Serials and Scenarios - Shreds from Eric Wilson

If you don't want to get sucked into Eric's novels do not read the rest of this post. He gives some great answers, with some supreme writing samplers...thanks for playing in the dregs, Eric.


If you could ask any person, living or dead, a random question -- what question would you ask of whom?

Assuming the dead could speak, I’d love to ask Einstein why he wore his hair like that. I mean, come on--you’re a genius, admired by millions, and yet you have this image to overcome. You look like a bit deranged. A simple comb could’ve solved everything.


If you could change something in any novel, what would you change about it and why?

I love the Barbara Kingsolver novel, “The Poisonwood Bible.” It shows the destruction brought about by dogmatic religion, as opposed to the reality of a relationship with Jesus. My only complaint is that each of the story’s four missionary daughters (told in distinct and masterful voices) turn their backs on their childhood beliefs. I wish Barbara would’ve shown the balance, using one of the daughters as an example of coming to terms with the past and learning from it.


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

In the Jim Cavaziel version of “The Count of Monte Cristo,” there’s a scene that is so simple, yet so powerful. After years of serving an unjust prison sentence, he tells his mentor: “I don’t believe in God anymore.” “That’s okay,” his mentor responds, “God still believes in you.”


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 hope to write a spiritual memoir someday, titled, “Finger in the Sky: One Man’s Struggle to Know the God of the Bible,” referring to two different fingers I’ve raised in my life—and the lessons I’ve learned from those experiences, good and bad, a work in progress. Here’s what I’ve written so far:

Oh, this is just beautiful, God!
In November 1985 I got the call that my uncle had committed suicide. He’d funneled the exhaust from the tailpipe into the cockpit of his Dodge Rambler, then climbed behind the steering wheel and smoked a joint while the engine’s fumes sucked the life from his body.
He did it for the sake of others, his letter claimed.
People who try to fit death and suicide into tidy little religious boxes really have no clue. My uncle, years before, had become a follower of Jesus. He read his Bible, met with other believers, prayed and put on his shiny church face.
He’d been saved, baptized, redeemed and sanctified.
So why, he wondered, did he still want to have women half his age? Was he beyond even God’s help? Was he one sick puppy?
After years of failure, despite the presence of competent spiritual counselors in his life, he found a way to end the sin raging through his limbs.
Call it selfish, call it the unforgivable sin, call it what you will…
He believed death was his friend in those final moments.

~~

“Honey,” my mother said, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
The call found me in Vienna, Austria. The next morning I would be going into communist Romania with medical supplies, children’s clothes, and hundreds of smuggled Bibles.
I’d graduated from high school six months earlier. My best friend and I had saved up money for a trip to Europe. I’d worked late hours as a Domino’s Pizza delivery driver, scarred my arms loading sharp blankets of sheet metal in a factory, and frozen my fingers to the bone washing FedEx vans in a windswept lot on the west side of Eugene. We were idealists, with Jesus in our hearts and spiritual activism strapped to our belts like loaded guns.
My throat clenched as my mother spoke. I knew my life was about to take a turn. I heard it in her voice; I sensed it in my gut.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Uncle John,” she said, “is dead.”
All that stuff about denial, about how you go into emotional shock to deal with pain, must be crap. Before she could say another word, I had tears streaming down my face. The fact of his death was the worst of it, but the fact that I couldn’t share in the grief with the rest of my family was no picnic either.
En route to Romania, the rutted road through Yugoslavia shook the tears from my head the way a dog might shake the life from a captured rodent. I was helpless. I loved my uncle, and I would never see him again.
Not in this life anyway. And I don’t know about the next.
Of course the loss of a loved one can be a huge stone plunging into the heart of a family, rippling for years across the family’s otherwise calm surface. His decision triggered other things, good and bad, in the Wilson clan. Our reactions ranged all over the place.
On my end, stuck halfway across the globe in sub-zero Romanian temperatures, grief and despair turned into a stronger spiritual commitment which served to mask my deepest doubts and questions. People were dying in this battle between darkness and light--people like my uncle, victims of sin’s strangehold--and God needed my help to fight the good fight.
As long as I kept swinging my sword, I wouldn’t have to think about the wounds piercing my own soul.
Just keep swinging, I told myself. Keep swinging.


What makes you feel alive?

Air, hot showers, hiking in the mountains, good books, firm mattresses, playing basketball…oh, and my wife’s unbelievable kisses!


Where would you most like to travel and why.

Some remote island in the Caribbean, a place my wife and I could have to ourselves for, oh, a month or two. We would read, write, swim, sunbath, eat, drink yummy beach drinks, and have a second honeymoon. We’ve been dreaming of it for a long time. We love to be with each other, but our attentions are diverted and distracted most of the time.


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

Oh, man, I would love to dive off a hundred foot cliff, or bungee cord jump off a five-hundred-foot bridge, or skydive from ten thousand feet. I guess I have a thing about heights. I still have dreams that I can fly--that sense of freedom, soaring, weightlessness. One day we’ll get that feeling, caught up in the air with the Lord, but for now I’m scared to death of heights. I try to be manly, though, and face my fears. I’ll be one of those eighty year olds who goes bungee jumping for kicks (or to straighten out my gnarled limbs!).


Grammatical pet peeve…sound off.

When I speak, I’m not as precise as when I write. In fact, I throw in slang, dangling participles, all that stuff. The one that annoys me, though, is when someone says, “Do you wanna come to the store with Johnny and I?” No. It sounds right, but it’s not. “Johnny and me,” I want to bark back. If I say, ‘Come on over and have dinner with me and Carolyn,” someone is bound to pipe up with smug satisfaction and make the correction, “Carolyn and I.” Does that bug you? I, too. LOL


Societal pet peeve…sound off.

Yeah, this one is easy. Cell phones are like a plague: people driving under the influence of cell phones, talking loudly in public places, holding up the line while finishing a conversation, even gabbing on their cell while talking to you on their landline. Stop. Enough. Agggh.


CREATIVE CORNER:

Pick one of the “story starters” below and give us a sample of your voice.

Lauren stared at the clock. Eleven forty-five. Oh, if only it read ten forty-five. Everyone should be allowed one do-over hour in life.

And why not? Lauren wondered. If golfers were allowed mulligans, if kids on the playground were allowed take-backs, then adults dealing with serious issues should be allowed a second chance. Especially when it came to marriage.

“You ready to get ‘er done?” Darrell asked, touching Lauren’s shoulder.

She turned, felt the weight of the wedding veil on her head. His words blew across her coals of tension, rekindling a dull glow of anger. She raised an eyebrow. “Get ‘er done? Honey, you’re not even supposed to see me. Not yet.”

“That’s just silly tradition. Anyway, you look incredible.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe we should skip the ceremony, save some money, and boogie on outta here.”

“To get ‘er done?”

“Now you’re talkin’!” Darrell winked.

For one second, with his right eye closed, he was reduced to half his charm. Lauren had melted into those deep blue eyes when they first met, fallen prey to his playful humor and old-fashioned manners. Now that The Big Day was here, Darrell was strutting around like a conquering hero. Like he had her right where he wanted. Like she was his for the taking.

“No, we’re done talking,” Lauren whispered.

Serials and Scenarios - Shred of Truth

Happy Monday to you all!

Eric Wilson will be dropping in tomorrow with an interview Dreg-style. His new book A Shred of Truth, second in the Aramis Black series, released last week.

Keep reading for my review and click on the book cover if you'd like to check out "Shred."













My Review:








Eric Wilson's Shred of Truth is a novel full of compelling writing, history and mystery.

This is my first visit into the life of Aramis Black and I missed the in-depth story as shared in book one, but I believe I still got an accurate feel for the character and his life. Told in first person POV, Aramis continues to struggle with his generational ties to Meriweather Lewis.

Shred has it's share of blood, so the Big Honken Chicken Club might not be able to handle it.
Wilson did a great job with red herrings and twisted motivations. Several paths veered into dead ends and the mystery remained intact until the end.


Historically the reader is treated to a blend of Knights Templar, KKK, Lewis and Clark, Masonry legends and the Russian Czars. These all add to the story, making it feel very much like the movie, National Treasure.

If you love Eric Wilson's previous novels you'll find much to like in Shred. Action, crime drama and history buffs might want to check him out as well as those who just like a good solid story.

Serials and Scenarios - One Step Over the Border

Western lovers - check out Stephen Bly's new book. Click on the cover and then mosey on over and visit Stephen's website.

Have an excellent weekend everyone.

Hopefully, I won't have any young men attempting to drown me. I hope the same for you.

Coming soon...my embarrassing housekeeping moments as appearing in a newly released book.

Serials and Scenarios - Robin Parrish - Borrowed Time

Robin Parrish has dropped by to leave us with thoughts to ponder and a really good glimpse into the inner workings of his mind. If you love what he's saying - I think you'll really enjoy Fearless. (Click on the title to head over to Amazon to see other reviews and more book info.)

Thanks, Robin. It was great to "chat" with you.

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

I always find myself identifying with the underdog hero who's just trying to survive all of the insane circumstances life throws his way. Peter Parker. Frodo Baggins. And of course my own character, Grant Borrows.There's just something about that character who isn't really all that extraordinary at heart, who keeps getting beaten down by life over and over... but no matter what, they get back up every time and press on. I find that incredibly inspiring.



If you could ask any person, living or dead, a random question -- what question would you ask of whom?

I'd love to ask Tolkien what his response was if he was ever told that his work wasn't "Christian enough."



What crayon in the box describes you on a good day? Bad day?

On a good day I'm Sky Blue. On a bad day, I'm Burnt Umber.



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

"All you have to decide is what to do with the time that's given to you." - Gandalf the Grey, in The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. This is pretty much my whole worldview summed up in one phrase.



What period of history intrigues you the most?

Medieval times. I'm a sucker for a good Robin Hood or King Arthur story. You've got castles and knights and swords and bows & arrows... C'mon, what's not to love?



What makes you feel alive?

The act of creation. Making something -- anything.



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.

The moon, definitely. I'm fascinated by outer space. I mean for starters, why is there so much of it? Is it the battleground for the war between Heaven and Hell? Could there be other life out there somewhere, somehow? Or is God simply so big that he just requires that much space to stretch out in?God doesn't do anything without a reason, so if the universe is as big as it is, then he must have a doggone good purpose for it, and I'd love to know what it is.



Favorite book setting and why?

I can't think of any fictional, nonexistent setting that is more detailed or more fully realized than Middle Earth. I'd love to contribute something of that scale and importance to literature someday. (Some day far in the future, that is.)I'd also love to roam around the Marvel Comics universe, chat up Spider-Man, Daredevil, the Avengers, or the X-Men.



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

Whenever I get a comment about how something I wrote changed someone's perspective on something, really opened their eyes to looking at the world in a different way... I don't think it gets much better than that.



What criticism has cut the deepest and why?

The only people who could ever cut me that deeply are the people I take that seriously, and that would be my family. And except on those really bad stressful days that we all have now and then, support and love are all I ever get from them.



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

Make sure that my wife was taken care of, and record some messages for our unborn child, so he or she would know who I was.After that I'd probably travel somewhere I've never been but always wanted to go.



What is your favorite word?

"Why."



What word annoys you more than any other?

"Can't."



Super power you'd love to borrow for awhile?

I wouldn't mind having Wolverine's healing ability. I seem to stumble over some kind of health issue or another rather often, and Logan can't even catch a common cold.



Favorite chore

I don't mind vacuuming so much.



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


I'm a chronic pain sufferer, so fear of pain doesn't really hold me back from anything. If it did, I'd never make it out of bed in the morning.



Grammatical pet peeve…sound off.

Oh man, there are so many...Biggest would probably be improper use of an apostrophe. As in the difference between "it's" and "its." That drives me bananas. Getting quotation marks in the wrong place bugs me too. I was taught that quotation marks always go after the period or the comma, even if the quote is just a phrase or just a single word. So many people quote stuff "like this". That quotation-mark-period thing totally grates.



Societal pet peeve…sound off.

Anyone who knows me at all already knows what I'm about to say, because I harp on it all the time:Traffic!For the life of me I cannot understand what it is about getting behind the wheel of a car that makes so many people's IQs drop about 70%. People get in their cars and they just turn stupid. It's an epidemic, and I can't explain it.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Maybe....Nah! Part 2

Yesterday, I left you with the burning question -- will she or won't she?

She did.

My little wanna be dunker enlisted the help of my daughter-in-law (this is a fluke I am NOT old enough to have a married son).

She took over the booth while my assailant led the way to the gallows. Actually, the dunking "machine" kind of looked gallowish -- fairly primitive arm that dropped (gulp) a hinged (oh my!) shelf.

The bucket tipped while the victim stayed -- but there was a rope involved.

And the sounds. Wow. The clang as the baseball hit dead center, followed by the clank of the door opening, the splash of the refreshing water cascading over the victim's head, the inevitable scream.

I'll have you know that I did my gender proud. No squealing like a prissy girly-girl. No whimpering, sidling or whining. When it was my turn, my little "friend" motioned me to the seat. Regally, I think, I crossed to the wet chair, sat, folded my hands in my lap, crossed my legs at the ankle and closed my eyes, awaiting my destiny.

Of course I knew the kid was a dead arm. Wham. Clang. Clunk. Splash. No scream. (It felt really good - 90+ degrees, standing in the sun for hours, yeah, it felt real good.) But I didn't tell him that.

I returned to my booth with dignity. My opponent in the game of wits begun forty-five minutes earlier returned to say good-bye. Clutched in his fist was the bag holding his booty purchased with my easy tickets. With a wicked grin he said. "That was the best part of the day."

I can't say I've often heard I'm the best part of someone's day.

An hour later another young man returned to repeatedly to fulfill his junk needs. "Can I go again?"

"I gotta make you work for your tickets. It's too easy for you."

He sighed and shot the ball backward over his shoulder as instructed, giving me the eye the whole time. I handed him his latest hard won tickets.

"Hey. I want to dunk you!"

Yep! I've always had a way with men.

Scribble and Scrambles - Maybe I Should Be More Cautious

I think this might be a bad thing.

Our church held a summer fun day event for the community on Saturday.

The coordinator placed me at a children's activity.

Alone.

Maybe not so good because boredom set in. Heat exhaustion, dehydration and boredom -- not a good mix.

Apparently I gained a reputation as "easy." I gave out two tickets (which could be turned in for amazing and exciting plastic trinkets that parents could later step upon, slice open a toe with, curse at and then toss said trinket into the trash) for each "basket" made by the child.

The rules had to be changed often because some of those children had great throwing arms and serious junk-lust. I ended up with a queue of kids most of the time. Repeats who'd try their luck at each readjustment of the rules and then whip around to the end of the line for another go at it.

Banter ensued. Sometimes a bit of a heckle from Carnie-Barker Kelly.

After about seven visits from one young man, and many humorous comments by the now totally punchy booth manager, he looked at me and said. "I want to dunk you."

Several booths down loomed the splash chair. One could toss a baseball at a target and a bucket of water dumped on the poor victim in the chair.

So, this kid wanted to dunk me.

Ha, ha.

Didn't sound so awful as I glanced out and watched the heat waves undulate off the pavement.

But I wouldn't make it too easy on him. I said. "I'm running the booth. You go find me a replacement then you can dunk me."

An evil grin spread across his face. "Who should I ask?"

I described one of the "floaters" and he sped off.

A few minutes later he returned. Disappointment rounded his shoulders. "He's running the Bingo game right now."

Just then another floater walked near.

to be continued....

Scribble and Scrambles - Just Use it Already!

This is how neurotic I am.

Ready?

I have carried a special writer's notebook around in my purse for nearly two years.

A lot of writers do this.

However, my special journal has been sealed in it's original plastic wrap rendering it useless whenever I felt the need to jot something down. So while I dug through my purse for crinkled paper, old receipts, bank deposit slips, whatever upon which to write, I'd scrape my knuckles across my leather bound writer's notebook and feel guilty for not using it and terrified to use it.

The fact that this writing implement was a gift seemed to add to my fear of using it incorrectly. How could I scribble stupid ideas in a sweet, professional writer tool -- what if someone read (or attempted) to read my scratchings and decided I wasn't worthy of something only a real writer uses? What if I read what I'd written on a low and melancholy day and came to that same conclusion?

As we drove to the lake last week I birthed an idea so I dug through my purse for scraps.

It hit me. Maybe I'd take myself a little more seriously if I'd use my tools.

I ripped the plastic off. Opened the book and breathed in the scent of leather. I almost felt like a real writer. With a shaking hand I wrote my idea. Then another, and a third.

Not that tough. The world didn't stop spinning. A pig didn't fly overhead. Music didn't swell in the background.

Next, I'm going to begin writing in the prayer journal that sits waiting for me to fill it and be blessed by the words that are fed to my heart. Who knows what I'll do next, maybe I'll buy new dishtowels...and use them!

Anyone else struggle with this craziness? Please don't tell me I'm alone....