E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 94
May 15, 2012
I'm feeling suicidal, what should I do?
I was looking through search topics that brought people to my site, and this one broke my heart:
"I'm feeling suicidal what do I do?" I can't describe how many emotions are running through me right now. "Why?" you ask. Maybe it's because I've been there.
I'm not a professional . . . I don't have a simple answer, so today, I took time to write a story that shows how I feel. When I'm depressed, this line of thinking gets me through. I hope it will help someone else as well.
Once, a long time ago, a father lived in a cottage which sat in the middle of a bright, magical forest. Part of him had crumpled and died from sadness after riding through the test of fate, but new-found joy came from his housekeeper and two children who stayed with him. His children were very young though, and if their father died, they wouldn't have remembered his name or even his face.
The father and housekeeper looked out through the window, and thought about all of this as the children played outside, enjoying the shade and bounty the trees offered. It was then that the forest turned dark with pain. The very trees bent away from the cottage, cringing as if they grasped the mood of everything around.
A knock resounded from the front door.
"Hello?" The father answered the door, then his eyes turned wary.
A massive snake slithered into the house, grew and billowed, smoking into the shape of a man who was pale, dismal and graying.
"What do you want?" the father asked.
"The lives of your two children."
"Haven't you taken enough from me, Levi?" the father spat. "Do what you're best at--go prey on the weak. Leave what's left of my family alone!"
"Are you afraid?" the evil man asked, chuckling softly.
"Never! You're beneath me; your very presence has no power here." But the father did seem worried despite his truthful words.
"Then you won't mind taking a wager. I bet that if your children couldn't see you or even touch you, they would turn into greedy or self-loathing people."
"No they wouldn't," the father yelled. "Not my children."
"Ha! Well, then, give them the chance. Let's see what happens to these amazing children without guidance from you or their insignificant housekeeper. I'll spare their lives now, but if they do fall for my ploys, then when they die, I get to keep their souls."
The housekeeper ran into the room and tugged on the father's arm. "No," she pleaded.
The father didn't listen though. "You'll both see the power of a human heart," the father said and shook hands with Levi, the darkly-clothed sorcerer.
Years passed and although the children no longer saw their father, the housekeeper or even the cottage they'd once lived in, they survived in ignorance.
The father was a powerful magician as well, and when he'd bargained with Levi, he'd used magics of his own. Yes, his children couldn't see him or touch him, but if they wished, they could still sense his presence.
He watched them grow and every time they fell or got hurt, fought or cried, he wished he could protect them from the pain. But he couldn't, he'd made an unbreakable deal, and his protection could only do so much.
"I hate him!" the boy said when he was a teenager.
"Who?" his sister asked.
"Our father, if we ever had a father. Our parents must have left us alone in the middle of a forest. I don't know about you, but I'm getting out of here."
So, they left together. And as they traveled, the father and housekeeper followed them closely.
Rain and snow came, but the housekeeper protected them. She'd always had a special relationship with the elements, and so she used it to help the children while they were growing up.
The father nearly cringed when they passed beyond his property because although he couldn't do anything, they were entering the lands of Levi the sorcerer.
The second they passed the boundary, a strange woman appeared before the two teenage children. "Are you lost?" she asked.
"No," the boy answered, "but we would like to find our way out of here."
"Well what are you seeking?" she crooned. "After all, the only thing worth seeking is power. I can bring you to a place where riches can be found and friends can be bought. Your wildest dreams can come true."
The girl didn't seem convinced, but her brother jumped at the chance. "Take us there."
So they traveled with the woman, and the whole time the father and housekeeper tried warning them with whispers and worries, "Don't follow her. She's really Levi!"
But the teenagers couldn't hear the warnings. And when it came time that they saw a beautiful castle in the distance, the brother sneaked off before anyone could wake up. He figured if he earned a fortune, he wanted it all to himself.
The father and housekeeper grieved over the son's poor choice. But nothing could be done--he'd shown his worth.
When the sister woke up, no one was there. In fact, where the old woman had slept, the only thing in her place was a glistening knife.
The girl turned her face away. She held her knees close to herself, and cried. "I'm so alone. Doesn't anyone know what it's like living this way? My brother left me. I never wanted gold or jewels, I just wanted someone to really appreciate me. There's nothing to live for!"
"Then do it," a voice whispered into the recesses of her mind.
Although Levi, in his true form, stood behind her, he'd made himself invisible to her. "Your brother is greedy; now you're the most pitiful human known to man. Just end it now. KILL . . . YOURSELF. The world would be better without you."
The young girl sobbed even harder. At first the notion seemed ridiculous, almost silly. But as she sat there for hours, the more she thought, she nodded. Maybe it wasn't so silly after all . . .
"Don't!" the father screamed. He and the housekeeper had been watching the whole time.
Levi laughed as the girl picked up the knife which had rested where the woman had been. "One simple action could end it all."
"No," the father ran to her. "I'm here, I've been here. You can't see me, but I know you're strong enough to make the right choice. Don't kill yourself! Please just open your heart and you'll feel my presence."
But the girl, so absorbed in her own pain and self-pity, could not hear her own father.
"You're terrible. Filthy!"
"Stop it!" she screamed aloud. "Won't anyone ever love me. But why would they? I am so pathetic."
The knife came closer, closer to her wrists.
It wasn't until the housekeeper sent a wind toward the girl, that she paused in her action.
The father tried taking away the knife, but he couldn't. The choice--the victory if she conquered this test and lived--that would belong solely to the girl. She sniffled into the wind, sat in the middle of a beautiful meadow, and no longer saw the beauty of life.
The father cried then, big tears which seemed strange coming from such a strong man and as he cried, the wind carried his tears and they fell on his daughter's cheeks.
"If she only knew that someone out there loved her. If she didn't feel so worthless." The father bent and hugged her. "I love you. I'm so sorry. I wish I could take away the pain, but this is something you have to conquer on your own," he said. "Please be strong! I promise things will get better if you just hang in there."
The knife came closer and then wavered.
"I love you," he said one last time, and as the winds subsided, the beautiful girl looked up, confused. Pain filled her eyes. "Father?" she asked. The knife slowly fell from her hand. "Father!"
"Yes," her father said expectantly, and his daughter actually heard him.
She stood and looked around as a gentle understanding lit her face. "Things will get better?" she said.
"They will." He stood so proud. She proved herself strong, resilient in adversity. She'd faced one of the biggest battles in life--and overcome depression.
"Because this is my one life to live," she nodded. Her face turned to the fading wind and she smiled. "I'm so glad you're real." Then her eyes looked at the glowing city. "I need to tell my brother."
Levi screamed more upset than he'd been in centuries. "Leave your brother alone!"
"Leviathan," the father said using Levi's full name. "You may think you've gained my son. But remember . . . you've lost my daughter. She was never weak enough for you, and now she's going to share her strength with my son! My power multiplies growing with love and knowledge. Your strength only feeds off the weak!"
Leviathan turned to angry vapor as the father and housekeeper followed the girl.
"Levi's on his way to influence my son."
"But she hears you now," the house keeper said. "Don't lose hope."
The girl walked ahead of them. The rising sun kissed her dancing hair and resolute face.
"She is beautiful," Father God said to the housekeeper.
"Of course," Mother Nature Replied. "She was made in your image."
They held each others' hands as they followed the daughter, and walked toward the city where each human in tested and tried.
In closing, I just wanted to write something to the person who googled this . . .
YOU are special!
There have been three times when I've depressed to the point of being suicidal.
Once, in high school, certain kids were being VERY mean to me. I asked for help from a teacher and a youth pastor as well. Unfortunately neither of them helped me. It was at that point I decided I had some abusive, toxic relationships in my life.
So, point one is: If you're feeling suicidal because of things people have or are telling you, break off those relationships and surround yourself with people who realize your worth.
The next time I thought about suicide was months after my son died. I came through that because I knew, deep down, things would get better. Life is how you see it. Choose to see good and you'll see it. Choose to see bad, and you'll see that too.
At that point in my life, I started looking beyond myself and my own problems, I began helping others. Doing this--helping others in need often takes the focus of yourself and will help you realize your own value as well as the value of others. How can you help? What is your place in this world? We're all special, find what makes you special by helping others in the way only you can. If you've been hurt by someone, find others who have gone through similar things. Help them!
Point two: If you're suicidal, look for the good and also try to help someone else.
The last time I struggled with this was several years ago when I had SEVERE postpartum.
Point three: If you're having thoughts that don't seem logical at times--even to yourself--seek professional help.
These resources are often free!
Call a suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255
Or call for prayer: 1-800-759-0700
Find online resources:
yourlifeyourvoice.org
ContactWeCare.org
I know this post might seem silly, but I felt compelled to write it after reading what someone searched.
Dear reader,
Please know how special you are. Whether you believe in God or not, you have to admit we're all different. You have something amazing and wonderful to offer the world. Don't give up now.
There's a whole future waiting just for you. Grab ahold of life and don't let go. Just imagine the positive impact you can make on the lives of others. Think how many people could learn from your story.
Things will get better. Just hang in there. You are not alone. And like I wrote before YOU ARE SPECIAL!
-Elisa
"I'm feeling suicidal what do I do?" I can't describe how many emotions are running through me right now. "Why?" you ask. Maybe it's because I've been there.
I'm not a professional . . . I don't have a simple answer, so today, I took time to write a story that shows how I feel. When I'm depressed, this line of thinking gets me through. I hope it will help someone else as well.
Once, a long time ago, a father lived in a cottage which sat in the middle of a bright, magical forest. Part of him had crumpled and died from sadness after riding through the test of fate, but new-found joy came from his housekeeper and two children who stayed with him. His children were very young though, and if their father died, they wouldn't have remembered his name or even his face.
The father and housekeeper looked out through the window, and thought about all of this as the children played outside, enjoying the shade and bounty the trees offered. It was then that the forest turned dark with pain. The very trees bent away from the cottage, cringing as if they grasped the mood of everything around.
A knock resounded from the front door.
"Hello?" The father answered the door, then his eyes turned wary.
A massive snake slithered into the house, grew and billowed, smoking into the shape of a man who was pale, dismal and graying.
"What do you want?" the father asked.
"The lives of your two children."
"Haven't you taken enough from me, Levi?" the father spat. "Do what you're best at--go prey on the weak. Leave what's left of my family alone!"
"Are you afraid?" the evil man asked, chuckling softly.
"Never! You're beneath me; your very presence has no power here." But the father did seem worried despite his truthful words.
"Then you won't mind taking a wager. I bet that if your children couldn't see you or even touch you, they would turn into greedy or self-loathing people."
"No they wouldn't," the father yelled. "Not my children."
"Ha! Well, then, give them the chance. Let's see what happens to these amazing children without guidance from you or their insignificant housekeeper. I'll spare their lives now, but if they do fall for my ploys, then when they die, I get to keep their souls."
The housekeeper ran into the room and tugged on the father's arm. "No," she pleaded.
The father didn't listen though. "You'll both see the power of a human heart," the father said and shook hands with Levi, the darkly-clothed sorcerer.
Years passed and although the children no longer saw their father, the housekeeper or even the cottage they'd once lived in, they survived in ignorance.
The father was a powerful magician as well, and when he'd bargained with Levi, he'd used magics of his own. Yes, his children couldn't see him or touch him, but if they wished, they could still sense his presence.
He watched them grow and every time they fell or got hurt, fought or cried, he wished he could protect them from the pain. But he couldn't, he'd made an unbreakable deal, and his protection could only do so much.
"I hate him!" the boy said when he was a teenager.
"Who?" his sister asked.
"Our father, if we ever had a father. Our parents must have left us alone in the middle of a forest. I don't know about you, but I'm getting out of here."
So, they left together. And as they traveled, the father and housekeeper followed them closely.
Rain and snow came, but the housekeeper protected them. She'd always had a special relationship with the elements, and so she used it to help the children while they were growing up.
The father nearly cringed when they passed beyond his property because although he couldn't do anything, they were entering the lands of Levi the sorcerer.
The second they passed the boundary, a strange woman appeared before the two teenage children. "Are you lost?" she asked.
"No," the boy answered, "but we would like to find our way out of here."
"Well what are you seeking?" she crooned. "After all, the only thing worth seeking is power. I can bring you to a place where riches can be found and friends can be bought. Your wildest dreams can come true."
The girl didn't seem convinced, but her brother jumped at the chance. "Take us there."
So they traveled with the woman, and the whole time the father and housekeeper tried warning them with whispers and worries, "Don't follow her. She's really Levi!"
But the teenagers couldn't hear the warnings. And when it came time that they saw a beautiful castle in the distance, the brother sneaked off before anyone could wake up. He figured if he earned a fortune, he wanted it all to himself.
The father and housekeeper grieved over the son's poor choice. But nothing could be done--he'd shown his worth.
When the sister woke up, no one was there. In fact, where the old woman had slept, the only thing in her place was a glistening knife.
The girl turned her face away. She held her knees close to herself, and cried. "I'm so alone. Doesn't anyone know what it's like living this way? My brother left me. I never wanted gold or jewels, I just wanted someone to really appreciate me. There's nothing to live for!"
"Then do it," a voice whispered into the recesses of her mind. Although Levi, in his true form, stood behind her, he'd made himself invisible to her. "Your brother is greedy; now you're the most pitiful human known to man. Just end it now. KILL . . . YOURSELF. The world would be better without you."
The young girl sobbed even harder. At first the notion seemed ridiculous, almost silly. But as she sat there for hours, the more she thought, she nodded. Maybe it wasn't so silly after all . . .
"Don't!" the father screamed. He and the housekeeper had been watching the whole time.
Levi laughed as the girl picked up the knife which had rested where the woman had been. "One simple action could end it all."
"No," the father ran to her. "I'm here, I've been here. You can't see me, but I know you're strong enough to make the right choice. Don't kill yourself! Please just open your heart and you'll feel my presence."
But the girl, so absorbed in her own pain and self-pity, could not hear her own father.
"You're terrible. Filthy!"
"Stop it!" she screamed aloud. "Won't anyone ever love me. But why would they? I am so pathetic."
The knife came closer, closer to her wrists.
It wasn't until the housekeeper sent a wind toward the girl, that she paused in her action.
The father tried taking away the knife, but he couldn't. The choice--the victory if she conquered this test and lived--that would belong solely to the girl. She sniffled into the wind, sat in the middle of a beautiful meadow, and no longer saw the beauty of life.
The father cried then, big tears which seemed strange coming from such a strong man and as he cried, the wind carried his tears and they fell on his daughter's cheeks.
"If she only knew that someone out there loved her. If she didn't feel so worthless." The father bent and hugged her. "I love you. I'm so sorry. I wish I could take away the pain, but this is something you have to conquer on your own," he said. "Please be strong! I promise things will get better if you just hang in there."
The knife came closer and then wavered.
"I love you," he said one last time, and as the winds subsided, the beautiful girl looked up, confused. Pain filled her eyes. "Father?" she asked. The knife slowly fell from her hand. "Father!"
"Yes," her father said expectantly, and his daughter actually heard him.
She stood and looked around as a gentle understanding lit her face. "Things will get better?" she said.
"They will." He stood so proud. She proved herself strong, resilient in adversity. She'd faced one of the biggest battles in life--and overcome depression.
"Because this is my one life to live," she nodded. Her face turned to the fading wind and she smiled. "I'm so glad you're real." Then her eyes looked at the glowing city. "I need to tell my brother."
Levi screamed more upset than he'd been in centuries. "Leave your brother alone!"
"Leviathan," the father said using Levi's full name. "You may think you've gained my son. But remember . . . you've lost my daughter. She was never weak enough for you, and now she's going to share her strength with my son! My power multiplies growing with love and knowledge. Your strength only feeds off the weak!"
Leviathan turned to angry vapor as the father and housekeeper followed the girl.
"Levi's on his way to influence my son."
"But she hears you now," the house keeper said. "Don't lose hope."
The girl walked ahead of them. The rising sun kissed her dancing hair and resolute face.
"She is beautiful," Father God said to the housekeeper.
"Of course," Mother Nature Replied. "She was made in your image."
They held each others' hands as they followed the daughter, and walked toward the city where each human in tested and tried.
In closing, I just wanted to write something to the person who googled this . . .
YOU are special!
There have been three times when I've depressed to the point of being suicidal.
Once, in high school, certain kids were being VERY mean to me. I asked for help from a teacher and a youth pastor as well. Unfortunately neither of them helped me. It was at that point I decided I had some abusive, toxic relationships in my life.
So, point one is: If you're feeling suicidal because of things people have or are telling you, break off those relationships and surround yourself with people who realize your worth.
The next time I thought about suicide was months after my son died. I came through that because I knew, deep down, things would get better. Life is how you see it. Choose to see good and you'll see it. Choose to see bad, and you'll see that too.
At that point in my life, I started looking beyond myself and my own problems, I began helping others. Doing this--helping others in need often takes the focus of yourself and will help you realize your own value as well as the value of others. How can you help? What is your place in this world? We're all special, find what makes you special by helping others in the way only you can. If you've been hurt by someone, find others who have gone through similar things. Help them!
Point two: If you're suicidal, look for the good and also try to help someone else.
The last time I struggled with this was several years ago when I had SEVERE postpartum.
Point three: If you're having thoughts that don't seem logical at times--even to yourself--seek professional help.
These resources are often free!
Call a suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255
Or call for prayer: 1-800-759-0700
Find online resources:
yourlifeyourvoice.org
ContactWeCare.org
I know this post might seem silly, but I felt compelled to write it after reading what someone searched.
Dear reader,
Please know how special you are. Whether you believe in God or not, you have to admit we're all different. You have something amazing and wonderful to offer the world. Don't give up now.
There's a whole future waiting just for you. Grab ahold of life and don't let go. Just imagine the positive impact you can make on the lives of others. Think how many people could learn from your story.
Things will get better. Just hang in there. You are not alone. And like I wrote before YOU ARE SPECIAL!
-Elisa
May 14, 2012
My Mom Plays the Drums
After coming back from the dead multiple times, my dear laptop finally, irrevocably died. I've scheduled the funeral AND my posts . . . for the next few days--thank God my friend let me use her computer. I hope you'll like what I have planned. I guess I'll be creating my W.I.P with good ol' pen and paper for the next while. That's how I wrote
The Golden Sky
, so maybe this won't be so bad after all.
On a side note, an AMAZING review just went up for Bible Girl. You can find that here: Book Review: Bible Girl
Now, onto the post of the day.
I know this is a day late--since Mother's Day slipped away far too quickly--but if you haven't read about her before, I just wanted to tell you about my mom.
She is amazing. She's been a foundation in my life, someone who was there no matter what. If I'm overly confident, it's because of her. If I refuse to give up--it's because of her. If I like my hair pulled back so tightly people think I've had a facelift . . . it's because of her.
She's one of the most resilient, awe-inspiring people you could meet. Her spirit shines sweet and kind. She seems quiet and meek, but don't let that fool ya, inside she rages with hilarity and every day that woman makes me laugh. One time Cade teased her too much, when he turned, my mom threw a dishrag in his face. It was epic, better than when Neil walked on the moon!
Well, when my mom was two years old, her father died. Then, when she was three, her mother left her along with three of her siblings. Their aunt and uncle raised them. Things were hard, but my mother never gave up. She refused to let things pull her down into the mud of life. She knew she was meant to be something great--a success.
During her sixth grade year, all of the students took a test to see who qualified for the percussion program. My mom passed with unrivaled talent. I've always imagined the test.
In my imagination, the teacher stood by a full drum set and asked, "What's rhythm?"
Some sap raised his hand. "Isn't that when you tap your foot to the music?"
Another kid with preteen pimples probably whispered. "Is it when you clap at church?"
I bet that's when my modest, twelve-year-old mother rolled her eyes. She maybe walked to the front of the class room and hollered, "Listen here, children. You wanna know what rhythm is? Get a load of this!"
Then she sat at those drums, and she played the heck out of 'em! Saints watched from Heaven. Jesus smiled because some-a-day He knew that Italian sweetheart would live for Him. All those kids cheered at the end, because it's not everyday you realize, you're going to school with a legend. I bet that was her first standing ovation--I BET!
So, my mom emerged as a sixth grade icon. She became so fantastic, she used her skill to win Miss C. E. U., and later Miss Carbon County. Then shortly after that, she won my dad.
Here's a picture so you know I'm not lying about her beauty. (If you doubted me--shame on you!)
Later my dad swept her off those rhythmic feet, when he asked her to marry him. They had three kids: a chemist, a mechanical engineer, and a blogger.
So, I'd like to show you a video of my mother playing the drums.
Sorry about the shaky camera, I started crying a bit during this because I kept thinking about how lucky I am to have such a great mother. Then, my mom smiled at me and I got a case of the giggles. Blame it on
P. M. S.. Blame it on lack of sleep. Heck, blame it on LOVE!
Oh, and every time I say "awesome" in this video, please imagine a different (more creative) word in place of it. Maybe epic, fantastic, joyous. I'm not good at public speaking.
Without further ado, here she is folks:
On a side note, an AMAZING review just went up for Bible Girl. You can find that here: Book Review: Bible Girl
Now, onto the post of the day.
I know this is a day late--since Mother's Day slipped away far too quickly--but if you haven't read about her before, I just wanted to tell you about my mom.
She is amazing. She's been a foundation in my life, someone who was there no matter what. If I'm overly confident, it's because of her. If I refuse to give up--it's because of her. If I like my hair pulled back so tightly people think I've had a facelift . . . it's because of her.
She's one of the most resilient, awe-inspiring people you could meet. Her spirit shines sweet and kind. She seems quiet and meek, but don't let that fool ya, inside she rages with hilarity and every day that woman makes me laugh. One time Cade teased her too much, when he turned, my mom threw a dishrag in his face. It was epic, better than when Neil walked on the moon!
Well, when my mom was two years old, her father died. Then, when she was three, her mother left her along with three of her siblings. Their aunt and uncle raised them. Things were hard, but my mother never gave up. She refused to let things pull her down into the mud of life. She knew she was meant to be something great--a success.
During her sixth grade year, all of the students took a test to see who qualified for the percussion program. My mom passed with unrivaled talent. I've always imagined the test.
In my imagination, the teacher stood by a full drum set and asked, "What's rhythm?"
Some sap raised his hand. "Isn't that when you tap your foot to the music?"
Another kid with preteen pimples probably whispered. "Is it when you clap at church?"
I bet that's when my modest, twelve-year-old mother rolled her eyes. She maybe walked to the front of the class room and hollered, "Listen here, children. You wanna know what rhythm is? Get a load of this!"
Then she sat at those drums, and she played the heck out of 'em! Saints watched from Heaven. Jesus smiled because some-a-day He knew that Italian sweetheart would live for Him. All those kids cheered at the end, because it's not everyday you realize, you're going to school with a legend. I bet that was her first standing ovation--I BET!
So, my mom emerged as a sixth grade icon. She became so fantastic, she used her skill to win Miss C. E. U., and later Miss Carbon County. Then shortly after that, she won my dad.
Here's a picture so you know I'm not lying about her beauty. (If you doubted me--shame on you!)
Later my dad swept her off those rhythmic feet, when he asked her to marry him. They had three kids: a chemist, a mechanical engineer, and a blogger.
So, I'd like to show you a video of my mother playing the drums.
Sorry about the shaky camera, I started crying a bit during this because I kept thinking about how lucky I am to have such a great mother. Then, my mom smiled at me and I got a case of the giggles. Blame it on
P. M. S.. Blame it on lack of sleep. Heck, blame it on LOVE!
Oh, and every time I say "awesome" in this video, please imagine a different (more creative) word in place of it. Maybe epic, fantastic, joyous. I'm not good at public speaking.
Without further ado, here she is folks:
May 13, 2012
What's the moon made from?
Happy Mother's Day!
I hope you're all having an amazing one.
Today, I thought it would be fun to post an interview. The Hippie and Scribe came up with most of these questions. They couldn't wait to interview the author of
A Basilisk's Feather
Click the title to visit Carrie's blog--which I love!
Enjoy. This is awesome.
1. If the moon can't be made of cheese, what do you think it should be made from?
Chocolate
is an obvious suggestion. Dark chocolate, of course: milk chocolate is
nice, but it doesn't taste so much of chocolate as just of sweet milky
stuff. Eighty-five percent cocoa is the magic number: just enough
sweetness to balance the bitterness. But then would it shine the right
colour? White chocolate might be better for that, but it's not really chocolate. I think we might be on a non-starter here.
Honey,
maybe? Honey's wonderful stuff. Crystallised honey so it stays in
shape. And because I especially love crystallised honey, even more than
ordinary clear honey. It has a wonderful texture; I've been known to
just eat it from the jar, by itself. It would crystallise anyway in the
cold of space. Also chocolate and cheese both go off eventually but
honey keeps forever.
2. What do you enjoy most about writing?
It's
hard to say. I make up stories and I write, and they're pretty much two
separate activities for me. Making up stories is something I'd be hard
pressed not
to do; whenever I'm not concentrating on something else I'm in one of
my worlds. What I like best about that is meeting and getting to know
new characters. I say meeting, not inventing, because that's what it
feels most like to me. I don't get to just snap my fingers and decide
how they are, I have to let them appear to me and they often don't turn
out to be who I thought they would.
Most
of my stories are quite personal to me, but every so often I find that I
want to write one of them: I have a list of about five or six Books I
Plan To Write. What that's about for me is trying to convey the
impressions and emotions that I get from seeing the events in my head.
It's not always easy, and sometimes there are things that I know about
that just don't make it onto the page, but finding just the right words
to describe something is such a fantastic, rewarding feeling.
3. Do you think trees dance in the night at the same hour when fish walk on water?
Don't
be silly. Dancing trees make the ground vibrate, and the vibrations
spread to the water and disturb the surface, which destroys the surface
tension so that any fish who are still out walking would immediately
fall in.
4. Do you prefer completely evil villains, or those that have an element of good?
With
an element of good. I like villains I can empathise with; I think it
adds something to the story if you can see yourself, or the hero, doing
the same in different circumstances - often they're really messed up in
the head so it's hard to blame them for what they do and sometimes it
can be heartbreaking to see them destroyed, even though that's what you
were rooting for. I like stories that make you feel a lot. Some of my
favourites are stories where it's hard to even work out who you is the
good guy.
I
also much prefer a flawed hero to a perfect one; it's very hard to make
a perfect hero without them ending up an insufferably annoying prat
(like Luke Skywalker. I cannot stand that guy).
Flawed
heroes and villains with an element of good are also more believable, I
think. Who in the real world is either perfect or has no redeeming or
sympathetic qualities whatsoever?
Although,
a really nasty villain can be very effective sometimes and they are
extremely fun to write. Cathartic, you know? I have a Viking named
Stefan in my book who is a thoroughly unpleasant individual, a real
sadist who just enjoys being horrible, and that was one of my favourite
scenes to write, even though I had to put my poor old MC through some
serious stuff.
5. If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?
I'd
quite like to see some of the places where my book is set: Los Angeles
is the main one, and there are also parts in Milwaukee, Chicago and St
Louis. Google maps is all very well - and you can find some really funny
stuff on streetview sometimes - but I'd love to actually be where my
characters are.
The
place I most want to go is Yakutia, in Russia. That's the place that
the rest of Siberia considers remote, and it's full of the most
wonderful, unspoiled forests and wildlife and pretty spectacular. It
also has Lake Baikal, which all the American great lakes would fit
inside with room to spare.
They
say Antarctica is the last great wilderness, but I disagree: I think a
wilderness should have something more than ice, penguins, and a few
seals around the edges. Antarctica's certainly barren and forbidding and
little visited, but there's not a lot of wild anything. I'd give my
vote to the barely explored parts of Russia.
6. Ham and eggs or pancakes?
Pancakes.
I had pancakes for lunch yesterday. If you'd said bacon instead of ham
it might have been a tough choice, though. And it would have to be
proper crepes, the thinner and crispier the better, not those little fat
scotch pancakes.
7. What's your favorite book?
That's a tough question. There are loads of books I like, and all for different reasons.
Something from Terry Pratchett's Discworld
series would have to be a contender: probably Pyramids is my favourite.
No-one can do satire like Terry Pratchett: I've read some of the books
ten times or more, and not only do I still enjoy rereading them, I'm
still noticing new jokes and references every time.
Also Lord of the Rings and A Song of Ice and Fire,
but I couldn't even try to say which book I like best out of either
series, let alone which I prefer overall. Both of them have very rich
and complex fantasy worlds, with loads of detail, and I feel sure that
both of them must have been (and presumably still is in the case of
ASoIaF) a labour of love for the authors.
8. Is it magical where you live?
I
think so. We have a rosebush in the garden that eats you if you're not
careful, although I'm trying to train it. The cat occasionally goes
berserk after looking at a patch of empty space, so it's possible we
have a ghost. And the fridge seems to have no upper limit to its
capacity. However much is in there it can always be repacked and turn
out to be half empty, which is either magic or time-lord technology.
That's
at home, but I'm only there in the holidays. Where I live in term time
it doesn't seem to be magical. We think one of our housemates is a
vampire, but the truth is that vampires are perfectly scientifically
plausible.
9. What's your favorite color and why?
Turquoise.
No particular reason; I just like the way it looks. I've always liked
blue colours, probably partly because when I was little I was very much
the tomboy and insisted on loathing anything 'girly'. I wouldn't have
been seen dead in pink. But I also just like them, and turquoise
especially.
I
wonder sometimes if everyone perceives colours differently - we
couldn't know because the only way we can describe them is by their
names - and whatever your favourite colour is you see the same way I see
mine. Or not. Who knows?
10. What's your first memory?
I can't remember!
I
have two very early memories, and I don't honestly know which came
first. I must have been about two or three in both of them. One is of
having a black eye after walking into the corner of a table. I still
have a tiny scar next to my eye.
The
other is of waking up screaming the night after my birthday - I
couldn't even tell you which birthday. My best present had been a
push-along/ride-on fire engine, and that night I had a dream, probably
brought on by too much cake, that I was eating it, and I couldn't stop
myself, until there was just the steering wheel left. Then I woke up.
It's
amazing what sort of bizarre things seem perfectly plausible and
unremarkable in dreams. Only the other night I dreamed my curtains
talked to me. They said there was a spider on my neck, and I had been
awake and frantically searching for it for several minutes before I
realised it couldn't be real!
I hope you're all having an amazing one.
Today, I thought it would be fun to post an interview. The Hippie and Scribe came up with most of these questions. They couldn't wait to interview the author of
A Basilisk's Feather
Click the title to visit Carrie's blog--which I love!
Enjoy. This is awesome.
1. If the moon can't be made of cheese, what do you think it should be made from?
Chocolate
is an obvious suggestion. Dark chocolate, of course: milk chocolate is
nice, but it doesn't taste so much of chocolate as just of sweet milky
stuff. Eighty-five percent cocoa is the magic number: just enough
sweetness to balance the bitterness. But then would it shine the right
colour? White chocolate might be better for that, but it's not really chocolate. I think we might be on a non-starter here.
Honey,
maybe? Honey's wonderful stuff. Crystallised honey so it stays in
shape. And because I especially love crystallised honey, even more than
ordinary clear honey. It has a wonderful texture; I've been known to
just eat it from the jar, by itself. It would crystallise anyway in the
cold of space. Also chocolate and cheese both go off eventually but
honey keeps forever.
2. What do you enjoy most about writing?
It's
hard to say. I make up stories and I write, and they're pretty much two
separate activities for me. Making up stories is something I'd be hard
pressed not
to do; whenever I'm not concentrating on something else I'm in one of
my worlds. What I like best about that is meeting and getting to know
new characters. I say meeting, not inventing, because that's what it
feels most like to me. I don't get to just snap my fingers and decide
how they are, I have to let them appear to me and they often don't turn
out to be who I thought they would.
Most
of my stories are quite personal to me, but every so often I find that I
want to write one of them: I have a list of about five or six Books I
Plan To Write. What that's about for me is trying to convey the
impressions and emotions that I get from seeing the events in my head.
It's not always easy, and sometimes there are things that I know about
that just don't make it onto the page, but finding just the right words
to describe something is such a fantastic, rewarding feeling.
3. Do you think trees dance in the night at the same hour when fish walk on water?
Don't
be silly. Dancing trees make the ground vibrate, and the vibrations
spread to the water and disturb the surface, which destroys the surface
tension so that any fish who are still out walking would immediately
fall in.
4. Do you prefer completely evil villains, or those that have an element of good?
With
an element of good. I like villains I can empathise with; I think it
adds something to the story if you can see yourself, or the hero, doing
the same in different circumstances - often they're really messed up in
the head so it's hard to blame them for what they do and sometimes it
can be heartbreaking to see them destroyed, even though that's what you
were rooting for. I like stories that make you feel a lot. Some of my
favourites are stories where it's hard to even work out who you is the
good guy.
I
also much prefer a flawed hero to a perfect one; it's very hard to make
a perfect hero without them ending up an insufferably annoying prat
(like Luke Skywalker. I cannot stand that guy).
Flawed
heroes and villains with an element of good are also more believable, I
think. Who in the real world is either perfect or has no redeeming or
sympathetic qualities whatsoever?
Although,
a really nasty villain can be very effective sometimes and they are
extremely fun to write. Cathartic, you know? I have a Viking named
Stefan in my book who is a thoroughly unpleasant individual, a real
sadist who just enjoys being horrible, and that was one of my favourite
scenes to write, even though I had to put my poor old MC through some
serious stuff.
5. If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?
I'd
quite like to see some of the places where my book is set: Los Angeles
is the main one, and there are also parts in Milwaukee, Chicago and St
Louis. Google maps is all very well - and you can find some really funny
stuff on streetview sometimes - but I'd love to actually be where my
characters are.
The
place I most want to go is Yakutia, in Russia. That's the place that
the rest of Siberia considers remote, and it's full of the most
wonderful, unspoiled forests and wildlife and pretty spectacular. It
also has Lake Baikal, which all the American great lakes would fit
inside with room to spare.
They
say Antarctica is the last great wilderness, but I disagree: I think a
wilderness should have something more than ice, penguins, and a few
seals around the edges. Antarctica's certainly barren and forbidding and
little visited, but there's not a lot of wild anything. I'd give my
vote to the barely explored parts of Russia.
6. Ham and eggs or pancakes?
Pancakes.
I had pancakes for lunch yesterday. If you'd said bacon instead of ham
it might have been a tough choice, though. And it would have to be
proper crepes, the thinner and crispier the better, not those little fat
scotch pancakes.
7. What's your favorite book?
That's a tough question. There are loads of books I like, and all for different reasons.
Something from Terry Pratchett's Discworld
series would have to be a contender: probably Pyramids is my favourite.
No-one can do satire like Terry Pratchett: I've read some of the books
ten times or more, and not only do I still enjoy rereading them, I'm
still noticing new jokes and references every time.
Also Lord of the Rings and A Song of Ice and Fire,
but I couldn't even try to say which book I like best out of either
series, let alone which I prefer overall. Both of them have very rich
and complex fantasy worlds, with loads of detail, and I feel sure that
both of them must have been (and presumably still is in the case of
ASoIaF) a labour of love for the authors.
8. Is it magical where you live?
I
think so. We have a rosebush in the garden that eats you if you're not
careful, although I'm trying to train it. The cat occasionally goes
berserk after looking at a patch of empty space, so it's possible we
have a ghost. And the fridge seems to have no upper limit to its
capacity. However much is in there it can always be repacked and turn
out to be half empty, which is either magic or time-lord technology.
That's
at home, but I'm only there in the holidays. Where I live in term time
it doesn't seem to be magical. We think one of our housemates is a
vampire, but the truth is that vampires are perfectly scientifically
plausible.
9. What's your favorite color and why?
Turquoise.
No particular reason; I just like the way it looks. I've always liked
blue colours, probably partly because when I was little I was very much
the tomboy and insisted on loathing anything 'girly'. I wouldn't have
been seen dead in pink. But I also just like them, and turquoise
especially.
I
wonder sometimes if everyone perceives colours differently - we
couldn't know because the only way we can describe them is by their
names - and whatever your favourite colour is you see the same way I see
mine. Or not. Who knows?
10. What's your first memory?
I can't remember!
I
have two very early memories, and I don't honestly know which came
first. I must have been about two or three in both of them. One is of
having a black eye after walking into the corner of a table. I still
have a tiny scar next to my eye.
The
other is of waking up screaming the night after my birthday - I
couldn't even tell you which birthday. My best present had been a
push-along/ride-on fire engine, and that night I had a dream, probably
brought on by too much cake, that I was eating it, and I couldn't stop
myself, until there was just the steering wheel left. Then I woke up.
It's
amazing what sort of bizarre things seem perfectly plausible and
unremarkable in dreams. Only the other night I dreamed my curtains
talked to me. They said there was a spider on my neck, and I had been
awake and frantically searching for it for several minutes before I
realised it couldn't be real!
May 11, 2012
I VERY GOOD SPEAK THE ENGLISH: Fishducky Friday
I love Fridays--here's the famous Fishducky!
Granted,
English is a very difficult language for foreign speakers, especially
Asians, to learn. I give them credit for trying. Not only must they
learn an entirely new vocabulary, but the sentence structure is entirely
different & the spelling is often weird. (George Bernard Shaw once
contended that you could spell “fish” GHOTI. The “f” sound could come
from the “gh” in “enough”, the “i” from the “o” in “women” & the
“sh” from the “ti” in “nation”.) I understand that the Japanese need
jobs as much as Americans do. That being said, I STILL think that a
native born English speaker should be hired for writing their service
manuals. Let me give you two examples of why I feel that way.
I
bought two kitchen chairs from Overstock.com. They were the “retro”
diner style, with bent aluminum legs & red vinyl seats. They came
unassembled. The following is a review that I sent to Overstock: “The
chairs arrived quickly and are very comfortable. Assembly was
relatively easy IF you followed the pictures. The written instructions
were as follows (& this is a direct quote): Assembly way to request
attention: all screws don’t first lock to tighten, until back cushion to
lock tight after that, this chair all screws lock to tighten, then
success.” For some strange reason, my husband had difficulty following
the instructions, although I read them to him very slowly &
enunciated carefully.
The
other example of fine (?) Asian manual writing: A newscaster on TV was
trying to report a story, but he was laughing so hard that it was
difficult for him to do so. He finally was able to say, “This is from
an instruction manual for a certain unnamed Japanese product. There is a
word in it that needs to be corrected. We can’t tell you what the word
that they actually used is, but we’re pretty sure they meant ‘SCREW’
part A into part B!”
I
studied Japanese for a while in night school. I didn’t expect to
become fluent & I didn’t. I just like to learn. I used to do my
homework at my son’s trumpet teacher’s house while he had his lesson. I
guess he picked up some of it. In his Jr. High School band class, the
teacher said he wanted all the kids to count to “four” aloud before
starting to play. Matt asked him if the language mattered. The teacher
said it didn’t. He WAS a little surprised when my white Jewish kid
counted, “Ichi, ni, san, shi!” (Side note: One of the men in my class
was a US customs inspector who worked in the Asian section at the Los
Angeles airport. He figured it would give him an advantage if he could
understand the passenger’s language, especially if they didn’t expect
him to. He told us about one incoming passenger who kept scratching his
legs. It made the inspectors curious enough to examine him. It turned
out that he had 20 or so watches that he was trying to smuggle into the
US. The metal expansion bands were pulling on the hair on his leg
& driving him crazy.)
How
about Spanish? We were in a small town in Mexico where no one, it
seemed, spoke English. I was trying to buy a small statue of the Virgin
Mary for a friend. By about the 10th
shop, I had stopped even trying to be understood in English. I
haltingly asked, “Senor, le hace tiene una pequena figura de la Virgen
Maria?” He showed me some & we were speaking slowly in Spanish. My
husband was in the back of the shop looking at marble chess sets. He
called to me, “Ask him if he has any larger chess sets.” The man
immediately answered, “No, senor. Those are the largest we have!” I
asked him why he didn’t tell me he spoke English earlier. He told me I
looked like I was having too much fun trying my Spanish—& I think he
was right.
Italian,
then? My son-in-law had recently arrived in the US from Italy. He was
taking an ESL (English as a Second Language) course & had gotten a
job as a stock boy. He came over one day & said, “Mom, this guy at
work keeps asking me questions around lunchtime & I don’t know what
he’s saying. I looked up the words & couldn’t find them in the
dictionary.” I asked him what the words were. He told me, “jeet” &
“wajeet”. If he hadn’t mentioned that it was around lunchtime, I’m not
sure I could’ve helped him. I told him the guy was asking, “Did you
eat?” & “What did you eat?”.
Piu
Italiano (More Italian): My daughter was teaching English to air
traffic controllers in Italy. I told her to be VERY sure they at least
understood “UP” & “DOWN”! When her youngest daughter was about 2,
we all went to a dance recital (in California) to watch her 4 year old
sister perform. The theater went pitch black between the dance numbers.
When the lights came back on, it delighted my little granddaughter.
Every single time, a big smile came on her face & she loudly cried,
“ECCO!” (There!, or Look!, in Italian.)
OK,
French, but this is the last one: My husband is a VERY intelligent
man, but somehow he can’t seem to learn foreign languages. (Maybe he
should have written instruction manuals instead of going to law school.)
I had to do all his translating for him in France, which I really
didn’t mind doing. I have to admit I DID get some strange looks when
asking where the men’s room was. We were in a restaurant BEFORE the
days of women’s lib. I got us a table, ordered dinner for the two of
us, asked for some bread, got Bud some extra water (with ice) &
requested the check. I’m sure our waiter told his coworkers he was
going to give it to the pushy broad with the fat guy!
Adieu, adios, ciao & sayonara----fishducky
Granted,
English is a very difficult language for foreign speakers, especially
Asians, to learn. I give them credit for trying. Not only must they
learn an entirely new vocabulary, but the sentence structure is entirely
different & the spelling is often weird. (George Bernard Shaw once
contended that you could spell “fish” GHOTI. The “f” sound could come
from the “gh” in “enough”, the “i” from the “o” in “women” & the
“sh” from the “ti” in “nation”.) I understand that the Japanese need
jobs as much as Americans do. That being said, I STILL think that a
native born English speaker should be hired for writing their service
manuals. Let me give you two examples of why I feel that way.
I
bought two kitchen chairs from Overstock.com. They were the “retro”
diner style, with bent aluminum legs & red vinyl seats. They came
unassembled. The following is a review that I sent to Overstock: “The
chairs arrived quickly and are very comfortable. Assembly was
relatively easy IF you followed the pictures. The written instructions
were as follows (& this is a direct quote): Assembly way to request
attention: all screws don’t first lock to tighten, until back cushion to
lock tight after that, this chair all screws lock to tighten, then
success.” For some strange reason, my husband had difficulty following
the instructions, although I read them to him very slowly &
enunciated carefully.
The
other example of fine (?) Asian manual writing: A newscaster on TV was
trying to report a story, but he was laughing so hard that it was
difficult for him to do so. He finally was able to say, “This is from
an instruction manual for a certain unnamed Japanese product. There is a
word in it that needs to be corrected. We can’t tell you what the word
that they actually used is, but we’re pretty sure they meant ‘SCREW’
part A into part B!”
I
studied Japanese for a while in night school. I didn’t expect to
become fluent & I didn’t. I just like to learn. I used to do my
homework at my son’s trumpet teacher’s house while he had his lesson. I
guess he picked up some of it. In his Jr. High School band class, the
teacher said he wanted all the kids to count to “four” aloud before
starting to play. Matt asked him if the language mattered. The teacher
said it didn’t. He WAS a little surprised when my white Jewish kid
counted, “Ichi, ni, san, shi!” (Side note: One of the men in my class
was a US customs inspector who worked in the Asian section at the Los
Angeles airport. He figured it would give him an advantage if he could
understand the passenger’s language, especially if they didn’t expect
him to. He told us about one incoming passenger who kept scratching his
legs. It made the inspectors curious enough to examine him. It turned
out that he had 20 or so watches that he was trying to smuggle into the
US. The metal expansion bands were pulling on the hair on his leg
& driving him crazy.)
How
about Spanish? We were in a small town in Mexico where no one, it
seemed, spoke English. I was trying to buy a small statue of the Virgin
Mary for a friend. By about the 10th
shop, I had stopped even trying to be understood in English. I
haltingly asked, “Senor, le hace tiene una pequena figura de la Virgen
Maria?” He showed me some & we were speaking slowly in Spanish. My
husband was in the back of the shop looking at marble chess sets. He
called to me, “Ask him if he has any larger chess sets.” The man
immediately answered, “No, senor. Those are the largest we have!” I
asked him why he didn’t tell me he spoke English earlier. He told me I
looked like I was having too much fun trying my Spanish—& I think he
was right.
Italian,
then? My son-in-law had recently arrived in the US from Italy. He was
taking an ESL (English as a Second Language) course & had gotten a
job as a stock boy. He came over one day & said, “Mom, this guy at
work keeps asking me questions around lunchtime & I don’t know what
he’s saying. I looked up the words & couldn’t find them in the
dictionary.” I asked him what the words were. He told me, “jeet” &
“wajeet”. If he hadn’t mentioned that it was around lunchtime, I’m not
sure I could’ve helped him. I told him the guy was asking, “Did you
eat?” & “What did you eat?”.
Piu
Italiano (More Italian): My daughter was teaching English to air
traffic controllers in Italy. I told her to be VERY sure they at least
understood “UP” & “DOWN”! When her youngest daughter was about 2,
we all went to a dance recital (in California) to watch her 4 year old
sister perform. The theater went pitch black between the dance numbers.
When the lights came back on, it delighted my little granddaughter.
Every single time, a big smile came on her face & she loudly cried,
“ECCO!” (There!, or Look!, in Italian.)
OK,
French, but this is the last one: My husband is a VERY intelligent
man, but somehow he can’t seem to learn foreign languages. (Maybe he
should have written instruction manuals instead of going to law school.)
I had to do all his translating for him in France, which I really
didn’t mind doing. I have to admit I DID get some strange looks when
asking where the men’s room was. We were in a restaurant BEFORE the
days of women’s lib. I got us a table, ordered dinner for the two of
us, asked for some bread, got Bud some extra water (with ice) &
requested the check. I’m sure our waiter told his coworkers he was
going to give it to the pushy broad with the fat guy!
Adieu, adios, ciao & sayonara----fishducky
May 10, 2012
A Magical Day We'll Never Forget
I went to great lengths to make yesterday special. It was our last day on vacation.
So, here's the map "someone" delivered to our hotel room.
When we found the two trees that grow as one, three deer stepped from the woods! The Hippie seemed shocked as she whispered, "We went on a treasure hunt. Well, this is the real treasure." We watched those deer for a long time. Surprisingly, Doctor Jones and the Zombie Elf hushed--that alone was magical. Those kids are NEVER quiet.
Sorry my cell camera is such a dream. At least you can kind of see them?
After that, the kids found some prizes Cade and I hid the night before. I know the 'prizes' might sound dumb, but our kids were thrilled. We hid seven different items including a frisbee, silly teeth from the dollar store, water bottles for each of the kids, water and special flavors of Kool Aid packets. The treasures were each shown on the map with an X--how cliche, right?
We walked up the winding road to a Y intersection. A field rested ahead. It looked like nothing special from that angle . . .
But once on the other side, I knew we'd suddenly see this trail leading to a church at the base of a cemetery on a hill:
I timed everything just right. We wouldn't see the path, not until the church bells rang twelve times. At that point, the kids would look back at the church. Then they'd see the "magical" path.
When all of that happened, they were so excited, they ran.
Here's the Zombie Elf and the Scribe behind him.
Vibrant butterflies flew around us. Flowers grew everywhere and I couldn't help laughing since some people say those gorgeous flowers are weeds. That reminded me of life. Sometimes we take the most beautiful things for granted.
Then the path, which only appeared at the perfect time, wrapped around a quaint Catholic church.
The second half is what I'll never forget.
We crossed two tiny bridges. The kids were the bravest heroes ever known, about to visit a haunted cemetery AND LIVE.
The Zombie Elf and Doctor Jones with their silly teeth in. This moment . . . this one makes me smile. Here's the first bridge, where they laughed so hard.
And the second.
The Scribe and the Hippie.
After a long time playing on the trail, we made it to the cemetery. The map instructed us to look for the most striking tree. The Hippie--that genius--found it right away. Cade and I had already hidden a box of Whoppers and a little excerpt from the Bible by the tree. It was about Adam and Eve--because they're awesome--they're our ancestors and a tree is in the story. When I finished reading about fruit, snakes and poor choices, the kids gazed at me and then the 'striking tree.'
It was so surreal. Playing with my kids. It might sound silly, but sitting among those graves of dead strangers, it reminded me of everything I've lost--of everything I've gained. Yeah, life isn't easy, but it's worth it, if you can push through the hard times, just to find the good ones around the corner.
"Why was something from the Bible here?" the Scribe asked, breaking my thoughts. "Aren't we on a hunt for treasure . . . like pirates? Aren't pirates kinda against readin' the Bible?"
To be honest, I hid the scripture because I felt like a sucky mother when my mom asked the kids who Mary was in the Bible. My kids had NO CLUE last week. The Hippie said Mary was a blind beggar Jesus healed. Really? REALLY? Yep, that's my fault.
Anyway, I was about to become an idiot and lie to the Scribe--right after reading the Bible. Then I noticed the Hippie's sparkling eyes.
"Isn't it obvious?" the Hippie said. "It was here, by the tree--in a hidden cemetery--because we just found the Tree of Life! We're the luckiest kids in the universe."
As the Zombie climbed onto a headstone, I was about to scream for him to get down, when a man on a mower drove into view and gave my zombie a mean look.
"Oh my gosh!" the Hippie squealed, oblivious. "I bet that man is the keeper of the cemetery. He promised to spend his whole life guarding this tree. Maybe he's even the one who gave us this map!" She grinned so big. "He might even be an angel."
That mowing man, he got so many compliments and all he did was give us a mean look. To think, we went looking for ghosts and instead we found a lawn-mowing angel . . with a mean face.
You can see the tree on the right. Yes, the Tree of Life is an aspen.
As we walked down the trail, the Scribe pulled me aside. "I love you, Mom. Thanks for all you do. That was so fun."
"What do you mean? I didn't do anything."
She winked at me. "I knew it was you the whole time, but that made it even better. We have parents who love us. We're lucky. Thank you."
I have to admit that as she ran ahead to help her siblings, I cried because it meant so much. My kids may not know everything about the Bible. They may have thought Mary was a blind beggar. They may think the Tree of Life is an aspen, but I'll tell you one thing, at least they know they're loved.
Moments like this make life worth it. I'll hold this memory dear. Forever and always. Because life is short.
P. S. If you'd like more information about Zeke, my son who passed away, please click here:
"The Golden Sky"
So, here's the map "someone" delivered to our hotel room.
When we found the two trees that grow as one, three deer stepped from the woods! The Hippie seemed shocked as she whispered, "We went on a treasure hunt. Well, this is the real treasure." We watched those deer for a long time. Surprisingly, Doctor Jones and the Zombie Elf hushed--that alone was magical. Those kids are NEVER quiet.
Sorry my cell camera is such a dream. At least you can kind of see them? After that, the kids found some prizes Cade and I hid the night before. I know the 'prizes' might sound dumb, but our kids were thrilled. We hid seven different items including a frisbee, silly teeth from the dollar store, water bottles for each of the kids, water and special flavors of Kool Aid packets. The treasures were each shown on the map with an X--how cliche, right?
We walked up the winding road to a Y intersection. A field rested ahead. It looked like nothing special from that angle . . .
But once on the other side, I knew we'd suddenly see this trail leading to a church at the base of a cemetery on a hill:
I timed everything just right. We wouldn't see the path, not until the church bells rang twelve times. At that point, the kids would look back at the church. Then they'd see the "magical" path.
When all of that happened, they were so excited, they ran.
Here's the Zombie Elf and the Scribe behind him. Vibrant butterflies flew around us. Flowers grew everywhere and I couldn't help laughing since some people say those gorgeous flowers are weeds. That reminded me of life. Sometimes we take the most beautiful things for granted.
Then the path, which only appeared at the perfect time, wrapped around a quaint Catholic church.
The second half is what I'll never forget.
We crossed two tiny bridges. The kids were the bravest heroes ever known, about to visit a haunted cemetery AND LIVE.
The Zombie Elf and Doctor Jones with their silly teeth in. This moment . . . this one makes me smile. Here's the first bridge, where they laughed so hard. And the second.
The Scribe and the Hippie. After a long time playing on the trail, we made it to the cemetery. The map instructed us to look for the most striking tree. The Hippie--that genius--found it right away. Cade and I had already hidden a box of Whoppers and a little excerpt from the Bible by the tree. It was about Adam and Eve--because they're awesome--they're our ancestors and a tree is in the story. When I finished reading about fruit, snakes and poor choices, the kids gazed at me and then the 'striking tree.'
It was so surreal. Playing with my kids. It might sound silly, but sitting among those graves of dead strangers, it reminded me of everything I've lost--of everything I've gained. Yeah, life isn't easy, but it's worth it, if you can push through the hard times, just to find the good ones around the corner.
"Why was something from the Bible here?" the Scribe asked, breaking my thoughts. "Aren't we on a hunt for treasure . . . like pirates? Aren't pirates kinda against readin' the Bible?"
To be honest, I hid the scripture because I felt like a sucky mother when my mom asked the kids who Mary was in the Bible. My kids had NO CLUE last week. The Hippie said Mary was a blind beggar Jesus healed. Really? REALLY? Yep, that's my fault.
Anyway, I was about to become an idiot and lie to the Scribe--right after reading the Bible. Then I noticed the Hippie's sparkling eyes.
"Isn't it obvious?" the Hippie said. "It was here, by the tree--in a hidden cemetery--because we just found the Tree of Life! We're the luckiest kids in the universe."
As the Zombie climbed onto a headstone, I was about to scream for him to get down, when a man on a mower drove into view and gave my zombie a mean look.
"Oh my gosh!" the Hippie squealed, oblivious. "I bet that man is the keeper of the cemetery. He promised to spend his whole life guarding this tree. Maybe he's even the one who gave us this map!" She grinned so big. "He might even be an angel."
That mowing man, he got so many compliments and all he did was give us a mean look. To think, we went looking for ghosts and instead we found a lawn-mowing angel . . with a mean face.
You can see the tree on the right. Yes, the Tree of Life is an aspen.
As we walked down the trail, the Scribe pulled me aside. "I love you, Mom. Thanks for all you do. That was so fun."
"What do you mean? I didn't do anything."
She winked at me. "I knew it was you the whole time, but that made it even better. We have parents who love us. We're lucky. Thank you."
I have to admit that as she ran ahead to help her siblings, I cried because it meant so much. My kids may not know everything about the Bible. They may have thought Mary was a blind beggar. They may think the Tree of Life is an aspen, but I'll tell you one thing, at least they know they're loved.
Moments like this make life worth it. I'll hold this memory dear. Forever and always. Because life is short.
P. S. If you'd like more information about Zeke, my son who passed away, please click here:
"The Golden Sky"
May 9, 2012
Going on a treasure hunt!
Melynda's interview went so well! If you'd like to listen to that, here it is:
Listen to internet radio with Journal Jabber on Blog Talk Radio
We're still in Wyoming and today we're going on a treasure hunt. I've rigged everything pretty well. This morning, after Cade left for work, someone knocked on the hotel door so loud they woke up all of the kids. By the time the Hippie and Scribe finally opened the door, the person had fled and left an old book with this note in it:
And this map:
Something amazing happened yesterday. After Cade got back from work, he took me around to hide little treasures near the trail we made. Along the way, we went behind a catholic church and found a hiking path that leads to the cemetery! It's the most beautiful little trail. I can't wait to show you pictures of this. The kids are going to love it.
Well, I better get going. The kids are so excited to follow the map to a haunted graveyard. It says that a secret path will reveal itself every day at noon when the clock strikes twelve. All right--I'll admit it--I'm having way too much fun. I'll post pictures tomorrow.
Listen to internet radio with Journal Jabber on Blog Talk Radio
We're still in Wyoming and today we're going on a treasure hunt. I've rigged everything pretty well. This morning, after Cade left for work, someone knocked on the hotel door so loud they woke up all of the kids. By the time the Hippie and Scribe finally opened the door, the person had fled and left an old book with this note in it:
And this map:
Something amazing happened yesterday. After Cade got back from work, he took me around to hide little treasures near the trail we made. Along the way, we went behind a catholic church and found a hiking path that leads to the cemetery! It's the most beautiful little trail. I can't wait to show you pictures of this. The kids are going to love it.
Well, I better get going. The kids are so excited to follow the map to a haunted graveyard. It says that a secret path will reveal itself every day at noon when the clock strikes twelve. All right--I'll admit it--I'm having way too much fun. I'll post pictures tomorrow.
May 8, 2012
Lander, Wyoming: A Haunted Town
We're still on vacation in Wyoming. There are many beautiful places around here.
Photo credit
Photo credit
But one place in particular caught my kids' interest. As they played in the park yesterday, they noticed a cemetery on a nearby hill. "We should go there," the Scribe said. "Butch Cassidy and his gang came here. Maybe someone famous is buried up there. I bet it's haunted!"
I laughed. "You crack me up. You really want to visit a cemetery?"
"Only because it's haunted."
So the kids continued playing. At eleven o'clock a church bell rang--loud and clear eleven times--my kids were so busy playing tag and having the time of their lives, they didn't even notice the bell and how close it was to lunch.
We finally left the playground about a half hour later and started walking uphill. "This is gonna be epic! A real, live haunted cemetery. Just imagine which outlaws are buried there!" the Scribe practically squealed.
It wasn't until we hit a dead end that I started having some fun with the idea.
"Why is this sign here?" the Scribe asked.
"I think it's private property," the Hippie said. "But who in their right mind would buy a cemetery?"
"Well, let's think about that. If the cemetery is just up this hill, and someone else does own it, why would they buy a cemetery?" I asked.
"Maybe the REAL Justin Bieber is buried there," the Hippie said.
"Or Michael Jackson," I said.
"Wait," the Scribe said, "Michael Jackson is dead?"
Where in the heck has she been?
"I bet the worst outlaws are there." A smirk lit the Scribe's face and she turned to her siblings. "Or a vampire bought this land. He buries all of his victims in those graves so when they come back to life, no one will be there to stake them!" As I looked at her I realized the whole thing was an elaborate scheme she'd concocted to scare her siblings. I had to get the one-up on her. Sometimes people need a taste of their own medicine--sometimes it sucks having a writer for a mother.
"Scribe," I whispered. "It might sound crazy, but this town, this place . . . There's something weird going on here--it's all too familiar. Why would a cemetery be blocked off? What are they hiding?" She shook her head and continued listening. "Once, I heard a story about a ghost town. Evil ghosts would come from the graves and haunt the older buildings in town. But we can't be there. In that town, when the sun was at its peak in the sky, the church bells would ring exactly twelve times. That's how people knew the ghosts would be coming."
"Really?" the kids asked.
"Yeah." I looked upward--like a flippin' ninja--because I'd timed it just right. As we turned to walk back down the hill and the kids shuddered about ghost towns, that's when the church bells started ringing.
Once . . .
Twice . . .
I swear, even I got chills!
The kids started counting after that and with each sound their fear and excitement grew. "Nine . . . Ten . . . Eleven . . . Twelve."
The last bell rang out long and hard, then silence fell.
"Oh. My. Gosh!" the Hippie squealed. "This place IS haunted."
The kids talked about old Butch and everything they've learned about the west. They went on and on about when we went to Deadwood, SD and saw places Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley visited. They turned the conversation back to Butch, said he was only in prison once, near the place we're staying right now.
When we had finally walked back to the hotel, the Scribe looked at me. "I don't believe any of this, not really. That's why I'm going to google it--because you tease, but google ALWAYS tells the truth."
She gasped at each page she found. Stories upon stories like this, The Lander Bar Ghost, filled the pages. Apparently Lander, Wyoming has been listed in the top three most haunted places in the West!
So, we're having fun with this. We might go visit some of the "haunted" buildings in town--including the Cowfish which has been written about multiple times.
And for tomorrow, I found the real entrance to the cemetery; it's on the other side where it isn't blocked off by private property. Anyway, Cade and I bought some old-looking paper and other things. We're taking the kids on a treasure hunt that will lead to the cemetery. I hope the kids will have a ball reading a treasure map and going on a real adventure.
A Reminder . . .
Melynda Fleury will be on Journal Jabber tonight. I'm so excited to hear her interview!
Photo credit
Photo credit But one place in particular caught my kids' interest. As they played in the park yesterday, they noticed a cemetery on a nearby hill. "We should go there," the Scribe said. "Butch Cassidy and his gang came here. Maybe someone famous is buried up there. I bet it's haunted!"
I laughed. "You crack me up. You really want to visit a cemetery?"
"Only because it's haunted."
So the kids continued playing. At eleven o'clock a church bell rang--loud and clear eleven times--my kids were so busy playing tag and having the time of their lives, they didn't even notice the bell and how close it was to lunch.
We finally left the playground about a half hour later and started walking uphill. "This is gonna be epic! A real, live haunted cemetery. Just imagine which outlaws are buried there!" the Scribe practically squealed.
It wasn't until we hit a dead end that I started having some fun with the idea.
"Why is this sign here?" the Scribe asked.
"I think it's private property," the Hippie said. "But who in their right mind would buy a cemetery?"
"Well, let's think about that. If the cemetery is just up this hill, and someone else does own it, why would they buy a cemetery?" I asked.
"Maybe the REAL Justin Bieber is buried there," the Hippie said.
"Or Michael Jackson," I said.
"Wait," the Scribe said, "Michael Jackson is dead?"
Where in the heck has she been?
"I bet the worst outlaws are there." A smirk lit the Scribe's face and she turned to her siblings. "Or a vampire bought this land. He buries all of his victims in those graves so when they come back to life, no one will be there to stake them!" As I looked at her I realized the whole thing was an elaborate scheme she'd concocted to scare her siblings. I had to get the one-up on her. Sometimes people need a taste of their own medicine--sometimes it sucks having a writer for a mother.
"Scribe," I whispered. "It might sound crazy, but this town, this place . . . There's something weird going on here--it's all too familiar. Why would a cemetery be blocked off? What are they hiding?" She shook her head and continued listening. "Once, I heard a story about a ghost town. Evil ghosts would come from the graves and haunt the older buildings in town. But we can't be there. In that town, when the sun was at its peak in the sky, the church bells would ring exactly twelve times. That's how people knew the ghosts would be coming."
"Really?" the kids asked.
"Yeah." I looked upward--like a flippin' ninja--because I'd timed it just right. As we turned to walk back down the hill and the kids shuddered about ghost towns, that's when the church bells started ringing.
Once . . .
Twice . . .
I swear, even I got chills!
The kids started counting after that and with each sound their fear and excitement grew. "Nine . . . Ten . . . Eleven . . . Twelve."
The last bell rang out long and hard, then silence fell.
"Oh. My. Gosh!" the Hippie squealed. "This place IS haunted."
The kids talked about old Butch and everything they've learned about the west. They went on and on about when we went to Deadwood, SD and saw places Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley visited. They turned the conversation back to Butch, said he was only in prison once, near the place we're staying right now.
When we had finally walked back to the hotel, the Scribe looked at me. "I don't believe any of this, not really. That's why I'm going to google it--because you tease, but google ALWAYS tells the truth."
She gasped at each page she found. Stories upon stories like this, The Lander Bar Ghost, filled the pages. Apparently Lander, Wyoming has been listed in the top three most haunted places in the West!
So, we're having fun with this. We might go visit some of the "haunted" buildings in town--including the Cowfish which has been written about multiple times.
And for tomorrow, I found the real entrance to the cemetery; it's on the other side where it isn't blocked off by private property. Anyway, Cade and I bought some old-looking paper and other things. We're taking the kids on a treasure hunt that will lead to the cemetery. I hope the kids will have a ball reading a treasure map and going on a real adventure.
A Reminder . . .
Melynda Fleury will be on Journal Jabber tonight. I'm so excited to hear her interview!
May 7, 2012
Because it's magical like a *&%$!
We're on vacation in Wyoming. I love it here, seriously. We drove all day yesterday and once when we stopped at a gas station, I got out and breathed the beautiful air. Almost everyone there wore boots--which was epic. Pure, rich dirt covered the mountains. Cattle ate the yellowed grass in a nearby field. People waved at me like we were friends!
Anyway, it felt so good being out of the city, as I paid for my coffee, I smiled at the cashier and said, "Wyoming . . . it's like a good orgasm because some things are just magical."
YOU should have seen her face. She was the only person who didn't fit the Wyoming I'm used to. She had piercings and short hair. She stared at me and then burst with laughter. "You know, you're right. I've never heard it put quite like that, by someone who looks . . . so proper. You're right though, even if you did just shock the hell outta me."
I nodded, then smirked skipping from the gas station. Okay, maybe I didn't really skip--on the outside. But I did on the inside because that's what I live for: Wyoming AND the shock factor. You know what, they're both like good orgasms!
Well, I'll still be blogging this week, since I'm addicted so bad I'm not even scared to admit it.
In closing, I have a question for you . . .
Should I release my story "Homeless in Hawaii" on my blog?
Yes, two chapters a week (which will include cliffhangers).
Yes, one chapter a week.
Yes, four chapters a week (no cliffhanger chapters).
No, I want to read it all at once in December.
pollcode.com free polls
Anyway, it felt so good being out of the city, as I paid for my coffee, I smiled at the cashier and said, "Wyoming . . . it's like a good orgasm because some things are just magical."
YOU should have seen her face. She was the only person who didn't fit the Wyoming I'm used to. She had piercings and short hair. She stared at me and then burst with laughter. "You know, you're right. I've never heard it put quite like that, by someone who looks . . . so proper. You're right though, even if you did just shock the hell outta me."
I nodded, then smirked skipping from the gas station. Okay, maybe I didn't really skip--on the outside. But I did on the inside because that's what I live for: Wyoming AND the shock factor. You know what, they're both like good orgasms!
Well, I'll still be blogging this week, since I'm addicted so bad I'm not even scared to admit it.
In closing, I have a question for you . . .
Should I release my story "Homeless in Hawaii" on my blog?
Yes, two chapters a week (which will include cliffhangers).
Yes, one chapter a week.
Yes, four chapters a week (no cliffhanger chapters).
No, I want to read it all at once in December.
pollcode.com free polls
May 6, 2012
Dangers of Story Plotting in Restaurants
Adrienne deWolfe has agreed to guest post here today! I'm so excited. Enjoy.
Brainstorming:
Dangers of Story Plotting in Restaurants
By Adrienne deWolfe
So
there we sat, two innocent but extremely vocal writers, brainstorming
the story plot of my Paranormal Romance in a restaurant. We’ll call
this eatery “Benny’s.”
On
this particular day, Patty had graciously agreed to reschedule her
afternoon's itinerary of laundry-folding and sock-matching to act as my
brainstorming buddy.
When I get stuck and can’t make sense of the convoluted story plot for my Paranormal Romance (Wolfspell,
Autumn 2012), I bribe Patty with lunch. Patty is a Romance novelist who
aspires to be published in Fantasy fiction and is well read in every
genre. For this reason, Patty has served as a guest speaker in the
story plotting lessons that I teach in my online course, How to Write a Romance Novel that Sells.
As
a published novelist (and brainstorming professional), Patty
understands how the rusty wheels turn in the minds of New York editors.
This is an important trait in a story plot consultant. But Patty’s
most important credential is her sense of humor. To put it mildly,
Patty is a hoot!
Picture the scene as my story plotting accomplice and I prepared for our brainstorming mission:
Patty
and I drove to the restaurant in separate cars. We arrived incognito
(no pens, no notebooks). We were seated at a central table, in the
busiest section of the eatery. We decided to pig out on hot fudge
brownie sundaes to improve our facility for story plotting.
It
was approximately 1:00 p.m. on a weekday, during the latter half of
Lunch Rush. Fellow diners were crammed into booths and tables that were
roughly 12 inches from my elbow. Servers were squeezing by with
humongous trays loaded with BLT's, chicken salad, and the daily soup
special.
During
the following story plotting incident, I’d like to note (in my defense)
that I was guzzling my third cola. The sugar-loaded, caffeinated kind.
My conversation with Patty went something like this:
A: I need to get rid of (G).
P: Who’s this guy again?
A: You know. The one who slept with (L).
P: Oh yeah. Now I remember.
A: I hate him! I need him to die!
P: As long as there's plenty of motivation . . .
A: Oh, there's motivation, all right. I'm sick of him.
P: You thinking about bullets?
A: Naw. Something slow and torturous.
P: How ‘bout putting a box of scorpions under the sheets?
A: Eew!
P: Suffocation by pillow?
A: Risky. He'd be a flailer.
P: Worried about phlegm on the Egyptian cotton?
A: Get serious!
P: Uh . . . right. How 'bout death cap?
A: I don't have time to research fatal mushrooms. 'Sides. Poison's much too tidy.
P: No guts, no gory, right?
A: (Laughs)
P: Well, if you want to kill him in a grisly way, make it big and splashy. Like a grenade down his pants.
A:
That’s it! Exploding body parts. No traceable corpse . . . I like
the way you think! He’ll go out with a bang! Thanks, Patty! An
explosion would be a great way to kill him. I can’t wait to get home!
At
this precise moment, the restaurant hushed. At least forty pairs of
eyes drilled into me. Mouths were gaping. Forks were hovering.
Chocolate syrup was dripping from the dirty dishes that our server was
balancing above my shoulder.
Patty
never missed a beat. As cool as the proverbial cuke, Patty looked up
at our distraught server and drawled, “Check please. My friend has a
busy day ahead.”
Now
you can appreciate why I call Patty when I need to brainstorm the story
plot of my Paranormal Romance novel. Patty's the perfect partner for
making a scene – and writing one.
About Adrienne deWolfe
Originally
published by Bantam and Avon Books, Adrienne deWolfe’s 5 Romance novels
have earned 9 fiction-writing awards, including the Best Historical
Romance of the Year. Currently, she is in the middle of a virtual book tour for her new ebook, How to Write Wildly Popular Romances, which has been released in conjunction with her online writing course, How to Write a Romance Novel That Sells (which starts May 21.) Adrienne invites you to enter her raffles for great prizes (including autographed collector's items) by visiting her website, WritingNovelsThatSell.com. Follow Adrienne on Twitter, Facebook, and Google Plus.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
<a href="http://rafl.es/enable-js"&am... need javascript enabled to see this giveaway</a>.
Brainstorming:
Dangers of Story Plotting in Restaurants
By Adrienne deWolfe
So
there we sat, two innocent but extremely vocal writers, brainstorming
the story plot of my Paranormal Romance in a restaurant. We’ll call
this eatery “Benny’s.”
On
this particular day, Patty had graciously agreed to reschedule her
afternoon's itinerary of laundry-folding and sock-matching to act as my
brainstorming buddy.
When I get stuck and can’t make sense of the convoluted story plot for my Paranormal Romance (Wolfspell,
Autumn 2012), I bribe Patty with lunch. Patty is a Romance novelist who
aspires to be published in Fantasy fiction and is well read in every
genre. For this reason, Patty has served as a guest speaker in the
story plotting lessons that I teach in my online course, How to Write a Romance Novel that Sells.
As
a published novelist (and brainstorming professional), Patty
understands how the rusty wheels turn in the minds of New York editors.
This is an important trait in a story plot consultant. But Patty’s
most important credential is her sense of humor. To put it mildly,
Patty is a hoot!
Picture the scene as my story plotting accomplice and I prepared for our brainstorming mission:
Patty
and I drove to the restaurant in separate cars. We arrived incognito
(no pens, no notebooks). We were seated at a central table, in the
busiest section of the eatery. We decided to pig out on hot fudge
brownie sundaes to improve our facility for story plotting.
It
was approximately 1:00 p.m. on a weekday, during the latter half of
Lunch Rush. Fellow diners were crammed into booths and tables that were
roughly 12 inches from my elbow. Servers were squeezing by with
humongous trays loaded with BLT's, chicken salad, and the daily soup
special.
During
the following story plotting incident, I’d like to note (in my defense)
that I was guzzling my third cola. The sugar-loaded, caffeinated kind.
My conversation with Patty went something like this:
A: I need to get rid of (G).
P: Who’s this guy again?
A: You know. The one who slept with (L).
P: Oh yeah. Now I remember.
A: I hate him! I need him to die!
P: As long as there's plenty of motivation . . .
A: Oh, there's motivation, all right. I'm sick of him.
P: You thinking about bullets?
A: Naw. Something slow and torturous.
P: How ‘bout putting a box of scorpions under the sheets?
A: Eew!
P: Suffocation by pillow?
A: Risky. He'd be a flailer.
P: Worried about phlegm on the Egyptian cotton?
A: Get serious!
P: Uh . . . right. How 'bout death cap?
A: I don't have time to research fatal mushrooms. 'Sides. Poison's much too tidy.
P: No guts, no gory, right?
A: (Laughs)
P: Well, if you want to kill him in a grisly way, make it big and splashy. Like a grenade down his pants.
A:
That’s it! Exploding body parts. No traceable corpse . . . I like
the way you think! He’ll go out with a bang! Thanks, Patty! An
explosion would be a great way to kill him. I can’t wait to get home!
At
this precise moment, the restaurant hushed. At least forty pairs of
eyes drilled into me. Mouths were gaping. Forks were hovering.
Chocolate syrup was dripping from the dirty dishes that our server was
balancing above my shoulder.
Patty
never missed a beat. As cool as the proverbial cuke, Patty looked up
at our distraught server and drawled, “Check please. My friend has a
busy day ahead.”
Now
you can appreciate why I call Patty when I need to brainstorm the story
plot of my Paranormal Romance novel. Patty's the perfect partner for
making a scene – and writing one.
About Adrienne deWolfe
Originally
published by Bantam and Avon Books, Adrienne deWolfe’s 5 Romance novels
have earned 9 fiction-writing awards, including the Best Historical
Romance of the Year. Currently, she is in the middle of a virtual book tour for her new ebook, How to Write Wildly Popular Romances, which has been released in conjunction with her online writing course, How to Write a Romance Novel That Sells (which starts May 21.) Adrienne invites you to enter her raffles for great prizes (including autographed collector's items) by visiting her website, WritingNovelsThatSell.com. Follow Adrienne on Twitter, Facebook, and Google Plus.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
<a href="http://rafl.es/enable-js"&am... need javascript enabled to see this giveaway</a>.
May 5, 2012
Wayman Publishing Signs a New Author: Pat Hatt
Pat Hatt has joined the Wayman Publishing team! I am so thrilled. He has some amazing books already out. Plus, I love his blog.
Pat
Hatt can be found in the East Coast of Canada. He hates writing these
things but doesn't mind talking in the third person. He dabbles in a
little of this and a little of that, not afraid to attempt something
new.
He is owned by two cats, one of whom has his own blog, It's Rhyme Time. Yeah a rhyming cat, who knew? He would be considered a both person when it comes to cats and dogs.
He is also quite the movie and TV buff. As you can probably tell does not take
himself seriously and has more stuff in his head than is needed. As
you can tell he is quite childish too which is why he will have many
children's books come due.
Blog: It's Rhyme Time
Twitter: Rhymetime24
Boo and the Backyard Zoo--Coming Soon from author Pat Hatt and Wayman Publishing!
Check out this amazing artwork.
Now, take it away, Pat.
So
Pat got offered to guest post here. But that is not going to come due I
fear. For Pat is too boring and would have you all snoring. He wanted
to talk about taxes which would probably make you want to murder him
with pitchforks and axes. So the cat will save the human once more and
take over the guest post at Elisa’s shore.
But
what does the cat have to say? Same thing he does every day. A whole
lot of this and a whole lot of that pretending it is not nonsense galore
like at my mat. Nonsense Galore hmmmm that would make for quite the
encore. Let’s pick those two words and see if I can crap out a few
turds. Oh that was a bad visual there. I will keep that talk down since I
am at another’s lair. So on with the show as I pick two words and give
them a go.
Nonsense Galore
In a rinky dink store.
Near Blippity shore.
Items were stacked from end to end,
Whether it was an old or new trend.
Things were getting grim,
As it was stuffed to the brim.
So the staff had a sale,
Bringing about this tale.
Frolo Frog,
Bought himself a bog.
It was a replica of course,
Unlike that rocking horse.
Which Preta Pig,
Snapped up along with a wig.
Cost a cool loonie,
That is not moony.
It’s simply a dollar,
For a non-Canadian caller.
Trilip Tramp
Got himself a stamp.
With a name like that,
He must be a rat.
While six toed crocodile,
Updated his shoe style.
I hope it wasn’t a friend,
He chose to wear in the end.
The rinky dink store,
Finally closed its door.
The staff found it bare,
Which was truly rare.
As nonsense galore
Had always cluttered the store.
They danced a mile,
Glad to have nothing to file.
One stepped on a stone,
Causing the rinky dink store to groan.
It came alive,
At ten after five.
On that faithful night,
Yapping to everyone in sight.
Saying its tummy was bare.
And were they not aware,
That it needs to be full,
To keep back Frumpy Bull?
Seems the rinky dink store,
Did so much more.
As it housed the bull of lore,
That years ago plagued Blippity shore.
Before they could answer back,
They heard Frumpy Bull sound the attack.
He burst through the wall,
Continuing his call.
He bounced them around like ball,
Not noticing Pete Too Tall.
He did look like a statue though,
So unless you are a peeping crow,
He might blend in,
With the walls of tin.
Pete Too Tall went through town,
Telling everyone what was going down.
His stride was so large,
In seconds he made it to Blippity barge,
The end of the shore,
Truly isn’t much there to explore.
Out they all came,
Feeling to blame,
For this whole mess,
Making their trinkets worthless.
Frumpy Bull bounced the staff,
Continuing to laugh.
Until he was whacked with a bog.
Then some fire log.
Before too long,
He was singing a new song.
Stuck in nonsense galore,
As it once more filled the store.
Frumpy Bull cried out,
Giving one final shout.
The same old “I’ll get you” encore.
When he was bounced through the store.
Once more in the wall,
No longer able to give a call.
For he was bricked up once more,
Thanks to the rinky dink store.
For now that it was full,
Of things from bogs to wool.
To a flower shower.
It once more had the power.
To keep Frumpy Bull in check,
Preventing another ship wreck.
And any other harm he’d cause.
The crowd finally gave applause.
Finding the trinkets were nonsense after all,
Never needed at their hall.
And they had helped protect their shore,
By filling the rinky dink store with nonsense galore.
There
we go. How was that for a nonsense flow? Took a whole twenty minute to
do and now the cat must use the loo. What that too much info for you? At
least I didn’t use poo. Oh crap! We’ll blame that on that Pat chap and
just say this guest post has come to pass before certain things start
coming out my little rhyming umm, you know the word it’s something
crass.
Experience spring, have a fling.
Pat
Hatt can be found in the East Coast of Canada. He hates writing these
things but doesn't mind talking in the third person. He dabbles in a
little of this and a little of that, not afraid to attempt something
new.
He is owned by two cats, one of whom has his own blog, It's Rhyme Time. Yeah a rhyming cat, who knew? He would be considered a both person when it comes to cats and dogs.
He is also quite the movie and TV buff. As you can probably tell does not take
himself seriously and has more stuff in his head than is needed. As
you can tell he is quite childish too which is why he will have many
children's books come due.
Blog: It's Rhyme Time
Twitter: Rhymetime24
Boo and the Backyard Zoo--Coming Soon from author Pat Hatt and Wayman Publishing!
Check out this amazing artwork.
Now, take it away, Pat.
So
Pat got offered to guest post here. But that is not going to come due I
fear. For Pat is too boring and would have you all snoring. He wanted
to talk about taxes which would probably make you want to murder him
with pitchforks and axes. So the cat will save the human once more and
take over the guest post at Elisa’s shore.
But
what does the cat have to say? Same thing he does every day. A whole
lot of this and a whole lot of that pretending it is not nonsense galore
like at my mat. Nonsense Galore hmmmm that would make for quite the
encore. Let’s pick those two words and see if I can crap out a few
turds. Oh that was a bad visual there. I will keep that talk down since I
am at another’s lair. So on with the show as I pick two words and give
them a go.
Nonsense Galore
In a rinky dink store.
Near Blippity shore.
Items were stacked from end to end,
Whether it was an old or new trend.
Things were getting grim,
As it was stuffed to the brim.
So the staff had a sale,
Bringing about this tale.
Frolo Frog,
Bought himself a bog.
It was a replica of course,
Unlike that rocking horse.
Which Preta Pig,
Snapped up along with a wig.
Cost a cool loonie,
That is not moony.
It’s simply a dollar,
For a non-Canadian caller.
Trilip Tramp
Got himself a stamp.
With a name like that,
He must be a rat.
While six toed crocodile,
Updated his shoe style.
I hope it wasn’t a friend,
He chose to wear in the end.
The rinky dink store,
Finally closed its door.
The staff found it bare,
Which was truly rare.
As nonsense galore
Had always cluttered the store.
They danced a mile,
Glad to have nothing to file.
One stepped on a stone,
Causing the rinky dink store to groan.
It came alive,
At ten after five.
On that faithful night,
Yapping to everyone in sight.
Saying its tummy was bare.
And were they not aware,
That it needs to be full,
To keep back Frumpy Bull?
Seems the rinky dink store,
Did so much more.
As it housed the bull of lore,
That years ago plagued Blippity shore.
Before they could answer back,
They heard Frumpy Bull sound the attack.
He burst through the wall,
Continuing his call.
He bounced them around like ball,
Not noticing Pete Too Tall.
He did look like a statue though,
So unless you are a peeping crow,
He might blend in,
With the walls of tin.
Pete Too Tall went through town,
Telling everyone what was going down.
His stride was so large,
In seconds he made it to Blippity barge,
The end of the shore,
Truly isn’t much there to explore.
Out they all came,
Feeling to blame,
For this whole mess,
Making their trinkets worthless.
Frumpy Bull bounced the staff,
Continuing to laugh.
Until he was whacked with a bog.
Then some fire log.
Before too long,
He was singing a new song.
Stuck in nonsense galore,
As it once more filled the store.
Frumpy Bull cried out,
Giving one final shout.
The same old “I’ll get you” encore.
When he was bounced through the store.
Once more in the wall,
No longer able to give a call.
For he was bricked up once more,
Thanks to the rinky dink store.
For now that it was full,
Of things from bogs to wool.
To a flower shower.
It once more had the power.
To keep Frumpy Bull in check,
Preventing another ship wreck.
And any other harm he’d cause.
The crowd finally gave applause.
Finding the trinkets were nonsense after all,
Never needed at their hall.
And they had helped protect their shore,
By filling the rinky dink store with nonsense galore.
There
we go. How was that for a nonsense flow? Took a whole twenty minute to
do and now the cat must use the loo. What that too much info for you? At
least I didn’t use poo. Oh crap! We’ll blame that on that Pat chap and
just say this guest post has come to pass before certain things start
coming out my little rhyming umm, you know the word it’s something
crass.
Experience spring, have a fling.
