on college students.


CREATIVE CORNER:
Describe something you can see, hear, taste or feel without telling us what the item is.

It crinkles in his two-year-old hands, and he giggles. He pops it in his mouth, and I tell him no. He puts it on his face and looks at me through it, but I tell him it’s dangerous. He takes both arms and waves it up and down, causing it to fill up with air. I really should have put that in the trash…


Two middle-aged females talking animatedly. One wears a very short skirt, and she ought not to be……………. Give me a scene, dialogue, characterization, drama……

“Well, I’ll be. Do you see that, Martha?”

The tennis court empties and a slender blonde wiggles into the clubhouse past two white rocking chairs.

“What, her? Hmmph. Ever since she dumped her husband and lost twenty pounds, she thinks she can flaunt that hiney any-which-where she pleases.”

Miss Meredith shifts uncomfortably in her seat, stealing a glance at her friend’s wrinkled knees. She obviously doesn’t get it. “Well now, she is young, and…firm…” Meredith coughs, “and perhaps, someone her age can get away with it.” She glances again at her friend and catches her eye.

“What, exactly, are you trying to say, Meredith Billingsby?” Martha’s eyes narrow, framed by sharp crow’s feet.

“I’m not implying any…oh, for heaven’s sake, Martha, you know and I know you’re too old for that dad-gum skirt you’re wearing! Can’t you see it?”

“I…what?!” Martha’s eyes glass over and her mouth crinkles up into a dried apple.

“Oh honey, don’t do that. Don’t do that,” says Meredith, touching her friend’s orange freckled arm. “Not that you don’t have the legs for it…’cause you do! You do. It’s just that, well, when a woman reaches a certain age…”

“Just how old do you think I am…” Martha says through pursed lips.

“Oh, I don’t know. About my age, right? Give or take a few years? I just turned sixty-seven.”

“Sixty-seven! Meredith! I’m only forty-two! Do I really look that old?!” She whines and clutches the arms of her rocker, nearly crushing them.

Oh heavens to Betsy, Martha thinks, hanging her head low and wondering why she ever opened her mouth. Didn't Mama tell me to keep it shut? "Uh, maybe you should just wear some more sunscreen? Here, sugar. I keep some in my bag." Meredith smiles demurely and hands it to her, then slathers some more on her own face, pulling her hat down over her ears…just in case.



If Alex had known the body of the senator was in the bathtub, she would've taken Jim's offer for coffee.

Jim, with his whining, wheezing, and that smell! Yet she’d kiss Jim full on the lips if she could avoid what she was seeing now.

Alex closed the shower curtain and sat down on the commode. All I wanted was some peace and quiet, she thought. The office had been a madhouse since the allegations of the senator’s affairs. And she’d done her best to spin it all—quite successfully, she thought. It was some of her best work.

“But why my bathtub?” she said to the corpse, lying there with a frozen silly grin. “Truly, George? Did you have to do this to me?”

She’d never had an affair with the senator. That’s the last thing she wanted. He was a bumbling old coot in her opinion, and she’d fended him off at every advance. Yet here he was, naked in tepid water, with his “little buddy” (as he so often referred to it) finally put to rest.

Alex pulled the shower curtain open again and a rubber ducky plopped down into the water. She stared at the ripples floating out over the senator’s chest and wished that ducky could just figure out how to spin….

Thanks again, Nicole. And happy weekend one and all...

Scribbles and Scrambles - Sleeping Single in a Double Bunk

In all the years we've been married, in all the sleep situations in which we've found ourselves - I have yet to have had the pleasure of sharing a bunk bed with my hubby.

This has changed.

We traveled to Minnesota over the weekend and the "grown-up" beds were all spoken for. I've slept in the bunk beds before...about 28 years ago while we were dating and I visited Minnesota with Rob's family. This trip, I had company. Rob grabbed the top bunk which turned out to be fortunate with my ability to injure myself.

Since we've been married we've shared a tent in the pouring rain ( a few times). A tent jam-packed full of children in all types of weather. Rocks have bruised my kidneys and small furry mammals interrupted my sleep. Our lullaby -- the buzzing of blood-thirsty mosquitoes alerting the others to fresh meat. Drifting off to the warm and fuzzy knowledge of a two a.m. walk to the outhouse should I attempt to slake my thirst.

We've slept in a family bed. Short-lived. Once I slept between him and a frightened child who had already surpassed me in height. This was a one-time arrangement. I awoke in a panic, suffocating, pinned and overheated, I bolted. Now the children are invited to sleep on the floor when a thunderstorm strikes. (Yeah, go ahead, notify PETA).

My hubby's former boss took us on a cruise once (in lieu of paying overtime -- probably highly frowned upon by wage and labor laws -- but, oh well). We were rocked to sleep in two single beds, but each pillow contained a mint every night.

Would I recommend a bunk bed? Well, the mattresses were new. That was a good thing -- especially upon hearing about the condition of the previous ones that rested on the rusted springs for 30+ years. Shudder.

I felt tall. If I stretched out I could touch both walls, as a matter of fact anyone over the height of 5'7" probably couldn't sleep without being overcome by claustrophobic nightmares full of rabid monkeys and bad poetry.

Speaking of rabid monkeys, I echo Dorothy "there is no place like home." As long as the children sleep on the floor, that is. And, in a pinch, borrowed beds without mosquitoes come in a close second.