Scribble and Scrambles - Coffee Shop Thoughts

I'm sitting in a clean and delicious smelling environment. My three housemates are working. I'm stranded at a....coffee shop.

Feel sorry for me don't ya?

I scheduled an interview a half hour from home then found out that daughter number one had to fill in for a sick manager at a branch two minutes down the road just after my interview would conclude. We carpooled. (Like the back to back world's longest and shortest sentences? I thought it was pretty spiffy. Okay, carry on.) So she played on the computer at coffee shop number one while I interviewed my subject. Now I am sitting in coffee shop number two before heading to the mall to pick her up.

I've had hours of uninterrupted writing and thinking, well, not totally uninterrupted, I occasionally catch a bang, a swoosh and the easy listening music grabs my attention now and again. But I'm cleaning out my inbox, saving blog posts for future posting, writing reviews and pondering my book series.

Really pondering my book series.

The woman I interviewed today felt like an instant friend. She has shared a marriage journey and learned and grown through the process. We thought alike and connected as I shared what God has taught me, and what He has taught her. Interestingly, He used some of the same colors from His amazing "trial and error wisdom" palette in each of our lives. As we spoke, she leaned in closer and listened to what I had to say. She asked when my book was coming out.

Is that confirmation? Every time I tell my story, every time I encourage someone with the fact that life isn't over when it hits the wall, I sense that the story I'm sharing is not my own, but His. Totally His. Because if it was up to me, I'd be divorced. If it was up to me, my kids would be broken and still bleeding.

I struggle with the thoughts that my ideas aren't special, that what "wisdom" I can offer isn't going to change anyone's life let alone mind. Who am I? Some chick from Iowa who is growing more silver hair by the day and still breaking out with zits... and I don't feel any more mature than either of my daughters. My son knows what he wants to do with his life. I sometimes feel like I'm still going through the motions. My "career" is just a day job to me. Writing energizes me and terrifies me in the same breath.

But when I breath really deep and stay really quiet I keep getting a whiff of a call into speaking and writing and somehow going out from my safe little corner.

Is that why I've nearly burned out on church work? Because what I was doing is coming to an end and was preparation for what I'm supposed to be doing? And Rob...he's feeling pulled and unsure, too. What does God have in store for us? I'm positive it will be beyond us, it always is, and it will electrify and terrorize, satisfy and stretch us. He'll use what He's allowed in our lives, and He wants us to bloom, plant and multiply.

The scent of coffee fills the cafe, a hint of spring is in the damp air that hovers, dark, beyond the windows, and spiritual buzz of expectancy for something I can't put my finger on has quickened my heart.

I can't sit here anymore and think. I need to get ready...spring is just around the corner. I'm going to open a fresh page in my word processor and see what comes tumbling out.

Scribble and Scrambles - Puppy Pictures to Brighten Monday

Lola helps Grandpa (trying to get used to that word just in case it's reality in the near-distant future) with the adding machine tape he just finished working on. Then she enjoys a lovely bath.

I think these are maybe my favorite pictures, ever, of Lily. Who couldn't love this face? She's even cuter than when she was a tiny puppy. She doesn't much care for bathtime. Auntie Oh! does scrub duty.

Lily, Lola and I hope you have a good Monday.

Pray for Mike

Hey, guys,


I just found out that Mike Snyder's family has suffered a loss. Please pray for him and his brother's children and wife.

Thanks,

Kelly

Serials and Scenarios - My Name is Michael Snyder

Of all the interviews I've ever had the pleasure of cutting and pasting into Scrambled Dregs, Mike's holds the distinction of making me laugh out loud the most. Thank you, Mike.

Readers, if you have pathetic Kegel muscles, take a potty break before reading any further. And have a great weekend.

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

I think the guy who had the golden-egg-laying goose. First, I could go on Letterman and do Stupid Pet Tricks. Next, I would have my agent negotiate all outrageous film and memoir rights. Then I’d hold a widely publicized auction on eBay and get rid of the silly thing before I too succumbed to all that greedy temptation.

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

I’d like to find the guy who came up with the idea of slavery and ask, “Really?”

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

I’m not sure that I can, in good conscious, use the word ‘ritual.’ That would imply something other than the controlled randomness I employ.

My writing probably has an element of jazz to it, meaning—there’s enough structure or sameness to qualify for a routine. But then I allow for a certain amount of improvisation as well.

Imperatives include: my computer, my clothes, my broken chair, a hot beverage (usually orange spiced tea), and rhapsody.com MUST be running in the background.

After that, it’s all up for grabs. I don’t outline. Music is optional. I prefer the door closed, but can live with it open. And I find that I’m usually inspired when there’s an assortment of cereal within reach.

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

Hmm…I think I would put a warning label on page one of Andre Dubus’ House Of Sand And Fog. Something along the lines of: “Don’t get your hopes up, people!”

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

Probably gray, so long as the tip is somewhere between really sharp and really stumpy. Gray is sturdy, necessary, and reliable as opposed to flashy and out front. So…as meager as it seems, I think I’d be content as the self-sharpening gray crayon in the back of the box.

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

“Son, you’ve got a panty on your head.” From the Coen Brothers film, Raising Arizona.

What period of history intrigues you the most?

The period beginning in April of 1965 and running through (approximately) one minute from now. Not only does my memory stink, but my brain has virtually zero capacity for history. On a good day, I can put the two major World Wars in chronological order. (It helps if the Roman numerals are supplied.) I’m not all that interested in the future either, save for the fact that I hope to be in it. That said, I am working on a sci-fi historical novel in which a couple of neurotic time travelers are thrust into some ordinary existence in the early 21st century. The girl is from, like, the Civil War era and the guy maybe commanded a funky spaceship in like, 2184. But neither has any memory of their respective lives other than what’s happening to them right now.

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.)

Not to be a smarty britches, but hopefully exactly what I’m writing now.

What makes you feel alive?

I feel most alive when I’m breathing. Naps are a close second.

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

Okay, that is one fantastic question. I’m guessing my answer is a combination of all of those. But there is a special (and large!) place in my heart for humor. But I’ll keep thinking about this one for a while…

Favorite season and why?

It’s a tie between Spring and Fall, mainly because I’m a big fat sissy and don’t like to be uncomfortable. Summer and Winter are simply there to keep the longing alive in our hearts. In a sense, they reaffirm our belief in heaven. I’m no theologian, but there will be neither frostbite, nor sunburn in heaven. And if they do happen to make a cameo, they’ll

tickle.

Favorite book setting and why?

I love normal settings—work, home, restaurants, etc. My favorite authors make those normal scenes vibrate with conflict and intrigue, somehow milking humor and pathos from seemingly ordinary locales.

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

What criticism has cut the deepest and why?

WARNING: SELF-THERAPY ZONE…
I put these two questions together to remind myself of something. I vowed long ago to take it all with a grain of salt. My theory is that if I buy into the praise, then I have to accept the criticism as well. It’s like a swinging saloon door—once it starts flapping, I can’t control who comes and goes and how much trouble they cause when they start drinking together. So I can’t see where it’s entirely healthy or helpful to put too much stock in either. The temptation would be to accept the praise and ignore the critics. Hopefully, I’ll be able to enjoy and learn from it all. It sounds good in theory. But we’ll see how it goes…(I really do love the praise though…a lot!)

What word annoys you more than any other?

Packet. I’m not sure why, but that word has always bugged me.

Superhero you most admire and why?

Robin, but only for his abject loyalty. He’s always in Batman’s shadow. I can’t tell what his powers are supposed to be, other than like Super Valet, or maybe Super Errand Boy Flunky. Plus, he has to wear panty hose and a yellow cape. Come to think of it, those red vest and green shoes aren’t helping much either. Maybe I should add Super Decoy or Super Moving Target to his list of powers. I think Batman made him dress like that on purpose so he’d have time to duck and hide when the sniper picked off the more flamboyant target.

Super power you’d love to borrow for awhile?

Batman’s precautionary thinking when choosing sidekicks.

Favorite chore

Folding laundry, I think. Lawn-mowing is okay too for about twenty minutes.

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

I was supposed to go skydiving with my uncle when I turned eighteen. We talked about it but it never really worked out. I would love to say the reason I don’t do it now is because I’m a father of four and all that. I think I’d probably be too chicken now. Or maybe just too apathetic.

Grammatical pet peeve…sound off.

Whichever grammatical errors I make.

Societal pet peeve…sound off.

Another tie…when people flick their cigarette butts out the window and/or when people just leave their grocery carts all over the lot. I’m as lazy and selfish as the next guy. But somebody has to clean up after those folks, right?

And if racism counts as a pet peeve, then I guess I’d like to solve that issue by tossing racists out the window (only after igniting them and breathing bad breath all over them) and running over them with shopping carts.

CREATIVE CORNER:
Pick any of the following and have fun with it.
Pick a Genre - Describe a kiss….

DISCLAIMER: The following snippets are in no way meant to impugn any particular genre (yours, mine, or anybody else’s). If there’s any impugning going on here, it’s aimed at me, and my lack of ability to write across genres. Besides, the instructions said to ‘have fun with it.’

Suspense

Basement lights dim.
Eyes close.
(Soundtrack orchestra clings to a brassy—and ridiculously long—minor chord, as the POV cuts to a handgun on a dresser.)
Lips pucker.
Fatherly footsteps approach from above…

Thriller

As the burning helicopter plummeted toward the scorched earth, the ruggedly handsome archeologist took the brilliant barista-cum-triple-spy in his bulging-but-recently-lacerated arms.

Their eyes met.

He shot somebody.

They tilted their heads to the side (to make room for their perfect but dirty noses) and locked their lip coordinates on FULLY ENGAGE, then hit their respective thrusters, and …

BAM! KA-POWEE!! BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!!

Romance

“Excuse me, miss?” the pool boy said handsomely. “Is your bodice ripped?”
“You fool! Shut up and kiss me!”

Chick-Lit

Austin made a smoochy face in Victoria’s general direction. She smashed him in the schnaz with her (brand name) purse, kicked him in the shin with her (brand name) shoes, made a pithy remark to her homosexual best friend on her (brand name) cell phone before sashaying to her convertible while sipping from her (brand name) low-fat but really super expensive coffee-based beverage.

Literary

The music box sits, unopened on the scarred wooden table.

Her moist lips glisten like two bulbous slugs. He cups her neck, his fingers braided through auburn tresses of her delectable strandiness. The raucous palpitations of their respective hearts beat together as one lone drummer in the marching band of love. The chalkboard sky parts as the joy of the heavens shower them in petals of tender consent.

He pauses, willing his mind to banish the image of his abusive, alcoholic, not-very-affirming father. Her entire sad childhood crystallizes in the single tear springing from the corner of her azure eyes and rushing down her cheek like liquid fire. The heat of his passion breaches the void between them.

They pause to think about something meaningful, but that in no way seems relevant to the rest of the story. We just know it’s supposed to be really deep and over our heads.

Their lips meet.

He dies and she has to move away, still very sad and very lonely, with more questions than she started with at the beginning of chapter one.

She leaves the music box on the table. We’re not sure why, but we know it’s somehow fraught with significance, like the scars on the wood. So we pretend to understand, so we’ll feel as smart as the critics who praised this otherwise inexplicable tome.

Sci-Fi/Fantasy

Harzimok watches Danelctro dematerialize, her shiny, one-piece, pajama-esque spacesuit glistening in the artificial light of the transport chamber as she vanishes in a minor electrical storm into some other world that sort of parallels earth, but with lots of funny names and strange creatures and, like, it’s own sort of gravity and symbolism and stuff.

“Dude,” he says to his crater-faced buddy, Zoink. “It was like making out with a bug zapper!”

Historical

“That was amazing,” she said as the Nazi fighter planes shook the sky.

“Yeah,” he said, cleaning his musket. “I guess it was pretty good. I don’t really remember.

Serials and Scenarios - My Name Is Russell Fink

Michael Snyder's blog.

Back Cover Copy:

Russell Fink is twenty-six years old and determined to salvage a job he hates so he can finally move out of his parents house for good. He's convinced he gave his twin sister cancer when they were nine years old. And his crazy fiancée refuses to accept the fact that their engagement really is over.

Then Sonny, his allegedly clairvoyant basset hound, is found murdered.The ensuing amateur investigation forces Russell to confront several things at once -- the enormity of his family's dysfunction, the guy stalking his family, and his long-buried feelings for a most peculiar love interest.

At its heart, My Name Is Russell Fink is a comedy, with sharp dialogue, characters steeped in authenticity, romance, suspense, and fresh humor. With a postmodern style similar to Nick Hornby and Douglas Coupland, the author explores reconciliation, forgiveness, and faith in the midst of tragedy. No amount of neurosis or dysfunction can derail God's redemptive purposes.

My Review:

If you are a fan of Ray Blackston, you are going to want to check into Michael Snyder.

With fresh and humorous storytelling, Snyder dumps us into the world of Russell Fink. Russell oozes dysfunction what with being named after his imprisoned grandfather and doomed to inherit his father's double chin. Russell fears the notoriety of both male role models and bad genes have pretty much cooked his own goose. After all, he's already killed once and just awaits the cancer that will surely be his reward.

With a sharp wit and troublesome tongue Russell both severs relationships and endears himself to a quirky cast of characters. Can Russell shed his wacky fiancee so that he can embrace true love? Will Russell ever find faith instead of empty religion? Does Russell deserve anything good or satisfying?

I wanted to hug Russell and make him a homemade meal, or at least pour him a bowl of cereal. I found myself surprised with a completely unexpected revelation within the story which was nice.

My only non-rave, but not big enough to keep it from a five star read, is that the end felt a little rushed with the unraveling of the details. But this was definitely a minor concern. If you must have "all your ducks in a row" in your endings you might have an issue with some ambiguity.

Russell is a satisfying and introspective read. Fans of Annette Smith's A Bigger Life should find it appealing also.

I am a Snyder fan, and am anxiously awaiting the next release.

I wouldn't mind a follow-up to Russell, I wasn't quite ready to leave him.

Come back Friday for a slightly quirky ; ) slice o' Mike.

Scribble and Scrambles - Friendship Defined Kind Of

I've been thinking about friendship lately.

I know you get all weirded out when I think, so I'll try to be sensitive. No major, bizarre leaps, I promise or I hope anyway.

I belong to a few online communities. Shoutlife, Facebook, MySpace, Shelfari, Linked In and a couple of writing groups. You could say I'm uberconnected or overconnected. Within the last few days I have accepted friendship from a young man who invited several people with the same name to be his friends. After looking at his profile I hesitated for a second. After all, what he said and what he stated as beliefs, are contrary to me and mine. But these differences don't frighten me, or challenge me beyond my need to continually open my heart to people who need a dose of love and grace. Another new friend lives in my state. Others come and go with comments and slices of connection in this huge worldwide "friend-net."

I consider some of my critique partners very close friends. One is so close that we share far more than writing. I'll visit her for the fourth time in a few weeks. She and her family ushered in the new year with us. I would never have met her without this writing season in my life. Nor would my kids know their "crazy cousins from up north."

I spent a few hours with a few "past" (not going to use the world old) friends this weekend. Three women who have at one time been close. One I spent months phone praying with every morning before we left for work. Another I grieved with over several lifequakes. The third was a salt sister, neither of us could make it through a Sunday without tears. But each of these friends have moved on, changed churches and slipped out of my daily or weekly life. Yet I love each of these women and bear their fingerprints upon my heart.

Complexity in pure simplicity. Friendship. Thank you, friends.

Scribble and Scrambles - Joking! Seriously!

Janet's pirate jokes as appearing in the comments from the Dreg's Friday cheesy post cracked me up.

I'll reprint them below.

I'm not sure if she created these or borrowed them. But as a lover of pirate talk, I'm smitten.

Here they are. "What's a pirate's favorite kind of socks? Aaaarrrgyle! Ha ha ha ha... Or, What is a buccaneer? A might steep price for corn..."

So now I'm going to out myself.

This is the only official joke I have ever written.

What do you call a Jamaican phlebotomist? (okay, if you do not know this, a phlebotomist draws blood from patients)

Now.

Drum roll.

A Pokeymon

ba-da-duh-dum!