Ginger Simpson's Blog, page 45

Avoiding Adverbs by Roseanne Dowell

Writing without adverbs? Then how can we describe people, tone of voice? Some writers think adverbs are the only way to add description to a story.Wrong – the use and over use of adverbs distracts from your story.  It puts YOU, the AUTHOR into the story.  And we never (one of the few nevers in writing) want the author in the story. There are better ways to add description.  Let’s take this sentence for example:  Roy walked leisurely down the street.  – Okay. You, the author, just TOLD us how Roy walked – you interfered with the story.   How much better if you would have showed us how Roy walked.Example: Roy strolled down the street. (Notice how just changing the verb and taking out the adverb shows us how Roy walked.Roy is not in a hurry - strolled implies leisurely without the author saying so, but it’s still telling. So, let’s take it one step farther. The author can show more.Roy breathed in the spring air. What a great time of year with the trees budding and the smell of fresh cut grass. Just looking at the sky put him in a good mood. Now the author hasn’t even told us that Roy strolled. We know Roy’s not in a hurry because he notices everything around him.  People in a hurry don’t take the time to notice the buds on the trees. They wouldn’t stop to look at the sky.  The author has shown us something about Roy besides the fact that he’s not in a hurry.  He loves spring, and he loves nature. Other people wouldn't necessarily notice the buds on the trees, even when they’re not in a hurry. They react in different ways to show us they aren't in a hurry. Maybe they'd lollygag along watching the traffic or kids playing. That shows us something different about them.  People see different things and so should our characters.Adverbs can never replace strong verbs. As in the above example, strolled is a much stronger verb then walked in showing us how someone went on his way, but showing him works so much better.Adverbs combined with strong verbs – John ran quickly – are repetitive. We already know John ran, that tells us he’s moving fast, why repeat it?  The adverb has the same meaning as the verb.  By adding the adverb, we weaken the verb and the sentence, and it shows us nothing.  Avoid the use of adverbs whenever possible.  When you feel tempted to add an adverb, stop and think about what you want the reader to know. Is there another way to say it?  Usually there is.  Adverbs to describe how someone speaks are also interfering. Example: “Stop, just stop,” John shouted angrily. Well, I don’t know about you, but if someone is shouting that usually means he’s angry.  Why not show us the anger? “Stop! Just stop.” John slammed the cupboard door. Now that shows us he is angry much better than the adverb angrily? And, we didn’t have to use the tag line he shouted. We can say, he shouted and slammed the cupboard door, but does that reinforce the anger? Not really. The action works better alone.Now don’t get me wrong – there are places to use adverbs, but the key is to use them sparingly.  Readers want detail, they want to see and hear the story. They don’t want someone to tell them what happened. They want to feel the anger, sadness, happiness, laughter, and tears.  Readers want to feel our character's emotion.  Characters who display emotion are strong characters. And readers remember them. They become real, believable. And if we have believable characters, readers will remember us.So next time you write, she hurried quickly down the street, STOP!! Reread what you just wrote.  Do you really want to repeat that he was in a hurry?  Hurried already implies he was going quickly. And next time you write – “I can’t do this anymore,” John said sadly.  Rethink it – is there a better way to show John sad?  “I can’t do this anymore.” John wiped the tears from his eyes. Notice I didn’t say John said as he wiped the tears. You can also eliminate the he said/she said tags and insert action tags that shows us more of what’s happening. By saying John said sadly, we know John is sad – but we don’t know he’s crying. 
We add so much more to the story by eliminating needless adverbs.  We all enjoy reading strong stories, why not write them

Sunday Snippets by Ginger Simpson #sundaysnips

I'm baaaack! and this week sharing a sample from a Novella coming soon from Books We Love, The Pendant.  This is going to be a re-release and probably one of the hardest works I've done because there really is no hero or heroine...just a story about an inanimate object.  Enjoy:

 Sheila Townsend hauled open the heavy cathedral door and slipped inside. She scurried up the long aisle into the safety of the confessional and collapsed. Panting, she creaked open the little sliding door. The priest’s outline loomed on the other side.  
"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”She swiped at her bangs, wet from the fog outside. “How long has it been since your last confession?” The priest’s voice filtered through the mesh between them.“Six months, Father.” “Tell me of your sins, my child.”  “I-I’ve had evil thoughts and fear I’ve done something horrid.”“What have you done?”“I might have killed someone because of the curse.”“Curse?”  His deep voice climbed an octave.“Yes, the one that plagues this necklace.”  She dangled a chain close to the screen. “I must leave it here with you and stop this madness.”  Sheila rose, dropped the silver pendant onto the shelf separating parishioner from priest, and fled without another word. She paused at the door long enough to secure her scarf over her head and pull her coat collar higher. The stained-glass window, an image of the Holy Mother, she’d seen before looked far less impressive at night than when the sun shone through the tinted panes. Sheila pressed her weight against the door, allowing the breeze to flicker the candles at the altar. The gripping hatred that had consumed her for the last month melted away like snow in springtime. Gone was the unexplained need to hurt the same person whose picture she’d displayed in the locket.  Now she was free—free from everything except the guilt and memories of plunging a knife deep into her boyfriend’s back.  Stepping into the misty night, she headed toward the river.  She hadn’t been totally forthcoming with the priest. Her ‘might have killed’ was totally misleading. The police were sure to soon find Andre’s body in her living room, and she no longer had a will to live. She’d made peace with the Lord; now she needed to find peace within herself and what she’d done.****Father Finnegan’s brow furrowed at the woman’s sudden departure.  “A curse?”He stood and pushed through the curtain at the rear of the confessional, walked around and opened the door to the parishioner’s side.  There on the shelf lay the necklace the woman had left.  A silver locket hung from a long chain, and when opened, displayed a picture of a handsome young man wearing a black sweater.  Father Finnegan pinched the locket closed.  The pendant looked entirely harmless—nothing more than a delicate piece of jewelry. “What have you got there, Father?”The priest turned to find Sister Mary Catherine standing behind him, her brow raised as always when something stirred her nosy side. “A necklace…supposedly a cursed one.”  He laughed. “Me thinks ‘tis the soul of the person who left this beauty behind is the one who needs the blessing.”“The piece looks to be a great match for the fund-raising bazaar, if you’ve no other plans for it.”  The nun smiled and opened her hand. 
*************************You can find all my books available on my Amazon page.  I hope you'll enjoy one.
Now, if you'd be so kind as to check out the following links and make sure I still have some playmates on Sunday:


http://connievines.blogspot.com (Connie Vines)
http://yesterrdayrevisitedhere.blogspot.com/ (Juliet Waldron)

http://triciamg.blogspot.com (Tricia McGill)

Checking My List...twice

Thanks to Roseanne for keeping up her blog obligations and maintaining status quo while I languished in the hospital for the last six days. I'm home now, but weaker than a pup with Parvo.  *lol*I've had Parvo B-19 so I know.

Just to come clean...I did the damage to myself, but never realized how stupid I've been.  In 1991, for health reason's and wanting to stay alive for more years, I had my stomach stapled.  My whole life, I'd been told that I resembled my Dads's side of the family, and they had passed from obesity issues.  I wanted the resemblance to end.  *lol*

 The procedure involved 7 rows of stainless steel staples, a pouch and a silastic ring at the bottom of the newly-created pouch to keep the food inside longer.  Basically, my stomach was replaced with a much smaller capacity. I was forced to stray from Big Macs, fries, and large Dr. Pepper drinks.

Over the years, I've been plagued with stuck food, vomiting, and 5 endoscopy procedures to clear the digestive path.  This time, I waited too long, aspired vomit and almost killed myself.  In fact, I had such a hard time with my breathing, I remember uttering "let me die" to my sister and husband, and I've never had those feelings, ever.

Anyhow...I'm now resolved to making needed changes to prevent future episodes, and thanks to a doc who shared his honest diagnosis with my sister, I realize that I was on a perilous path. I've disregarded my own safety for the last time.  My sis even cried  and made me vow to never go there again.  I never realized that every procedure brought me closer to killing myself, and I've been very remiss in caring about those who care for me.

So, although I don't usually make resolutions for a New Year, let alone make them early.  I resolve to be a better person in 2016...at least a healthier one.

I'm trying to get well enough to attend my DIL's college graduation on Saturday. She's determined and I so admire that.  WTG Carrie!

For those who wonder...would I do the stomach stapling again?  I'm not sure since I did lose and keep off 118 pounds for a time before the pounds came creeping back.  I even enjoyed a size 10 Oprah Minute in the process.  But at this point, I don't know how I would have fared without the weight loss.  I just wish the doctors had been honest enough to let their patients know of impending issues. I wouldn't recommend hospitalization as a weight loss goal, although I did lose 14 pounds during my aspiration pneumonia event.

Happy, healthy holidays to each of you.

Grandma's Chicken Soup by Roseanne Dowell

Chicken Soup topped our family’s menu every Sunday in the cold Ohiowinters during the fifties. Soup making began in the late fall. Grandpa, Mom, and my uncle purchased several crates of live chickens from the Farmers Market.   Our families met at Uncle Martin’s where he and Grandpa hauled in the stained, battered, old tree stump they used for this occasion.  After making sure it sat level on the basement floor, they brought in the crates of chickens, which were clucking as if they knew their fate.My cousins, brothers, sisters, and I sat on the steps and watched with anticipation as Grandpa placed a chicken on the chopping block. With one thump of the ax, he chopped off its head. The chicken dropped to the floor and raced around the basement without its head, still clucking. We now knew the saying running around like a chicken without its head.Of course we thought it was hilarious. We’d laugh and take bets on how soon the chicken would plop over.  One or two passes around the furnace and they toppled. My uncle followed them, picked them up, and placed them on a pile. While the chickens were beheaded, Aunt Ruth lit the old stove in the corner and set two huge pots of water to boil. Grandma and Mom set up two long tables in the middle of the basement and covered them with newspaper. After Mom and my aunt dipped the chickens in the boiling water for a few minutes, they set them on the table. Grandma showed us kids how to pull the feathers. The stiff wet feathers were not what I expected. Far from the image of soft and fluffy, they felt sticky and prickly and clung to our hands. The gamy odor of wet feathers prickled my nose. Wet feathers do not have a pleasant smell. We shook them off our hands, usually aiming at one of our siblings or cousins when the adults looked away. After we finished pulling the feathers, Mom, Aunt Ruth, and Grandma slit them open and pulled out their innards. Never one to mind gory stuff, I wished I could do that part instead of the feathers. I watched in fascination as they often removed eggs covered with a thin-skinned membrane. Mom showed us the eggs and explained how they didn’t take on a hard shell until they matured. They gently placed the larger eggs in a bowl for later use in baking.  The smaller eggs were discarded. Next came the gizzard, it was removed, cut open, and cleaned out.  They set the liver aside for later use, as both my mom and aunt used it in their cracker stuffing*.  The heart was set aside with the gizzard to be packaged with the neck. Later they’d be boiled, then discarded, but the broth was used for the stuffing. Once the insides were thoroughly cleaned, Mom, Aunt Ruth, and Grandma took the chickens to the stove. Holding them close to the flame, they singed off the remaining nubs of feathers.  The stench of scorched feathers filled the air and we kids ran upstairs to get away from the nasty smell. They washed and packaged the chickens for the freezer, all but one that is. That one they used the next day for a big pot of homemade chicken soup. Mom always stuffed the chicken with delicious cracker stuffing*, secured the openings with poultry nails and string, and into a large pot of  water it went with carrots, celery, and onions. The aroma of chicken soup soon filled the house.  When the chicken was tender, Mom removed it from the soup, placed it in an open roasting pan, and browned it in the oven. The rich broth served with thin noodles, often homemade, warmed our bellies and the kitchen on cold Sunday afternoons. Mom made rice or potatoes, gravy, a vegetable and, of course, the stuffing to eat after the soup. This was our traditional Sunday dinner every week in the winter.  Mom never varied from it nor did Grandma and Aunt Ruth. I still make it, but not always on Sunday, and certainly not from live chickens. Every time I make the soup it takes me back. Back to younger carefree days - days when nothing much mattered, helping our parents was top priority, and everything we did seemed like fun.Grandma’s Chicken Soup1 4 to 5 # chicken8 – 10 whole carrots8 stalks celery – use some of the leafy ones from inside the bunch.     2 – 3 large whole onions     Bunch of fresh parley
Clean the chicken in cold water and pat dry. After you stuff the chicken (recipe below) put it in a 12 quart soup pot. Add water to within about 4/5” from top of pot. Bring to boil. Skim. Add carrots, onions, celery, and parsley. These can be added whole (which is what I do, since some of my children didn’t like cooked carrots) or chopped. Cover and simmer until chicken is tender. (It will take several hours for a stewing chicken, less for a roasting or frying chicken.) Remove chicken to roaster and brown in 350 degree oven until golden.  Serve soup with noodlesWhen the chicken is browned, remove the stuffing from the cavities and slice. Carve chicken and serve with noodles, rice, or potatoes and vegetables.  


Grandma’s Cracker Stuffing
Broth from gizzard, heart, and neck (or chicken broth)1½ packages saltine crackers1 t. black pepper                 1/3 bunch of chopped fresh parsley or 2 T. parsleyflakes                            Liver from the chicken, slivered (optional)½ stick butter or margarine melted              1 egg                                                                  
Clean insides of chicken. Place the neck, gizzard and heart in a saucepan with enough water to cover, bring to a boil, and simmer for approximately 20 minutes. This can be done the day before. Cool.   Crush crackers fine in large bowl. Add pepper and parsley to crackers. Chop liver into sliver sized pieces and add to crackers.  Melt butter or margarine and add to crackers, mixing well - making sure to coat crackers with margarine.  Add 1 egg and mix well.  Add the broth to the mixture a little at a time, mixing well between. Mixture should be stuck together and pasty, not loose. More on the dry side. Stuff chicken cavity and neck cavity with mixture. Using poultry nails and string, weave the nails through the skin to close cavities and tie with string to secure, just as you would for a stuffed turkey. 

How Much Fact to Put into Fiction by Roseanne Dowell

I know well-meaning friends often say - “You ought to write this down, it would make a great story.”   Well, actually, no it wouldn’t. I’m sure you’ve all heard the saying “fact is stranger than fiction” - well it is. If you’re writing nonfiction, fine go ahead and use the story about Uncle Joe getting stuck on the roof.  It was a comical incident and will make a great creative nonfiction story. However, for fiction the idea won’t make for a great story without some changes.   For the most part, it’ll come off as false. Readers just won’t believe it. Why?  Think about it.  Other than Science Fiction - which still has to be written as believable- when you read a story or novel, one of your first thoughts is –  can this  happen. It might be farfetched but it can happen.  Besides you, the author will be telling the story.  And we want to show our stories. 
Here’s our incident. Uncle Joe got stuck on the roof while hanging Christmas lights.   He put a ladder on the peak of the garage and when he went to get off the other peak he reached his foot out, the ladder slipped away.  He moved toward it and inched his way off the roof, reached his foot out and tried to snag the ladder. Again it slipped away. One more time and it slipped out of reach. By this time he was hanging by his elbows. . No one was in the house. It was cold and the roof was covered with snow. He looked around to see if a neighbor might have come out. Nothing – his arms were getting tired and he didn’t know what to do.  The only thing left was to jump.  He knew if he landed on his feet, they’d slip out from under him and he’d slide off the roof like a bullet.  He took a deep breath and let go. Thankfully he landed and didn’t slide.
If I were writing it for creative nonfiction, I’d embellish it, make it humorous. 
But, how do we create a story from this idea?  It almost sounds like an incident from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation or Grisham’s Skipping Christmas? How did they do it?  Some people need to plot out the idea on paper, which is fine. I wish I could do that.  But, I’m one of those writers that just start writing.  Oh I’ll jot down some ideas and know where I want to go, but in the beginning I usually have no idea how to get there.  I know the beginning and the end. What happens in the middle is as much a surprise for me as it is for the reader. And that works for me.  Whatever works for you is fine.
Okay, we have the idea.   A man is stuck on a roof.  He doesn’t have to be putting up Christmas lights. He could be up there for a variety of reasons.  Maybe they had a leak and it was raining cats and dogs.
One of the first things, even for me, is to create the plot.  I start, of course, with my characters name, age and appearance. Okay let’s call our guy, Charlie. He’s middle-aged, slightly balding, but tall and muscular. Next I ask why Charlie was on the roof.
Once I have my characters, I develop my idea.  First question:  What genre’ am I writing?  This is where we start asking the questions, what happened, how did it happen, etc.  If I’m writing mystery I have to decide is it a murder mystery?  Who gets killed, where and why?
Hmm - maybe someone moved the ladder. And maybe Charlie makes it down but he knows someone is trying to kill him.
 If Charlie is the intended victim we’ll need a potential killer.  
Once we know the where and why, we need to know if the murder is going to happen in the book, or behind the scenes.  In other words has the murder been committed when we come on the scene or are we going to show our readers the murder.   In this case it’s an attempted murder because Charlie isn’t dead.
Then we need to know how our main character is going to solve the crime.  We need some clues, usually not ones the reader will pick up on right away, but clues that at the end of the story they’ll hit their foreheads and say “Oh I should have known.”
Do you see how we took a real life incident and changed it into something totally different? Sure we could have written humor like National Lampoon, but why stop there.  Explore different avenues. You could take the same incident and change it into a romance or fantasy. Maybe even Science Fiction.  I don’t write that either so I’m not going try to explain that. But who knows maybe while Charlie is repairing the roof, men from mars kidnap him.   Let your imagination run wild. 


Blurb and Excerpt for Entangled Minds Visions of someone’s life disturb Rebecca Brennan’s dreams. The dreams become dangerous and she’s determined to find who shares her mind. Her search leads her to a small town and puts her life in danger too.

Excerpt:The next morning Rebecca, once again, sat in Bernard Clark’s office. Something about the heavy-set, middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and scruffy beard reminded her of her grandfather. As usual, he listened to her story with a serious expression. Was this really helping? How many hours had she spent sitting across from the mammoth mahogany desk, staring at the book-lined shelves behind him? And so far, she didn’t know anything more than before. Once more, that’s it. If nothing changed today, she’d quit coming. Maybe he was a quack, like her brother said. Rebecca took a breath and relaxed in the comfortable atmosphere, inhaled the smell of new leather that clung to the chair, and leaned back. Okay, maybe she did have a deep extra sensory perception connection with someone like Bernard said. The question was with whom.  “I think you need to find this person,” Dr. Clark suggested. “It’s possible the physic mind is reaching out to you for help.”"How?" That’s why she was here. If he didn’t help her figure it out, that was it. No more visits. Besides, it cost money, and who could afford it? If Allison hadn’t agreed to pay half, well that was another story. Dr. Bernard’s voice brought her back.“Start with the dreams,” he suggested. “Tell me about them again.”“I see scenes with emergency vehicles. Last night someone got shot," she told him for what seemed like the hundredth time. "I wonder if he has something to do with law enforcement or other emergency operations. I'd recognize the town if I ever saw it in person. It’s so vivid in my mind.""Would you consider hypnotism?" Bernard fingered his beard. Intense blue eyes stared into hers. "Maybe your sub conscious mind will reveal the place, or person, or something to help you find it." Leary about being hypnotized, but desperate to find who shared her mind, Rebecca agreed. Under her hypnotic trance, she revealed the name of a shoe factory. A place called Booth’s Boots, and she repeated the name, Morris, over and over.
"It’s not much to go on," Rebecca told Allison later,” but it’s more than I knew before. Maybe Morris is my mind connection." Encouraged by the information, she spent the better part of the day doing research. Using the Internet, Rebecca keyed in Booth’s Boots. Instantly, several websites popped up. “Okay, let’s check out Boothsboots.com.” A website, showing various types of boots from hunting to work boots, popped up. “This is great. Let’s see what this says.” She clicked on News and Events. “No help there. Okay, let’s try Outlet Stores.” She almost jumped out of her chair. “There it is!” A factory, located in Morrisville, Ohio. “Morrisville, could that explain the name Morris?” A prickly sensation went up her spine. She was getting close; she could feel it. “Okay, let’s try this.” Rebecca didn’t care she was talking to herself. Besides, it wasn’t the first time. Keying Morrisville into the search engine, she held her breath, more determined than ever to find the town. If it took all day, then so be it.  A site popped up with several suggestions. “Okay, let’s see what this one is about.”  Morrisville.net homepage popped up, and further down the page, it showed–Pictures taken around Morrisville. She held her breath and clicked on one. The first picture that came up was a log cabin. No help there. “Okay, how about this one? The Square. ” It looked familiar. Shivers ran up her spine. “Okay, how about Hotel Darby. Yes! I’ve seen this place.” One more. She drew in her breath and clicked on Victorian. “Oh my God, that’s it! That’s the house.” She almost jumped out of her seat. The Queen Anne house in her dreams showed on the screen big as life.  Where is this place?  Clicking back to the homepage, she found it on the map. “Not far from Wattsburg; only a three hour drive from here. I have to go there.” "Allie." Rebecca phoned her friend. "I found it, I searched the net, and I found it. Even pictures of the town. I recognized all the buildings right down to the house." "Calm down…""I have to go there. It’s only a three hour drive." Not waiting for Allison’s response, Rebecca continued. "I have to find out who I’m connected with.""What are you going to do?" Allison asked. “Walk into the little town and say hey, someone here is connected to my mind." Rebecca laughed at her friend’s wit. “I have a plan. First I’ll go to the newspaper office and check for stories about someone being shot on Friday. Then I’ll try to find out where he is. I’m sure he’s alive.” Her intuition told her danger still lingered, but she couldn’t explain that to her friend."Maybe it’s a she," Allison said. "What makes you say he?""I don’t know." Rebecca paced the living room. "It’s just a feeling I have. It doesn’t matter; whoever it is, I have to go." Okay, it was a crazy scheme, but feelings like this couldn’t be ignored. “There’s no turning back now, Al, I have to find him.”“Would you like me to go with you?”  "I have to do this myself.”“I don’t like this, Beck. You shouldn’t be doing this alone. What if it’s dangerous? I mean you see cop cars and stuff. What if he’s a criminal?”Rebecca shivered. God, what if he was a criminal? No, something told her that wasn’t the case. Call it a gut feeling or intuition, whatever it was, Rebecca would bet her life he wasn’t a criminal.“I’m sorry, Al. Thanks for the offer, but no. I have to do this on my own. I’ll be fine. Really.”

Prayer For My Friend - by Roseanne Dowell

Not the normal blog from Ginger or me. In fact, it's Ginger's day to blog. Unfortunately, she's in the hospital and I pray doing better than when she went in. I'm not a hundred percent sure what's wrong with her. From what I'm gathering from Facebook posts, she went in to the emergency room, apparently something was stuck in her esophagus. They did a procedure, but she wasn't recovering well from it. She was having trouble getting enough oxygen to her lungs to bring up her blood oxygen numbers.
I'm not a medical person, but I do know what blood oxygen is due to my husband's COPD. It's pretty scary watching a person gasp for breath.
So instead of the normal blog, I'm sending this prayer that Ginger will get well soon and be back to her normal, humorous self.

Heavenly Father, giver of life and health: Comfort and relieve Ginger, and give your power of healing to those who minister to her needs, that she may be strengthened in her weakness and have confidence in your loving care; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

Get well soon, Ginger. We miss you.

The Write Idea by Roseanne Dowell

Can lowly little Charlene Smith, ordinary homemaker, write a best seller? Do authors have to  lead adventurous, exciting lives like lawyers or doctors to become successful writers? No, we do not have to lead exciting lives. However, we do need a good imagination and good ideas. So where do writers come up with ideas for their stories? For starters, we need to write about things we enjoy. Skateboarding, bike riding, hiking, bowling- even cars are potential articles or stories.  What if a hiker finds a dead body? A mystery plot is formed. Any character we create may have one of these hobbies or occupations – and how much more believable this character will be because we have first hand knowledge.
Look around you, what do you see?  Right now, I see a room with a computer, printer, and a scanner. But it is not just a room, it is a potential setting for a story. Now lean back and really look at the room. My walls are pewter blue - a cream-colored shade covers the window. If I were writing a story, I would elaborate on this through my character. Everything around us has potential, if we chose to look at it with a writer’s eye. Think about being stuck in traffic. What do you usually do? Turn up the radio, call someone from your cell phone, and tap the steering wheel impatiently? Next time turn that negative energy into something positive. Who's in the car next to you, behind you? Where is that carload of kids off to, a soccer game, Grandma’s house? Look at the driver, what is she feeling, sitting there with a car full of kids bouncing around and jumping. Her mouth moving. Is she yelling, singing, playing a game with them.  How about that young couple next to you, are they in love, arguing? Put them in a scene - make up a story about them. That isn't just a car full of kids, or a young couple. You're not just stuck in traffic, or standing in line at a supermarket. You're viewing potential characters, ideas, scenes, making up plots. Look in the carts of people around you. Are they buying that wine and cheese for a rendezvous, celebration?  Every place you go look for the potential setting for a story, everyone you see is a potential  character.Check out the daily newspaper. Many articles give me ideas for my next plot. Maybe the bank robber will make a good character for your villain.  But don't stop there, look in the classifieds? Under help wanted ads, you might find different and unusual occupations for your characters. Then there are the business opportunities and legal notices.  I found an interesting Notice regarding a Public Hearing on the merits of designating several old schools in the area as city landmarks. This piqued my interest since I attended two of those schools. It could lead to a possible setting for a story or maybe an article about a trip down memory lane.  Last, but not least read the for sale ads. Every conceivable item is for sale from antiques to stereo equipment. I particularly enjoy looking through the jewelry section.  One ad for a diamond engagement ring valued at three thousand dollars was listed as a must sell for twelve hundred. The ad raised my curiosity.  I figured it was for sale because of a broken engagement, but then I thought what if the woman’s husband died leaving her penniless, and she desperately needed money for medical bills. More interesting to me was the thought of who would purchase the ring.  What man would buy a second hand ring, albeit a good deal, for his new fiancee. Then I thought maybe he took it to a jeweler and had the diamond put into a new setting. What would happen if the fiancée found out she had a used diamond. Would she think what an ingenious idea or would she be angry?  All this from a one-line ad.  The newspaper is an excellent source for ideas.
Mary Rosenblum, Author of several novels, Instructor and Web Editor at Long Ridge Writers Group says. “Whenever I’m researching a community as a setting for a mystery or contemporary piece, I always pick up copies of the local paper, and yes, I turn right to the classifieds. Who is selling what and for how much? Farmall tractors? Six bottom plows? Must be a farming community. Spray equipment, apple boxes? Orchards. What are the housing prices like? Is this the overpriced bedroom community for ski resort? Are houses with an acre or so of land dirt cheap? Nobody’s working! You can take the pulse of a community with the ads in that paper.”  Magazines are another good source for ideas. Open it to any page, look at the pictures, even the advertisements - see an attractive woman or a couple. Imagine them in a scene. Create a plot around them.  Last, but certainly not least, is our author friends. Many times, I got an idea for an article, just from our daily conversation.  Today the subject of being the only one who managed to fill the ice cube trays came up.  One thing led to another and it turned into an idea for a humorous article.  Sources for ideas are limitless. We just need to view the world around us with the writer’s eye.

Welcome Julie Lence - I've Blog-Jacked You!

courtesy of www.bloom.uk.com
The Poinsettia is a native Mexican plant. Its origins trace back to present day Taxco. The poinsettia, Euphorbia pulcherrima, Willd, is a member of the Euphorbiaceae family and is defined as a female flower, without petals and usually without sepals, surrounded by individual male flowers enclosed in a cup-shaped structure called a cyathium. The Euphorbiagenus contains 700-1000 species. The Aztecs in central Mexico cultivated the plant and used the colorful leaves, known as bracts, to make a reddish-purple dye for clothes and makeup. The Poinsettia’s milky sap was made into a medicine to treat fevers.   Joel Roberts Poinsettcourtesy of http://www.apsnet.orgJoel Roberts Poinsett is credited as the first American to bring the plant to the United States. A botanist from Greenville, South Carolina, Poinsett was also the first United States Ambassador to Mexico. Best remembered as the founder of the Smithsonian Institute, Poinsett traveled to the Taxco area, discovered the colorful plants growing on adjacent hillsides and had some of them shipped to his home, where he grew them in his greenhouse. From there, he gifted some of the plants to his friends and also sent some to botanical gardens and to fellow botanist John Bartram in Philadelphia. Bartram sent the plant to his friend Robert Buist. Buist was a plants-man from Pennsylvania and thought to be the first person to sell the Poinsettia under its original name. Legend has it the Euphorbia pulcherrima, Willd, became known as the Poinsettia in the 1830’s, after Joel Robert Poinsett.   courtesy of www.orthodoxytoday.orgHow did the Poinsettia become known as the Christmas plant? The Aztecs prized the poinsettia and believed it to be a symbol of purity. In the 17th century, Franciscan monks in Mexico incorporated the flower into their Fiesta of Santa Pesbre; a nativity procession. This is the first time the Poinsettia was associated with Christmas, leading Mexico’s Christians to adopt the plant as their Christmas Eve flower. The star-shaped bracts symbolize the Star of Bethlehem. The red leaves represent Christ’s blood and the white leaves symbolize his purity.   courtesy of www.distinctive-decor.comOnce the monks included the Poinsettia in their nativity procession, a few legends sprang up as to why and how the plant became associated with Christmas. One is the tale of poor, young Pepita who was upset because she did not have a gift to give to the baby Jesus at Christmas Eve mass. As she made her way to the church, her cousin tried to cheer her up. Pedro told Pepita that even the smallest gift presented to Jesus in love would make the Christ child happy. Pepita picked some weeds and placed them beside the manger. Before everyone’s eyes, the weeds magically transformed into beautiful red flowers. Another tale says it was an angel who told Pepita to pick the weeds and bring them to the church. Regardless, the parishioners swore they’d witnessed a miracle, and from that evening on, the flowers became known as Flores de Noche Buena; Flowers of the Holy Night.  Merry Christmas Everyone! I wish you and your family a joyous holiday season. Julie

The Unexpected by Ginger Simpson

This year was a record year for me. On November 12, I turned 70.  I'm shocked to even be able to type my age. :)  Since my entire life I've been reminded that I favor my father's side of the family, and most of them have passed (Dad 61, Uncle late 50s, Aunt late 50s, Paternal Grandmother and Grandfather, both far too young,) I expected to be gone long before now.  Thank you Lord for giving me my mom's longevity genes.   She just turned 91 on November 1.
Nov 1 - Mom's 91st Atrium balconys

My husband, bless him, took me to Gaylord's Opryland hotel for an
overnight stay.  I've always wanted to be one of those rich bitches sitting on their atrium balconies, looking down at the travelers below.







 For a fleeting moment...I was.  Not the rich bitch part,but I did sit on a balcony overlooking the bar, restaurant and walkways below.  That night, we left our door ajar to the outside so  we could listen to the amazing sound of the waterfall cascading just feet from our room.
Listen to the waterfall
We enjoyed a drink and cheese platter in the bar, and later dined in a very proper and expensive restaurant.   Personally, I loved the carousel bar that was lost during the 100-year flood. :(  But...as far as my birthday trip... I'll be paying the bills for a while, but it was worth every penny, and a proper celebration to reach a year I never expected to see.  I'm already saving up to go for my 80th. Waterfalls from the bar

View from our room...notice the decorations going up.

Changing Traditions

Way back in my early years of marriage, we started a new tradition. It came with our first purchase of an artificial tree. I love Christmas, always have. Thanksgiving and Christmas are my two favorite holidays. I have more memories of those two holidays from my childhood than any other. So it should come as no surprise, that once we bought an artificial tree, it went up the day after thand her neighbors thought the same thing. Thanksgiving. Neighbors thought I was crazy, but I didn’t care. My mom always put up her tree December 6
My feelings are the same as my mom’s. We put too much work into decorating and we want to enjoy it for as long as possible.Now days I see a lot of Christmas trees up before Thanksgiving. Which brings me to my newest tradition. Since my children no longer come here for Christmas dinner – our house is way to small to accommodate them and the grandchildren (and now great grandchildren) that my children have taken over the holiday. That’s fine with me, but that also means they don’t get to enjoy my decorations. So….yep, I put them up before Thanksgiving. That allows me to enjoy them more. So needless to say, yep, the tree is up, the house is decorated and today, I’ll light the lights – at least outside. I couldn’t wait so I lit the tree already. There’s something so cozy and serene about the lights. I love the ambiance. They’re the only lights in the room for the most part. I used to have candles lit around the room also, but one night I went to bed and forgot about one. Luckily I woke up in the middle of the night and saw it. So now I have battery operated candles. They look just as nice and I don’t have to worry if I forget to turn them off.

The only reason I still have Thanksgiving dinner at my house is only half of my kids come for dinner. My daughters all go to their in-laws and my sons came here. I use past tense because the last two years one of my sons went to my daughter-in-law’s uncle’s. This year my oldest son will be going to his girl friend’s sister’s. That leaves my youngest son and his family. There’ll only be eight of us this year. Everyone else will come later for dessert and I look forward to it. I’m sure I’ve said before my favorite thing is to have my family around me. I’m very blessed my children all live within about 20 minutes of me. So another new tradition will begin and that’s okay. I love traditions. Next month I’ll write about another one. I hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving.