By Nichole Giles
“What a wonderful idea,” my mother exclaimed. She even dotted her sentence with a period, using her soup spoon and flicking a drop of broccoli cheese goo on my sleeve. “Thanksgiving at your house would be so nice.”
We sat across from each other at a bistro table in an out-of-the-way café. She with her blue-tooth in her ear and her phone constantly buzzing, and me trying to gently, but firmly convince her that five Thanksgiving dinners was too much for anyone to eat.
“Well,” I replied, rubbing my soiled sleeve with a napkin. “It gets tough dividing our time between two sets of parents, grandparents, and in-laws every holiday. I thought it would be nice if I had my brothers and sisters over, and both sets of parents as well.”
“And I agree,” she said. “I just want to do whatever is easier on my kids.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” I said. I gulped down a mouthful of pop knowing that the worst part of this conversation was next. “Because with that same thing in mind, I hope Grandma and Grandpa will understand that we won’t be making it to their dinner this year.”
My mother blinked. “Well, of course not,” she said acting surprised. “Why would you go to the trouble of making a big dinner at your house and then go to theirs as well?”
I sighed in relief. “I wouldn’t,” I said, rushing on. “I love our extended family, but there are just so many of us, and our own immediate family is getting so large that we almost need to book the cultural hall for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “There are a lot of us. I completely understand.”
We went on to discuss the menu, and what each family member should contribute. I would do the turkey, stuffing, and potatoes. There was discussion of yams, salads, hors d’oeuvres, and it isn’t Thanksgiving in our family without at least twenty pies.
The idea of creating so much food didn’t stress me out nearly as much as the idea of spending our day going from dinner to dinner all over two counties. I walked out of the charming café with a spring in my step knowing that I had just performed a small personal miracle by convincing my mother that our holiday traditions might be better with a little bit of change.
As we walked through the parking lot, my mother stopped in thought. “You know, Honey, I’d be happy to let Grandma and Grandpa know about the change of plan, but I think the invitation would be so much better received coming from you.”
Invitation?
“And,” she continued, “since your aunt and uncle from Las Vegas will be in town that week, we’ll need to invite them and their children as well. You’ll need to call them.”
What?
“I’m so glad you’re such a gracious hostess that you’d volunteer yourself to host Thanksgiving this year. Do you have everyone’s phone number? You don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings by leaving them out do you?”
“No, Mom,” I said slowly. “I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.” Am I missing something here?
“I know you don’t. And it won’t hurt us to invite three or four more people. Oh, I’m so excited this is going to be great fun. Love you!” Turning away from what could only have been stunned shock on my face, my mother slid into the driver’s side of her car and revved the engine. She answered her ringing phone and wiggled her fingers at me as she pulled around the parking lot, barely missing the curb as she went.
“How did that happen?” I wondered to myself. Not only had I just managed to get steamrolled into hosting an extended family party, which was sure to be much larger than four extra people, but also somehow, my mother had turned it into my idea. I leaned on the hood of my car trying to piece the conversation together in my head.
My mother had just caught me in a classic word trap, and I hadn’t even seen it coming. Then, with a shrug, I got in my car and turned down the stereo—which was currently on deafening loud volume—before fishing my cell phone out of my purse. “Hi honey,” I said to my husband. “Looks like we’re going to be needing to borrow some banquet tables for Thanksgiving. My mother just invited everybody.”
“You mean EVERYBODY?” he asked.
“EVERYBODY,” I said.
“Ah,” he said, “Okay.” And I could practically hear the ‘I told you so’ he was thinking as he laughingly suggested, “Do you think we’ll need to book the cultural hall?”
“Why not?” I replied. “The more the merrier, right?”
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Why Me?
by Connie S. Hall
When disaster strikes many people ask “Why me?” or they blame God for their misfortune. Not my friend Janice, she says, “The important things are here – my husband, myself, and our cats.”
Friday, November 2nd started out a normal workday, until the telephone rang shortly after 8:30 am. It was my friend Karen, “Connie – there’s a fire in the park – it’s Janice’s mobile home.”
After making a few phone calls prior to leaving work, I closed down the computer, but answered one last call. It was Janice, “I’m racing home Connie – my...”
I interrupted, “I know Janice. I’m leaving right now.”
Janice arrived a few minutes before me. Already the television cameras were on the scene. Friends watched as the fire department continued spraying water. Soon they were digging through the ashes. The most heart-breaking scene was when a firefighter came toward Janice holding out a couple of charred giraffes from her collection, which had belonged to her grandmother. All together, they found five blackened giraffes in their search, and three burnt around the edge 11” x 14” pictures of her recently deceased mother. It seemed to take forever for the firefighters to complete their job, then the long wait for the fire inspector to say it was safe to go in. The news people lingered most the day.
The kitchen area where the fire started was a complete loss, but we were able to enter through the rear door and start the cleanup in the bedrooms. At first glance, we were sure the clothes were okay, but as I pulled them from the closet, it looked as though someone had left their iron on the shoulders of each shirt. The scorch marks were obvious. There was none left untouched. After washing them, the brown marks remained, and so did the smell.
There were many miracles that day. Although everything was lost and they had no insurance, all the cats survived. Most of the pictures were left untouched, even the ones retrieved from areas where the fire destroyed other items. There was no rhyme or reason to the direction the fire burned.
To me it was unbelievable the people who drove by the burned out trailer and the offers of kindness extended. Complete strangers offered to bring food, clothing, and anything they might need. There are many good people in this world, and offers of help are still coming in.
As a writer, I want to tell stories showing this sort of kindness because there are many fine and caring people. When I write, I hope to show the type of empathy displayed that day. Too often, writers leave the emotion out of the story.
When disaster strikes many people ask “Why me?” or they blame God for their misfortune. Not my friend Janice, she says, “The important things are here – my husband, myself, and our cats.”
Friday, November 2nd started out a normal workday, until the telephone rang shortly after 8:30 am. It was my friend Karen, “Connie – there’s a fire in the park – it’s Janice’s mobile home.”
After making a few phone calls prior to leaving work, I closed down the computer, but answered one last call. It was Janice, “I’m racing home Connie – my...”
I interrupted, “I know Janice. I’m leaving right now.”
Janice arrived a few minutes before me. Already the television cameras were on the scene. Friends watched as the fire department continued spraying water. Soon they were digging through the ashes. The most heart-breaking scene was when a firefighter came toward Janice holding out a couple of charred giraffes from her collection, which had belonged to her grandmother. All together, they found five blackened giraffes in their search, and three burnt around the edge 11” x 14” pictures of her recently deceased mother. It seemed to take forever for the firefighters to complete their job, then the long wait for the fire inspector to say it was safe to go in. The news people lingered most the day.
The kitchen area where the fire started was a complete loss, but we were able to enter through the rear door and start the cleanup in the bedrooms. At first glance, we were sure the clothes were okay, but as I pulled them from the closet, it looked as though someone had left their iron on the shoulders of each shirt. The scorch marks were obvious. There was none left untouched. After washing them, the brown marks remained, and so did the smell.
There were many miracles that day. Although everything was lost and they had no insurance, all the cats survived. Most of the pictures were left untouched, even the ones retrieved from areas where the fire destroyed other items. There was no rhyme or reason to the direction the fire burned.
To me it was unbelievable the people who drove by the burned out trailer and the offers of kindness extended. Complete strangers offered to bring food, clothing, and anything they might need. There are many good people in this world, and offers of help are still coming in.
As a writer, I want to tell stories showing this sort of kindness because there are many fine and caring people. When I write, I hope to show the type of empathy displayed that day. Too often, writers leave the emotion out of the story.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Definitely not the Colonel’s Chicken
By C.L. Beck
© 2007
Lately I’ve related two anecdotes from my exceptionally brilliant career as a chicken farmer. It was during that hen-filled stint that some bright person gave the suggestion we should also raise pigs. The idea was so enticing that I talked my husband, Russ, into trying it.
**********
“What shall we call them?” I asked, watching our new little pigs in their pen.
Russ grinned mischievously. “How about naming them Pork-Chop, Ham-Hock, and Bacon?”
I grimaced, covered the ears of our three-year-old and whispered to Russ, “Be careful what you say; Davey doesn’t know we’re going to eat them eventually.”
Russ whispered back, “When were you planning on telling him—as Pork-Chop was sitting on his plate?”
“Obviously before that,” I said, releasing our squirming son.
We watched the oinkers rooting around. Snorts of discovery echoed through the barn. Davey spoke, “We could call them the Three Little Pigs.”
I smoothed the blonde cowlick on his head and said, “That’s a story, Sweetie. It’s not really a name.”
The silence stretched between us as we pondered other ideas. Russ fidgeted, apparently tired of taxing his brain with pig names. “I still think that Pork-Ch—“
“—How about Winken, Blinken and Nod? That’s cute,” I said.
Davey nodded his agreement. Russ raised his eyebrows and stated, “That’s a bedtime story about kids going to sleep.”
“Pigs have to sleep, too, you know.” I harrumphed, waiting for a better suggestion.
Silence reigned. A mouse stuck its nose from under the water trough and then dashed for the feeder. Winken—or maybe it was Blinken; it’s very hard to tell three pink pigs apart—scrambled over, snatched the mouse and gulped it down before I could cover Davey’s eyes.
“Look, Mommy, the pig ate a mouse,” he said.
“Uggg,” I said.
“Cool,” Russ said.
“Cool,” Davey echoed.
And to think I was worried about his tender sensibilities.
My pig manual stated the animals were as smart as dogs. It was true. It didn’t take the porkers long to realize that when we picked up the trough, mice scrambled from beneath. The pigs dashed about, snorting and slurping down rodents. Hearing the ruckus, the cat slunk in. Apparently, oinkers have the ability to extrapolate information. They eyed the cat hungrily. From then on we kept the cat out of the barn.
One day an idea hit. “Why don’t we teach them to come to a whistle?”
Russ shook his head in disbelief. “You fed the chickens oatmeal and hotdogs. And tried to herd grasshoppers to them.”
“You told Daddy about herding the hoppers,” I accused, looking at Davey. He shrugged and grinned.
Russ continued, “The neighbors already think our grain elevator doesn’t go to the top. Now you want to train pigs to a whistle?”
“It might come in handy.”
“I’m sure. Maybe we could use them as substitute hunting dogs, too.” Russ replied.
Months later, we got a phone call. “Your pigs are loose.”
We hopped in the car and sped down the road to the next farmhouse. On arrival, we bailed out. There stood Winken, Blinken and Nod, munching ripe strawberries from the patch.
“Here piggies, nice piggies,” I called. They ignored me.
“Here piggies, stupid piggies,” Russ said. For obvious reasons, they ignored him.
He watched the pigs with their berry-red lips and dirt-blackened snouts. “How’re we going to get them home?”
“Herd them,” I suggested.
Russ replied, “That’ll work about as well as a grasshopper roundup.”
Then it came to me. I gave their food whistle and all three turned with a grunt. They waddled over and stuck their snouts in the air, sniffing for scraps. Probably oatmeal or hot dogs.
Russ said, “Walk back with them and we’ll follow in the car.”
I nodded and started down the road, whistling. Three one-hundred-pound pigs trooped behind in a line, snuffling and snorting all the way home. It was my agricultural moment of triumph.
I’ll freely admit to everyone—except Russ—that when it came to chickens, I was no Colonel Sanders. But hey … when it came to pigs, I was the best pied piper in the county.
© 2007
Lately I’ve related two anecdotes from my exceptionally brilliant career as a chicken farmer. It was during that hen-filled stint that some bright person gave the suggestion we should also raise pigs. The idea was so enticing that I talked my husband, Russ, into trying it.
**********
“What shall we call them?” I asked, watching our new little pigs in their pen.
Russ grinned mischievously. “How about naming them Pork-Chop, Ham-Hock, and Bacon?”
I grimaced, covered the ears of our three-year-old and whispered to Russ, “Be careful what you say; Davey doesn’t know we’re going to eat them eventually.”
Russ whispered back, “When were you planning on telling him—as Pork-Chop was sitting on his plate?”
“Obviously before that,” I said, releasing our squirming son.
We watched the oinkers rooting around. Snorts of discovery echoed through the barn. Davey spoke, “We could call them the Three Little Pigs.”
I smoothed the blonde cowlick on his head and said, “That’s a story, Sweetie. It’s not really a name.”
The silence stretched between us as we pondered other ideas. Russ fidgeted, apparently tired of taxing his brain with pig names. “I still think that Pork-Ch—“
“—How about Winken, Blinken and Nod? That’s cute,” I said.
Davey nodded his agreement. Russ raised his eyebrows and stated, “That’s a bedtime story about kids going to sleep.”
“Pigs have to sleep, too, you know.” I harrumphed, waiting for a better suggestion.
Silence reigned. A mouse stuck its nose from under the water trough and then dashed for the feeder. Winken—or maybe it was Blinken; it’s very hard to tell three pink pigs apart—scrambled over, snatched the mouse and gulped it down before I could cover Davey’s eyes.
“Look, Mommy, the pig ate a mouse,” he said.
“Uggg,” I said.
“Cool,” Russ said.
“Cool,” Davey echoed.
And to think I was worried about his tender sensibilities.
My pig manual stated the animals were as smart as dogs. It was true. It didn’t take the porkers long to realize that when we picked up the trough, mice scrambled from beneath. The pigs dashed about, snorting and slurping down rodents. Hearing the ruckus, the cat slunk in. Apparently, oinkers have the ability to extrapolate information. They eyed the cat hungrily. From then on we kept the cat out of the barn.
One day an idea hit. “Why don’t we teach them to come to a whistle?”
Russ shook his head in disbelief. “You fed the chickens oatmeal and hotdogs. And tried to herd grasshoppers to them.”
“You told Daddy about herding the hoppers,” I accused, looking at Davey. He shrugged and grinned.
Russ continued, “The neighbors already think our grain elevator doesn’t go to the top. Now you want to train pigs to a whistle?”
“It might come in handy.”
“I’m sure. Maybe we could use them as substitute hunting dogs, too.” Russ replied.
Months later, we got a phone call. “Your pigs are loose.”
We hopped in the car and sped down the road to the next farmhouse. On arrival, we bailed out. There stood Winken, Blinken and Nod, munching ripe strawberries from the patch.
“Here piggies, nice piggies,” I called. They ignored me.
“Here piggies, stupid piggies,” Russ said. For obvious reasons, they ignored him.
He watched the pigs with their berry-red lips and dirt-blackened snouts. “How’re we going to get them home?”
“Herd them,” I suggested.
Russ replied, “That’ll work about as well as a grasshopper roundup.”
Then it came to me. I gave their food whistle and all three turned with a grunt. They waddled over and stuck their snouts in the air, sniffing for scraps. Probably oatmeal or hot dogs.
Russ said, “Walk back with them and we’ll follow in the car.”
I nodded and started down the road, whistling. Three one-hundred-pound pigs trooped behind in a line, snuffling and snorting all the way home. It was my agricultural moment of triumph.
I’ll freely admit to everyone—except Russ—that when it came to chickens, I was no Colonel Sanders. But hey … when it came to pigs, I was the best pied piper in the county.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Ouch, The Pain of Writing
By Keith Fisher
For those of us who look forward to weekends, Friday is the day of days, the light at the end of the tunnel. This week, however, it sneaked up on me before I knew it was coming and I was blogless.
To make matters worse, I inflamed my Sciatic Nerve (not sure of the spelling), and had to spend the day lying on my back reading. It’s painful to sit at my desk to write.
This is my longwinded way of apologizing for the condition of my (ouch) writing. And the (ouch) tardiness.
I want to share a condensed quote with you, however, it’s by David G. Woolley, and it hangs on the wall in front of my desk,
"Writing fiction is storytelling, but we must be more than storytellers. Ours is an art of communicating emotions, creating suspense. Describing the grit and grime and smell of a place. If we do it well, we transport the reader to a place just beyond eternity without leaving the Lazy-Boy. It sure ain’t easy—but it is doable."
Good luck with your writing.
For those of us who look forward to weekends, Friday is the day of days, the light at the end of the tunnel. This week, however, it sneaked up on me before I knew it was coming and I was blogless.
To make matters worse, I inflamed my Sciatic Nerve (not sure of the spelling), and had to spend the day lying on my back reading. It’s painful to sit at my desk to write.
This is my longwinded way of apologizing for the condition of my (ouch) writing. And the (ouch) tardiness.
I want to share a condensed quote with you, however, it’s by David G. Woolley, and it hangs on the wall in front of my desk,
"Writing fiction is storytelling, but we must be more than storytellers. Ours is an art of communicating emotions, creating suspense. Describing the grit and grime and smell of a place. If we do it well, we transport the reader to a place just beyond eternity without leaving the Lazy-Boy. It sure ain’t easy—but it is doable."
Good luck with your writing.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Here We Are...Week 2
by G.Parker
Well, here we are, heading into week two of the world renown NaNoWriMo. What is your word count? I’m at 17266 words as of Thursday night, which is my goal.
I decided I won’t be writing Sundays, I rarely write on Saturdays and I’m definitely not going to write on Thanksgiving – so I had to budget the remaining days. It’s an average of about 2,200 words a day, and totally workable.
However – I’m not going to hold myself to 50,000 words this year. I’m planning to finish the story, whatever the word count may be. Sure, if it’s less than 50,000 I’ll have to do some scrambling to make up scenes that I’ll take out later, (grin) but I’m going to get to that goal, regardless.
Whenever this time of year comes around, I think of goals more. Have you ever had a objective you were determined to reach? Especially with writing? It’s like a new years resolution to me, but I never make those because I never keep them. Goals have always been a fleeting, flimsy thing that I’ve never got the hang of until I became an adult. Even then it has only been the past five years or so that I’ve appreciated the value of a setting a goal and how to reach it.
So this is my month of major goals, my new years resolutions so to speak, and I’ll let you know next week if I’m still in the game.
Well, here we are, heading into week two of the world renown NaNoWriMo. What is your word count? I’m at 17266 words as of Thursday night, which is my goal.
I decided I won’t be writing Sundays, I rarely write on Saturdays and I’m definitely not going to write on Thanksgiving – so I had to budget the remaining days. It’s an average of about 2,200 words a day, and totally workable.
However – I’m not going to hold myself to 50,000 words this year. I’m planning to finish the story, whatever the word count may be. Sure, if it’s less than 50,000 I’ll have to do some scrambling to make up scenes that I’ll take out later, (grin) but I’m going to get to that goal, regardless.
Whenever this time of year comes around, I think of goals more. Have you ever had a objective you were determined to reach? Especially with writing? It’s like a new years resolution to me, but I never make those because I never keep them. Goals have always been a fleeting, flimsy thing that I’ve never got the hang of until I became an adult. Even then it has only been the past five years or so that I’ve appreciated the value of a setting a goal and how to reach it.
So this is my month of major goals, my new years resolutions so to speak, and I’ll let you know next week if I’m still in the game.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
My Heroes
By Nichole Giles
I don’t watch TV very often, but recently I’ve been watching more television than I’ve watched in years. It isn’t my fault. Not really. A friend suggested that I should try watching the season premier of a fairly new series. Though I had missed an entire season of this series, I was surprised to find myself hooked after the first episode.
The show is called Heroes. Part of the reason I was hooked so quickly is that the characters are in many ways superheroes of their time, minus the tights. Each character has one super power that has developed over the course of his or her life due to mutated genes. Some can fly, some have extreme strength, one can bend time, and one is a copycat who can do anything she sees done—including wrestling moves and the creation of food masterpieces.
Obviously this show was made for fantasy fans—especially those who loved the superheroes of the past. (I noticed the comeback of Wonder Woman costumes this past Halloween—all on adult women.)
What fascinates me about this show, and the reason—I think—it is so successful, is that not all the characters with super powers are good. It makes sense. The power of choice. Just because someone is given amazing abilities doesn’t mean that person will choose to use those abilities to save the world, or to help others. Some hide their ability, choosing to keep to themselves in hope of continuing with what they consider a normal lifestyle. Others use their powers for thievery, petty crimes, murder and worse.
And so in the same way of the heroes is created a villain. Or two or three or four….
We know how it works. The best conflict in a story comes from forces that are at least equal in power to the main character, and often more powerful and more dangerous. The villain continues to gain power, keeping the upper hand throughout the story. But the main character continues fighting persistently, eventually figuring out how to defeat the villain and win the war.
There it is, the keyword. Persistence. We writers know all about that, right? Editors and publishers continue to gain power over us each time they reject us, and always, always have the upper hand. But we still write and we still submit persistently until eventually we get an acceptance and win the battle for publication.
That makes us heroes of a different kind. I think anyone can be a hero, as long as we don’t let the disappointments in life defeat us. It is through our stubborn determination that we can fight our battles, knowing that we have the ability to—eventually—win the war.
I don’t watch TV very often, but recently I’ve been watching more television than I’ve watched in years. It isn’t my fault. Not really. A friend suggested that I should try watching the season premier of a fairly new series. Though I had missed an entire season of this series, I was surprised to find myself hooked after the first episode.
The show is called Heroes. Part of the reason I was hooked so quickly is that the characters are in many ways superheroes of their time, minus the tights. Each character has one super power that has developed over the course of his or her life due to mutated genes. Some can fly, some have extreme strength, one can bend time, and one is a copycat who can do anything she sees done—including wrestling moves and the creation of food masterpieces.
Obviously this show was made for fantasy fans—especially those who loved the superheroes of the past. (I noticed the comeback of Wonder Woman costumes this past Halloween—all on adult women.)
What fascinates me about this show, and the reason—I think—it is so successful, is that not all the characters with super powers are good. It makes sense. The power of choice. Just because someone is given amazing abilities doesn’t mean that person will choose to use those abilities to save the world, or to help others. Some hide their ability, choosing to keep to themselves in hope of continuing with what they consider a normal lifestyle. Others use their powers for thievery, petty crimes, murder and worse.
And so in the same way of the heroes is created a villain. Or two or three or four….
We know how it works. The best conflict in a story comes from forces that are at least equal in power to the main character, and often more powerful and more dangerous. The villain continues to gain power, keeping the upper hand throughout the story. But the main character continues fighting persistently, eventually figuring out how to defeat the villain and win the war.
There it is, the keyword. Persistence. We writers know all about that, right? Editors and publishers continue to gain power over us each time they reject us, and always, always have the upper hand. But we still write and we still submit persistently until eventually we get an acceptance and win the battle for publication.
That makes us heroes of a different kind. I think anyone can be a hero, as long as we don’t let the disappointments in life defeat us. It is through our stubborn determination that we can fight our battles, knowing that we have the ability to—eventually—win the war.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Repetition or Variety
By Connie S. Hall
There are only a couple of things that I enjoy when it comes to repetition, both of which are church related. First, I love seeing the same thing occur over and over at the temple. It is the only movie I’ve watched hundreds of times and I can hardly wait until I can see it again.
Second, during the church services on Sunday, I’m grateful for the duplication of lessons. I know this is the only way I’m going to remember all the details that are necessary for my salvation. Don’t get me wrong – I like the lessons given in an interesting way, not just someone standing in front reading from a manual, or repeating scriptures the entire hour.
Normally, I hate repetition. If I’ve been there, I would rather not go again because I’ve already seen it. I’m not a traditional person. I don’t like us to do the holidays the same way every year – I prefer they are different. I like variety and decorate differently every year.
After I’ve learned to make something, I already can do it so what is the point in doing it again? Once I taught myself to knit basic booties, I had to learn a different stitch each time I made a new bootie. I had so many booties, not pairs, that a friend often told me, “Maybe you’ll have a one-footed baby Connie.”
I would like to learn to do something myself instead of having someone teach me. First, I pull out the directions and read as I do each step. After quitting my job to be a stay-at-home mom, I agreed to sell Creative Circle items at home shows. I taught myself to do counted cross-stitch, needlepoint, latch hook, and every new thing sent my way. You can probably guess I don’t do this any longer because I already know how to do it all.
In the kitchen, I have a blast. I love cooking new and different things to eat. Not all of them turn out edible, but most the time I’m successful in creating delicious new dishes. With only two of us, it is more difficult and I find myself doing the boring everyday cooking that I hate.
I only read a book once, and watch a movie one time. Because of this unusual quirk, I have a hard time deciding what stories to write. I don’t want to choose a genre because I want my stories to be different—so I sit wondering what unusual twist I can think of each time.
There are only a couple of things that I enjoy when it comes to repetition, both of which are church related. First, I love seeing the same thing occur over and over at the temple. It is the only movie I’ve watched hundreds of times and I can hardly wait until I can see it again.
Second, during the church services on Sunday, I’m grateful for the duplication of lessons. I know this is the only way I’m going to remember all the details that are necessary for my salvation. Don’t get me wrong – I like the lessons given in an interesting way, not just someone standing in front reading from a manual, or repeating scriptures the entire hour.
Normally, I hate repetition. If I’ve been there, I would rather not go again because I’ve already seen it. I’m not a traditional person. I don’t like us to do the holidays the same way every year – I prefer they are different. I like variety and decorate differently every year.
After I’ve learned to make something, I already can do it so what is the point in doing it again? Once I taught myself to knit basic booties, I had to learn a different stitch each time I made a new bootie. I had so many booties, not pairs, that a friend often told me, “Maybe you’ll have a one-footed baby Connie.”
I would like to learn to do something myself instead of having someone teach me. First, I pull out the directions and read as I do each step. After quitting my job to be a stay-at-home mom, I agreed to sell Creative Circle items at home shows. I taught myself to do counted cross-stitch, needlepoint, latch hook, and every new thing sent my way. You can probably guess I don’t do this any longer because I already know how to do it all.
In the kitchen, I have a blast. I love cooking new and different things to eat. Not all of them turn out edible, but most the time I’m successful in creating delicious new dishes. With only two of us, it is more difficult and I find myself doing the boring everyday cooking that I hate.
I only read a book once, and watch a movie one time. Because of this unusual quirk, I have a hard time deciding what stories to write. I don’t want to choose a genre because I want my stories to be different—so I sit wondering what unusual twist I can think of each time.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Sprint Writing
By Darvell Hunt
As I write this on November 5, yesterday, to get ready to post on my day, which is normally Tuesday, I think back to November 5, 2004, when I started my first NaNoWriMo challenge.
By November 30, 2004, I had written over 54,000 words, completing the novel-in-a-month challenge. By December 5, one month after I started, I completed the first draft of my novel at 85,000 words.
I discovered during this exercise that I am a sprint writer. This has since become my primary method of writing. I don’t write everyday. I’ve never been able to do that, but I write lots of material in short bursts. I’ve found that this is what works best for me as a writer.
While I am too busy this month to do NaNoWriMo, I plan to do some sprint writing this Christmas, when I’ll be taking a few weeks off from work to be home with my family. In the meantime, I’m preparing my writing shoes for the crack of the starter pistol.
Ready, set, WRITE!
As I write this on November 5, yesterday, to get ready to post on my day, which is normally Tuesday, I think back to November 5, 2004, when I started my first NaNoWriMo challenge.
By November 30, 2004, I had written over 54,000 words, completing the novel-in-a-month challenge. By December 5, one month after I started, I completed the first draft of my novel at 85,000 words.
I discovered during this exercise that I am a sprint writer. This has since become my primary method of writing. I don’t write everyday. I’ve never been able to do that, but I write lots of material in short bursts. I’ve found that this is what works best for me as a writer.
While I am too busy this month to do NaNoWriMo, I plan to do some sprint writing this Christmas, when I’ll be taking a few weeks off from work to be home with my family. In the meantime, I’m preparing my writing shoes for the crack of the starter pistol.
Ready, set, WRITE!
Monday, November 05, 2007
Not the Colonel’s Chicken, Part II
By C.L. Beck
© 2007
Not long ago, I related an anecdote from my exceptionally short career as a chicken farmer. If you missed it, you can read it in the Oct. 15th blog archives.
For those who’ve already read it, you’ll remember I had the brilliant idea to feed our flock of chickens left-over, cooked oatmeal. Waste not; want not—that’s my motto. The hens pecked at the glop, which collected into sticky wads that enlarged as the birds tried to clean their beaks in the dirt. From that experience, I learned poultry have the IQ of a grasshopper—which coincidentally, is how the next event occurred.
**********
“Hey look,” I said to my three-year-old son, Davey. “Chickens eat grasshoppers.” We watched the hens flapping their bronze-red wings as they zeroed in and fought over the helpless bug that had mistakenly leapt into the pen.
It gave me an idea. “We could herd grasshoppers to them,” I said with enthusiasm.
We walked into the weeds 20 feet away and waved our arms, trying to drive the long-legged hoppers into the pen. It was like trying to herd minnows. When we were done, we’d managed to shoo two beetles and a mosquito into a pen of 50 chickens. You can imagine the fight that ensued.
Giving up, Davey and I started back to the house to fix lunch. “Don’t tell Daddy we tried to herd grasshoppers,” I said.
“Why?” he asked, his blue eyes bright with curiosity.
“Because Daddy has this silly notion that Mommy comes up with crazy schemes.”
“Schemes? What’s a ‘schemes’?” he asked.
“The nutball ideas that Daddy thinks up,” I explained.
Lunch was hotdogs—not my favorite. We ended up with a few left on the plate. “What can we do with disgusting, left-over hotdogs?” I asked Davey.
He replied, “Eat them for supper.” Obviously, a three-year-old is clueless about what constitutes a good meal.
I scratched my head. “Maybe we can feed them to the chickens.”
Davey nodded in agreement. Somehow, it felt like déjà vu.
I consulted my chicken manual. It didn’t say anything about feeding hotdogs to chickens—I don’t know why. Probably a lack of real-world education on the part of the author. But if the birds liked grasshoppers, hotdogs had to be fine.
Remembering the oatmeal fiasco—and opting not to give 50 chickens CPR because they were choking on whole wieners—I sliced the hotdogs into round, one inch pieces. We marched to the coop, pieces of meat in hand and flung them into the pen. The hens gathered and clucked their excitement at something new.
No sooner was I back in the house when I heard Davey yell, “Mommy, Daddy, something’s wrong with the chickens!”
Definitely déjà vu.
My husband, Russ, and I raced to the hen house. The birds milled about, flapping their wings.
“They must be sick,” I said, watching them shake their heads as if they had palsy.
Russ looked puzzled. “They’ve got something stuck on their beaks.”
“That’s weird.” I replied, wondering if I could beat him back to the house before he figured it out.
“It looks like … like they’ve speared pieces of hotdog,” he said, peering intently at the birds.
The hens “ba-wahked” softly as if trying to give him a clue. I turned and stepped toward the house, but before I had a chance to expand my talents as a sprinter, Russ grabbed my hand and said, “What have you tried now?”
“It’s perfectly logical,” I said. “Chickens eat grasshoppers. Grasshoppers are meat. Hotdogs are meat. Therefore, chickens eat hotdogs.”
“Yes, in small bits. Instead, you gave them a bulls-eye to peck.”
I looked at the hens, their beaks held fast by a ring of hotdog. “You know, I don’t think your suggestion of raising poultry was such a good one,” I said.
“My suggestion?” Russ dropped my hand in surprise.
I waved in the direction of the hens, which were still preoccupied with getting hotdogs off their beaks. “Yes, we’re not cut out to be chicken farmers.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Russ replied.
“So the next time an idea like this comes up—” I stepped out of reach and flashed him a wicked grin, “—let’s raise pigs!”
© 2007
Not long ago, I related an anecdote from my exceptionally short career as a chicken farmer. If you missed it, you can read it in the Oct. 15th blog archives.
For those who’ve already read it, you’ll remember I had the brilliant idea to feed our flock of chickens left-over, cooked oatmeal. Waste not; want not—that’s my motto. The hens pecked at the glop, which collected into sticky wads that enlarged as the birds tried to clean their beaks in the dirt. From that experience, I learned poultry have the IQ of a grasshopper—which coincidentally, is how the next event occurred.
**********
“Hey look,” I said to my three-year-old son, Davey. “Chickens eat grasshoppers.” We watched the hens flapping their bronze-red wings as they zeroed in and fought over the helpless bug that had mistakenly leapt into the pen.
It gave me an idea. “We could herd grasshoppers to them,” I said with enthusiasm.
We walked into the weeds 20 feet away and waved our arms, trying to drive the long-legged hoppers into the pen. It was like trying to herd minnows. When we were done, we’d managed to shoo two beetles and a mosquito into a pen of 50 chickens. You can imagine the fight that ensued.
Giving up, Davey and I started back to the house to fix lunch. “Don’t tell Daddy we tried to herd grasshoppers,” I said.
“Why?” he asked, his blue eyes bright with curiosity.
“Because Daddy has this silly notion that Mommy comes up with crazy schemes.”
“Schemes? What’s a ‘schemes’?” he asked.
“The nutball ideas that Daddy thinks up,” I explained.
Lunch was hotdogs—not my favorite. We ended up with a few left on the plate. “What can we do with disgusting, left-over hotdogs?” I asked Davey.
He replied, “Eat them for supper.” Obviously, a three-year-old is clueless about what constitutes a good meal.
I scratched my head. “Maybe we can feed them to the chickens.”
Davey nodded in agreement. Somehow, it felt like déjà vu.
I consulted my chicken manual. It didn’t say anything about feeding hotdogs to chickens—I don’t know why. Probably a lack of real-world education on the part of the author. But if the birds liked grasshoppers, hotdogs had to be fine.
Remembering the oatmeal fiasco—and opting not to give 50 chickens CPR because they were choking on whole wieners—I sliced the hotdogs into round, one inch pieces. We marched to the coop, pieces of meat in hand and flung them into the pen. The hens gathered and clucked their excitement at something new.
No sooner was I back in the house when I heard Davey yell, “Mommy, Daddy, something’s wrong with the chickens!”
Definitely déjà vu.
My husband, Russ, and I raced to the hen house. The birds milled about, flapping their wings.
“They must be sick,” I said, watching them shake their heads as if they had palsy.
Russ looked puzzled. “They’ve got something stuck on their beaks.”
“That’s weird.” I replied, wondering if I could beat him back to the house before he figured it out.
“It looks like … like they’ve speared pieces of hotdog,” he said, peering intently at the birds.
The hens “ba-wahked” softly as if trying to give him a clue. I turned and stepped toward the house, but before I had a chance to expand my talents as a sprinter, Russ grabbed my hand and said, “What have you tried now?”
“It’s perfectly logical,” I said. “Chickens eat grasshoppers. Grasshoppers are meat. Hotdogs are meat. Therefore, chickens eat hotdogs.”
“Yes, in small bits. Instead, you gave them a bulls-eye to peck.”
I looked at the hens, their beaks held fast by a ring of hotdog. “You know, I don’t think your suggestion of raising poultry was such a good one,” I said.
“My suggestion?” Russ dropped my hand in surprise.
I waved in the direction of the hens, which were still preoccupied with getting hotdogs off their beaks. “Yes, we’re not cut out to be chicken farmers.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Russ replied.
“So the next time an idea like this comes up—” I stepped out of reach and flashed him a wicked grin, “—let’s raise pigs!”
Saturday, November 03, 2007
It’s Not Fiction That’s Strange
By Keith Fisher
I was attending a writer’s conference once when I heard someone make an observation. In essence, she said that it was good to be around people who understood a statement about trying to get her characters to behave.
We writers are a weird lot—we spend our days, and late nights, listening to our creations. Then we sentence them to death, or worse, without any regret. We tell ourselves it’s all for the good of the book.
I know, I know, you’ve all seen it before, but recently, I finished watching Stranger Than Fiction. I hated the build up, but I loved the ending. Like most of you, I knew what the story was about before it started. Overall, the parts about the writer were very gratifying, but I have some questions for you:
Did you cry when the author couldn’t bring herself to kill Harold? How many of you could identify with her, to the point of feeling anxiety? Wasn’t it nice to know there are others like you?
I don’t want to spoil the movie, but when you see it, ask yourself, how real are the characters you create? If you saw them in a crowded airport, would you know them? If a character walked into your writing place, would you need to be introduced to them?
If you answer these questions the way I did, then you’re a writer. If you sometimes need to stop the car and get out because you recognize a scene from your story, then you are a writer. If you schedule vacations around research, then you are a writer. If you watch the spectators instead of the football game, then you are a writer. If you stand at the edge of a high place, trying to imagine what it would be like to fall off, then you are a writer.
There are many examples of this kind of behavior—perhaps you could name many more, but now that we established that you are a writer, start working on it. Be warned, however, people will think you’re odd when you try to explain the concept of a character who won’t behave or leave you alone. Then you will know that it’s not the fiction that’s strange—it’s the authors, but take heart, you’re not alone.
I was attending a writer’s conference once when I heard someone make an observation. In essence, she said that it was good to be around people who understood a statement about trying to get her characters to behave.
We writers are a weird lot—we spend our days, and late nights, listening to our creations. Then we sentence them to death, or worse, without any regret. We tell ourselves it’s all for the good of the book.
I know, I know, you’ve all seen it before, but recently, I finished watching Stranger Than Fiction. I hated the build up, but I loved the ending. Like most of you, I knew what the story was about before it started. Overall, the parts about the writer were very gratifying, but I have some questions for you:
Did you cry when the author couldn’t bring herself to kill Harold? How many of you could identify with her, to the point of feeling anxiety? Wasn’t it nice to know there are others like you?
I don’t want to spoil the movie, but when you see it, ask yourself, how real are the characters you create? If you saw them in a crowded airport, would you know them? If a character walked into your writing place, would you need to be introduced to them?
If you answer these questions the way I did, then you’re a writer. If you sometimes need to stop the car and get out because you recognize a scene from your story, then you are a writer. If you schedule vacations around research, then you are a writer. If you watch the spectators instead of the football game, then you are a writer. If you stand at the edge of a high place, trying to imagine what it would be like to fall off, then you are a writer.
There are many examples of this kind of behavior—perhaps you could name many more, but now that we established that you are a writer, start working on it. Be warned, however, people will think you’re odd when you try to explain the concept of a character who won’t behave or leave you alone. Then you will know that it’s not the fiction that’s strange—it’s the authors, but take heart, you’re not alone.
Friday, November 02, 2007
It's Not Too Late!
by G.Parker
In case you are new to the world of blogging or writing, you might not be aware of what is happening right now. All across the world, people are pounding their fingers on their keyboards in a race to get 50,000 words out before the end of November. It's called National Novel Writing Month, or Nanowrimo. Last year there were over 79,000 participants from around the globe. It was amazing. This thing has grown from being a little idea in 1999, to a great inspiring one.
I didn't hear of it until 2004. That was my first year of insanity, but I made the goal -- I wrote 50,000 words. My hubby just couldn't understand why it wasn't finished...sigh. That one was titled The Hidden Heart.
In 2005 I did it again and this time (to make him happy) I made sure I finished it. I actually had to add scenes because the story wasn't long enough. It was called The Bishop's Wife, but has been changed to The Bishop and the Angel.
Last year was another try, and I was able to do it again, but it was by the skin of my teeth. I remember sitting there with my hubby watching, at 11:45 pm, saving it as a text document and running it through their word checker. (it puts things in a code so that it doesn't get read in actual words, just gives them a word count verification.) All of the stories are mentioned on my web site, if you want to give them a perusal...
The whole point of Nano is to get people writing. Everyone says they are going to write a book some day, and the people behind the site decided that this would help them. A national thing where everyone was encouraged to participate. They have forums with age groups and ideologies and regions and anything you can think of to associate with and make yourself feel at home. They send you encouraging emails during the weeks. It's enough to encourage anyone.
So if you have ever thought, you know, when I get older I'm going to write The Great American Novel, don't wait. Do it now. Just start writing. You never know what will come of it.
My hubby just wishes it wasn't in November.
In case you are new to the world of blogging or writing, you might not be aware of what is happening right now. All across the world, people are pounding their fingers on their keyboards in a race to get 50,000 words out before the end of November. It's called National Novel Writing Month, or Nanowrimo. Last year there were over 79,000 participants from around the globe. It was amazing. This thing has grown from being a little idea in 1999, to a great inspiring one.
I didn't hear of it until 2004. That was my first year of insanity, but I made the goal -- I wrote 50,000 words. My hubby just couldn't understand why it wasn't finished...sigh. That one was titled The Hidden Heart.
In 2005 I did it again and this time (to make him happy) I made sure I finished it. I actually had to add scenes because the story wasn't long enough. It was called The Bishop's Wife, but has been changed to The Bishop and the Angel.
Last year was another try, and I was able to do it again, but it was by the skin of my teeth. I remember sitting there with my hubby watching, at 11:45 pm, saving it as a text document and running it through their word checker. (it puts things in a code so that it doesn't get read in actual words, just gives them a word count verification.) All of the stories are mentioned on my web site, if you want to give them a perusal...
The whole point of Nano is to get people writing. Everyone says they are going to write a book some day, and the people behind the site decided that this would help them. A national thing where everyone was encouraged to participate. They have forums with age groups and ideologies and regions and anything you can think of to associate with and make yourself feel at home. They send you encouraging emails during the weeks. It's enough to encourage anyone.
So if you have ever thought, you know, when I get older I'm going to write The Great American Novel, don't wait. Do it now. Just start writing. You never know what will come of it.
My hubby just wishes it wasn't in November.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Playing Dress-up
By Nichole Giles
I have always loved Halloween. As a child, a teenager, and even as an adult, I have loved the opportunity to dress up and pretend—just for a day—that I am someone else.
I’m a woman, and inside every woman is a little girl clawing and fighting her way to the surface. For some of us, that inner child shouts and screams as loudly as she can to make herself heard. Besides, what little girl doesn’t love to play dress up?
I’d like to think my love for Halloween is the voice of my inner child, wanting to pretend I’m a queen, a bride, an elvin princess or vampire warrior. Sometimes, I want to be the villain—Grim Reaper, Medusa, The Wicked Witch of the West…the list is endless of course, especially for someone who loves to read.
Halloween is the one day of the year when I can wander around my neighborhood dressed up as someone else. This is much better than hiding in my closet playing dress up with my daughters (as I have been known to do on occasion) and worrying that my husband will come home and catch me wearing an old prom dress, spiked heals I would never wear outside, and my nine-year-old’s costume jewelry.
Okay, so if I’m completely honest, the hiding in the closet thing isn’t so bad. You can change as often as you want and prance around in whatever suits your fancy, any day of the year, and for as long as you like. (I can’t believe I’d admit that in public.)
And actually I can think of another reason to try dressing up on a day other than Halloween. It might be fun to be one of my own characters for a day. Dress in clothes she would wear, color my hair—or put on a wig—the same color as hers, and live her life for just one day. This one might require that I venture outside though.
Okay, so the neighbors MIGHT think I’ve lost my marbles. And my kids might think it’s time to check Mom into the nut house because she’s prancing around the house in workout clothes and carrying around a wooden stake and a flaming sword or some such thing, calling, “Don’t worry Hoyt, I’ll save you from that evil villain!” But really, what better way to get to know the people I’m writing about?
I’m a writer. I stopped worrying about what the neighbors think a long time ago.
I have always loved Halloween. As a child, a teenager, and even as an adult, I have loved the opportunity to dress up and pretend—just for a day—that I am someone else.
I’m a woman, and inside every woman is a little girl clawing and fighting her way to the surface. For some of us, that inner child shouts and screams as loudly as she can to make herself heard. Besides, what little girl doesn’t love to play dress up?
I’d like to think my love for Halloween is the voice of my inner child, wanting to pretend I’m a queen, a bride, an elvin princess or vampire warrior. Sometimes, I want to be the villain—Grim Reaper, Medusa, The Wicked Witch of the West…the list is endless of course, especially for someone who loves to read.
Halloween is the one day of the year when I can wander around my neighborhood dressed up as someone else. This is much better than hiding in my closet playing dress up with my daughters (as I have been known to do on occasion) and worrying that my husband will come home and catch me wearing an old prom dress, spiked heals I would never wear outside, and my nine-year-old’s costume jewelry.
Okay, so if I’m completely honest, the hiding in the closet thing isn’t so bad. You can change as often as you want and prance around in whatever suits your fancy, any day of the year, and for as long as you like. (I can’t believe I’d admit that in public.)
And actually I can think of another reason to try dressing up on a day other than Halloween. It might be fun to be one of my own characters for a day. Dress in clothes she would wear, color my hair—or put on a wig—the same color as hers, and live her life for just one day. This one might require that I venture outside though.
Okay, so the neighbors MIGHT think I’ve lost my marbles. And my kids might think it’s time to check Mom into the nut house because she’s prancing around the house in workout clothes and carrying around a wooden stake and a flaming sword or some such thing, calling, “Don’t worry Hoyt, I’ll save you from that evil villain!” But really, what better way to get to know the people I’m writing about?
I’m a writer. I stopped worrying about what the neighbors think a long time ago.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Fussy Judge
By Connie S. Hall
I’ve had a difficult two weeks judging a non-fiction contest for a local writing group. I never realized what a complicated task this could be. It has been time consuming and challenging. At first, I wanted to be compassionate and not hurt anyone’s feelings, but at the same time, I felt I owed each person a good critique of their work. Now I will tell you about some of the problems I encountered along the way.
First, many did not follow the outlined rules. At least six entries left the word count off. Some did not number the pages in the upper right hand corner as indicated. Margins were not correct. I wonder if they follow directions when they submit their writing to publishers. If not, maybe this is why they receive rejection letters.
I could immediately tell that several of the writers had not run a spell check. Why would you forget to do this important task? The last thing I want is for someone to find a mistake in my writing.
Several entries had common annoyances in which the writer started some sentences in the same paragraph with an identical phrase. I’m sure most readers notice how frequently you use duplicate words in a story. At least, I do.
As I read I was amazed at the detail included. Most readers don’t care about all that happens. They only want to read about what is important to the story.
It is best to avoid using cliché and redundant expressions. If you use too many of them your reader may become distracted.
Early in my writing career, I learned there are some words that detract rather than add to your story. Some of these words called weak modifiers are very, just, even, actually, and really. It’s a good idea to use the search tool on your computer to help eliminate these words.
Sometimes individual words can distract the reader, but maybe you need to remove some of the phrases used. A good rule to follow is if the words you are using do not add something to the story, it is better to leave it out. Some of these that can cause frustration are:
1. In the End
2. Worst of all
3. At that very moment
4. Seems to be
5. In order
6. We all, at some point in our lives
7. With what I was trying to deal with
8. Was on a roll
Now I can breathe a sign of relief because the assignment is complete. I’m sure I didn’t do as good a job as someone else may have, but I did my best. I do hope the people whose entries I reviewed are still my friends.
I’ve had a difficult two weeks judging a non-fiction contest for a local writing group. I never realized what a complicated task this could be. It has been time consuming and challenging. At first, I wanted to be compassionate and not hurt anyone’s feelings, but at the same time, I felt I owed each person a good critique of their work. Now I will tell you about some of the problems I encountered along the way.
First, many did not follow the outlined rules. At least six entries left the word count off. Some did not number the pages in the upper right hand corner as indicated. Margins were not correct. I wonder if they follow directions when they submit their writing to publishers. If not, maybe this is why they receive rejection letters.
I could immediately tell that several of the writers had not run a spell check. Why would you forget to do this important task? The last thing I want is for someone to find a mistake in my writing.
Several entries had common annoyances in which the writer started some sentences in the same paragraph with an identical phrase. I’m sure most readers notice how frequently you use duplicate words in a story. At least, I do.
As I read I was amazed at the detail included. Most readers don’t care about all that happens. They only want to read about what is important to the story.
It is best to avoid using cliché and redundant expressions. If you use too many of them your reader may become distracted.
Early in my writing career, I learned there are some words that detract rather than add to your story. Some of these words called weak modifiers are very, just, even, actually, and really. It’s a good idea to use the search tool on your computer to help eliminate these words.
Sometimes individual words can distract the reader, but maybe you need to remove some of the phrases used. A good rule to follow is if the words you are using do not add something to the story, it is better to leave it out. Some of these that can cause frustration are:
1. In the End
2. Worst of all
3. At that very moment
4. Seems to be
5. In order
6. We all, at some point in our lives
7. With what I was trying to deal with
8. Was on a roll
Now I can breathe a sign of relief because the assignment is complete. I’m sure I didn’t do as good a job as someone else may have, but I did my best. I do hope the people whose entries I reviewed are still my friends.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
The Right Place at the Right Time
By Darvell Hunt
My daughter went to the Hanna Montana concert last week. She was very pleased about that. Her brothers and sisters, on the other hand, were not; they were quite jealous.
I didn’t pay $200 to a scalper for her ticket. I didn’t pay anything. She just happened to be friends with a girl whose mother was entering all sorts of contests to win free tickets. After all was said and done, her friend and her friend’s mother ended up with too many tickets.
You may have heard of the proverb: “Luck is when opportunity meets preparedness.” That’s what happened to my daughter.
I honestly believe that sometimes becoming published boils down to having the right manuscript in the hands of a publisher at the right time. Or, as the above phrase seems to imply, luck.
What does this mean to a writer? It’s simple: write a lot of good stuff and submit it often. The more you have out there in the hands of publishers, the greater chance your luck will hit (a.k.a. opportunity meets your preparedness).
Monday, October 29, 2007
Halloween Fingernails
By C.L. Beck
© 2007
One Halloween morning, I decided to wear ghoulish fingernails to work. They had an imprinted skull and crossbones that looked awesome.
Life proceeded routinely on the job—until I needed to blow my nose. And then one of the falsies—you’ll remember we’re talking fingernails here—got in the way and I blew the nail right off.
A co-worker laughed so hard she choked on the pumpkin cookie she was eating and left the room. Probably to search for someone with shorter fingernails to give her the Heimlich.
I should have known I was cursed. But never having worn fake nails before, I had no clue. All I knew was I couldn’t blow my nose in public.
Off to the ladies’ room I went. Once inside, I unwrapped a wad of tissue paper, brought it quickly to my face … and stabbed one of the fingernails up my nose, causing a nosebleed.
Back to the office I went, head tilted backwards to stop the bleeding, hands pointed down to avoid poking anything. At my desk, an itch developed on my neck. Forgetting that I wore projectiles on my fingertips, I scratched. A nail flipped off and flew down the back of my shirt—a shirt I couldn’t pull out of my pants because it would pop off the remaining fingernails.
“Help,” I said.
One of the gals came over. She untucked my shirt and shook the bottom of it, trying to get the nail to fall out. I hopped and shimmied like a skeleton hanging from a tree on a windy night, but it refused to budge.
Laughing, she said, “You’d better go to the ladies’ room to get it out.”
Back to the powder room I trudged. In there, I realized I couldn’t take my shirt off without giving myself multiple body piercings. After twisting like a contortionist, and explaining to every woman who came in that I was not on drugs, the thing finally fell out. I’d have tucked my shirt back in, but was afraid another fingernail would fly off and go down my pants.
Back to the office I scuttled, hands pointed downward and shirt tail hanging to my knees. The gal who’d tried to help said, “Don’t you know how you do this?”
“What? Tuck in my shirt while wearing fake nails?”
“No, how to put on false fingernails.” She handed me a small tube.
Super Glue. That’s how you do it? Silly me, I thought you used the adhesive strips that came in the package.
I wasn’t certain if I was being conned and didn’t relish the thought of wearing super-glued orange and black fingernails until I was 90. I decided to glue only the two most troublesome ones. Not wanting to risk droplets on my desktop, I sat and held my hands over my legs. Sticky liquid dripped everywhere, and after almost gluing my knees together, I finally managed to get the two nails on straight.
Everyone went back to work and an hour later, a customer needed help at the counter. I walked over. We completed the transaction and he handed me the money. I reached for it—and stabbed him with my fingernails.
I apologized. I told him I would have removed them but two were super-glued. And they would probably only come loose by some means of mechanical separation that would include a tractor, heavy chains, and the loss of two of my real fingernails.
Thank goodness it was almost time to go home. I walked to my desk and for the safety of the customers, stayed there until closing.
That night, I managed to get all the fake nails off except for the two that were held fast by glue. The same glue—I now remembered—that was advertised as able to hold a bowling ball to the ceiling.
However, the nails did glow nicely in the dark. Eventually I remembered that alcohol was a solvent and managed to remove them before Christmas.
I’ve learned my lesson. No more fake fingernails for me. This year as part of my costume, I’m going to try false eyelashes instead … nothing could possibly go wrong with them.
(To all our readers—Happy Halloween!)
View C.L.'s other work:
Newspaper column
Photography Website
Life is Like Riding a Unicycle by Shirley Bahlmann--story on pg. 70
© 2007
One Halloween morning, I decided to wear ghoulish fingernails to work. They had an imprinted skull and crossbones that looked awesome.
Life proceeded routinely on the job—until I needed to blow my nose. And then one of the falsies—you’ll remember we’re talking fingernails here—got in the way and I blew the nail right off.
A co-worker laughed so hard she choked on the pumpkin cookie she was eating and left the room. Probably to search for someone with shorter fingernails to give her the Heimlich.
I should have known I was cursed. But never having worn fake nails before, I had no clue. All I knew was I couldn’t blow my nose in public.
Off to the ladies’ room I went. Once inside, I unwrapped a wad of tissue paper, brought it quickly to my face … and stabbed one of the fingernails up my nose, causing a nosebleed.
Back to the office I went, head tilted backwards to stop the bleeding, hands pointed down to avoid poking anything. At my desk, an itch developed on my neck. Forgetting that I wore projectiles on my fingertips, I scratched. A nail flipped off and flew down the back of my shirt—a shirt I couldn’t pull out of my pants because it would pop off the remaining fingernails.
“Help,” I said.
One of the gals came over. She untucked my shirt and shook the bottom of it, trying to get the nail to fall out. I hopped and shimmied like a skeleton hanging from a tree on a windy night, but it refused to budge.
Laughing, she said, “You’d better go to the ladies’ room to get it out.”
Back to the powder room I trudged. In there, I realized I couldn’t take my shirt off without giving myself multiple body piercings. After twisting like a contortionist, and explaining to every woman who came in that I was not on drugs, the thing finally fell out. I’d have tucked my shirt back in, but was afraid another fingernail would fly off and go down my pants.
Back to the office I scuttled, hands pointed downward and shirt tail hanging to my knees. The gal who’d tried to help said, “Don’t you know how you do this?”
“What? Tuck in my shirt while wearing fake nails?”
“No, how to put on false fingernails.” She handed me a small tube.
Super Glue. That’s how you do it? Silly me, I thought you used the adhesive strips that came in the package.
I wasn’t certain if I was being conned and didn’t relish the thought of wearing super-glued orange and black fingernails until I was 90. I decided to glue only the two most troublesome ones. Not wanting to risk droplets on my desktop, I sat and held my hands over my legs. Sticky liquid dripped everywhere, and after almost gluing my knees together, I finally managed to get the two nails on straight.
Everyone went back to work and an hour later, a customer needed help at the counter. I walked over. We completed the transaction and he handed me the money. I reached for it—and stabbed him with my fingernails.
I apologized. I told him I would have removed them but two were super-glued. And they would probably only come loose by some means of mechanical separation that would include a tractor, heavy chains, and the loss of two of my real fingernails.
Thank goodness it was almost time to go home. I walked to my desk and for the safety of the customers, stayed there until closing.
That night, I managed to get all the fake nails off except for the two that were held fast by glue. The same glue—I now remembered—that was advertised as able to hold a bowling ball to the ceiling.
However, the nails did glow nicely in the dark. Eventually I remembered that alcohol was a solvent and managed to remove them before Christmas.
I’ve learned my lesson. No more fake fingernails for me. This year as part of my costume, I’m going to try false eyelashes instead … nothing could possibly go wrong with them.
(To all our readers—Happy Halloween!)
View C.L.'s other work:
Newspaper column
Photography Website
Life is Like Riding a Unicycle by Shirley Bahlmann--story on pg. 70
Saturday, October 27, 2007
The Leaky Cauldron
By Keith Fisher
As I mentioned before, I have avoided reading Harry Potter. I’ve seen portions, but I’ve never seen the movies. No particular reason, I just haven’t been much of a fantasy fan. Recently, I acquired the whole series except The Deathly Hallows. Since I was between novels anyway, I decided to read HP for a change of pace.
In the story, there’s a place called The Leaky Cauldron. The image that name presents is the reason this blog has the title it does. Think of it—a vessel that cannot hold any liquid. Put a fire under it and the fluid will extinguish the flames.
I was just finishing the second book in the series when I heard the news. Apparently, the author announced that Dumbledore is gay. (See the article.)
When an author writes a story, there are many facts created about characters that never make it into a novel. The reasons are varied but basically, too much exposition can bog a story down. The reader gets lost in a sea of non-relevant facts and they lose the story.
In the case of HP, the author created a character that teenagers love, the image of that character is set in our minds, and the book series is immensely successful. So why announce this now? Did Rowling let it slip accidentally? Was it an effort to boost her popularity? Nothing more than a publicity stunt? Could it be she’s succumbing to the clouded judgement of the moviemakers that want to include something more in the next movie?
Whatever the reasons for it, HP will never be the same. Setting aside the influence it could have on teenage readers, I can’t read it without thinking about the implications. It might have been different if the author had included that information in the book originally, but now I look at the character differently—I’ve been tainted.
I hope the character will survive. I want the kindly, caring, old man, to live on. As one of the internet news articles said: Put Dumbledore back in the closet.
To all aspiring authors may I suggest, if it wasn’t important enough to include in the book, then, leave it in your heads—especially if the information is as controversial as the information above. Don’t put out the fire under your cauldron by poking holes in it.
As I mentioned before, I have avoided reading Harry Potter. I’ve seen portions, but I’ve never seen the movies. No particular reason, I just haven’t been much of a fantasy fan. Recently, I acquired the whole series except The Deathly Hallows. Since I was between novels anyway, I decided to read HP for a change of pace.
In the story, there’s a place called The Leaky Cauldron. The image that name presents is the reason this blog has the title it does. Think of it—a vessel that cannot hold any liquid. Put a fire under it and the fluid will extinguish the flames.
I was just finishing the second book in the series when I heard the news. Apparently, the author announced that Dumbledore is gay. (See the article.)
When an author writes a story, there are many facts created about characters that never make it into a novel. The reasons are varied but basically, too much exposition can bog a story down. The reader gets lost in a sea of non-relevant facts and they lose the story.
In the case of HP, the author created a character that teenagers love, the image of that character is set in our minds, and the book series is immensely successful. So why announce this now? Did Rowling let it slip accidentally? Was it an effort to boost her popularity? Nothing more than a publicity stunt? Could it be she’s succumbing to the clouded judgement of the moviemakers that want to include something more in the next movie?
Whatever the reasons for it, HP will never be the same. Setting aside the influence it could have on teenage readers, I can’t read it without thinking about the implications. It might have been different if the author had included that information in the book originally, but now I look at the character differently—I’ve been tainted.
I hope the character will survive. I want the kindly, caring, old man, to live on. As one of the internet news articles said: Put Dumbledore back in the closet.
To all aspiring authors may I suggest, if it wasn’t important enough to include in the book, then, leave it in your heads—especially if the information is as controversial as the information above. Don’t put out the fire under your cauldron by poking holes in it.
Friday, October 26, 2007
I Have the Power!
by G.Parker
If you have ever watched the Disney movie The Great Mouse Detective, you'll recognize my title. It's when the bad guy (a rat) replaces the mouse queen with a robot and tries to take over. Now, while I'm not trying to take anything over and I don't really have much power over anything in my life, I do have some power. We all do.
We are writers! We can change a story totally -- change the way a world works -- change characters and their motivation -- whatever we want!
This came to me last night as I was reading my scriptures (I know -- bad timing, and obviously I wasn't pondering what I was reading very much, sigh). In last week's blog, I mentioned some new friends I have created in a story that I've started writing that has evolved into what will be three books. (I have no clue on the third one yet -- but at least two are there, grin) I'm still not totally comfortable with the way the story is going. As I said in my blog, I usually write in first person, and this story has started out as third (I think). It's not really working as well as it should or could.
I've also been reading a book called The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver (which I wouldn't really recommend to anyone -- even though it was recommended to me). In it she is telling the story of a family, with each one of the women telling the story from their point of view. Much as I was doing with my story, only from first person.
I'm not sure why I decided it needed to be written this way in the first place, but it came to me last night that I can change it. I can put it in first person and get moving on it. I've been held back trying to word it so that the POV stays correct -- making sure that the person who is telling their part of the story is the only one thinking or feeling.
Whew! This was such a relief to me! And that's when the phrase from the children's movie popped in my head.
Isn't it great to be all powerful? At least in something...
If you have ever watched the Disney movie The Great Mouse Detective, you'll recognize my title. It's when the bad guy (a rat) replaces the mouse queen with a robot and tries to take over. Now, while I'm not trying to take anything over and I don't really have much power over anything in my life, I do have some power. We all do.
We are writers! We can change a story totally -- change the way a world works -- change characters and their motivation -- whatever we want!
This came to me last night as I was reading my scriptures (I know -- bad timing, and obviously I wasn't pondering what I was reading very much, sigh). In last week's blog, I mentioned some new friends I have created in a story that I've started writing that has evolved into what will be three books. (I have no clue on the third one yet -- but at least two are there, grin) I'm still not totally comfortable with the way the story is going. As I said in my blog, I usually write in first person, and this story has started out as third (I think). It's not really working as well as it should or could.
I've also been reading a book called The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver (which I wouldn't really recommend to anyone -- even though it was recommended to me). In it she is telling the story of a family, with each one of the women telling the story from their point of view. Much as I was doing with my story, only from first person.
I'm not sure why I decided it needed to be written this way in the first place, but it came to me last night that I can change it. I can put it in first person and get moving on it. I've been held back trying to word it so that the POV stays correct -- making sure that the person who is telling their part of the story is the only one thinking or feeling.
Whew! This was such a relief to me! And that's when the phrase from the children's movie popped in my head.
Isn't it great to be all powerful? At least in something...
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Alternative Signs
By Nichole Giles
Last week I told a story about a politician who—ignoring my clearly posted no soliciting sign—interrupted me in the middle of a writing streak. Sadly, he was not the only solicitor to ring my doorbell in the last two weeks. He was the only one for whom the door was answered though.
That’s right, I stuck to my own advice. But the consistent and timely—as they always know just the right time to knock—visits have given me cause to wonder. Can my sign really be seen as well as I thought? I decided to try an experiment.
Leaving through my garage door, I went to the sidewalk and turned to face my house. Even with my aging, computer-stressed eyes, I could read the sign—without glasses. I walked slowly along the sidewalk to the front door, and again, the sign was clear and visible. Standing on the front porch, I could not imagine not seeing the sign. It’s posted only inches from the doorbell.
Then I wondered something different. Perhaps the sales people chose to ignore my sign because I was clearly visible through the window. First, I can see the sidewalk through a fairly large window in my den, and then I can see the front porch through a smaller, circular window—also in my den. It’s the neighborhood from two different angles. From the big window, I can see all the way down the street. So, it goes without saying that if I can see them, they can see me.
I wonder what I look like to someone standing on the sidewalk outside. That’s an experiment I haven’t tried yet, since I can’t both sit inside and walk outside to see myself sitting inside. That would be impossible, unless I was living in a fantasy world with little bottles that said “drink me” and white rabbits that were late for tea parties. Or maybe at a wizarding school in England whose headmaster was willing to give me a time turner so I could actually be in two places at once. Hm. Maybe I should take a little trip?
Anyway, the point is, I started wondering if I need to make a new sign. A big bold sign. But what would I have it say? I considered the usual slogans: Beware of dogs, or Trespassers will be prosecuted. But, being a writer, nothing that boring would ever do. My thoughts became more creative, things like, Solicitors are trespassers, and will be left to the mercy of the neighborhood kids, and Our dog loves the taste of trespassers. Then I considered covering my door in police crime tape with Do Not Enter signs all over the place. But that might bring the Relief Society over with dinner—and then I’d have some explaining to do.
A little more thought brought up Vampires sleeping, do not disturb if you value your blood. I also considered painting a skull and crossbones on my front door. That might work. I could always put up an illiteracy campaign sign above my no soliciting sign. The problem is, if the person truly cannot read, how would they know what it said?
After a great deal of thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that the truth might be my best defense. My new sign is going to say: Beware of Writer—Lives at Stake. And then I’ll politely post my working hours and request that visitors come back some other time. That way, just because people can see me pounding away at my computer in my little room—even though I work on a folding table instead of an actual desk—they might realize I’m not just playing solitaire and checking my email.
I am a writer, and I’m busy! See the sign?
Oh, and for the politicians that continue to attempt to interrupt my work so they can introduce themselves I can only say this. You only get one chance to make a first impression. Ignoring the silent requests of the voters does not give them cause to cast a vote in your favor. Think about it.
Last week I told a story about a politician who—ignoring my clearly posted no soliciting sign—interrupted me in the middle of a writing streak. Sadly, he was not the only solicitor to ring my doorbell in the last two weeks. He was the only one for whom the door was answered though.
That’s right, I stuck to my own advice. But the consistent and timely—as they always know just the right time to knock—visits have given me cause to wonder. Can my sign really be seen as well as I thought? I decided to try an experiment.
Leaving through my garage door, I went to the sidewalk and turned to face my house. Even with my aging, computer-stressed eyes, I could read the sign—without glasses. I walked slowly along the sidewalk to the front door, and again, the sign was clear and visible. Standing on the front porch, I could not imagine not seeing the sign. It’s posted only inches from the doorbell.
Then I wondered something different. Perhaps the sales people chose to ignore my sign because I was clearly visible through the window. First, I can see the sidewalk through a fairly large window in my den, and then I can see the front porch through a smaller, circular window—also in my den. It’s the neighborhood from two different angles. From the big window, I can see all the way down the street. So, it goes without saying that if I can see them, they can see me.
I wonder what I look like to someone standing on the sidewalk outside. That’s an experiment I haven’t tried yet, since I can’t both sit inside and walk outside to see myself sitting inside. That would be impossible, unless I was living in a fantasy world with little bottles that said “drink me” and white rabbits that were late for tea parties. Or maybe at a wizarding school in England whose headmaster was willing to give me a time turner so I could actually be in two places at once. Hm. Maybe I should take a little trip?
Anyway, the point is, I started wondering if I need to make a new sign. A big bold sign. But what would I have it say? I considered the usual slogans: Beware of dogs, or Trespassers will be prosecuted. But, being a writer, nothing that boring would ever do. My thoughts became more creative, things like, Solicitors are trespassers, and will be left to the mercy of the neighborhood kids, and Our dog loves the taste of trespassers. Then I considered covering my door in police crime tape with Do Not Enter signs all over the place. But that might bring the Relief Society over with dinner—and then I’d have some explaining to do.
A little more thought brought up Vampires sleeping, do not disturb if you value your blood. I also considered painting a skull and crossbones on my front door. That might work. I could always put up an illiteracy campaign sign above my no soliciting sign. The problem is, if the person truly cannot read, how would they know what it said?
After a great deal of thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that the truth might be my best defense. My new sign is going to say: Beware of Writer—Lives at Stake. And then I’ll politely post my working hours and request that visitors come back some other time. That way, just because people can see me pounding away at my computer in my little room—even though I work on a folding table instead of an actual desk—they might realize I’m not just playing solitaire and checking my email.
I am a writer, and I’m busy! See the sign?
Oh, and for the politicians that continue to attempt to interrupt my work so they can introduce themselves I can only say this. You only get one chance to make a first impression. Ignoring the silent requests of the voters does not give them cause to cast a vote in your favor. Think about it.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Who Do I Want At My Dinner Table?
By Connie S. Hall
Friday I went to a writer’s conference in Salt Lake. One of the speakers suggested we ask ourselves to name five people that we would like to sit down to dinner with. After the meeting I rode Traks to my car and thought about this as I watched the scenery fly by.
The first person I thought about was Jesus Christ. I know women didn’t usually get to sit with the men, but a memorable dinner would have been the Last Supper.
The next person I thought I would love to sit with was my earthy father. He has been gone for almost fourteen years, but I would love to ask his advice about many things. Dad was soft-spoken and always had wisdom in the things he did. I wish I could be so wise.
Next, it got a little hard. I think everyone knows I’m a history freak so naturally I have to name someone I love from the history books. Right now, I’m listening to the book on tape called “Prelude to Glory”. One of the prominent characters in the story is George Washington, the father of our country. I don’t think he would have enough time to answer all the questions I have.
The fourth person I thought of was Lehi. I can’t begin to comprehend what it would be like to be in his presence. He was such a visionary man, and someday I hope to meet him.
Joseph Smith was my final choice. I can’t begin to thank him enough for the wonderful church he helped restore to the earth. Without this church, I would not have such a meaningful life.
Friday I went to a writer’s conference in Salt Lake. One of the speakers suggested we ask ourselves to name five people that we would like to sit down to dinner with. After the meeting I rode Traks to my car and thought about this as I watched the scenery fly by.
The first person I thought about was Jesus Christ. I know women didn’t usually get to sit with the men, but a memorable dinner would have been the Last Supper.
The next person I thought I would love to sit with was my earthy father. He has been gone for almost fourteen years, but I would love to ask his advice about many things. Dad was soft-spoken and always had wisdom in the things he did. I wish I could be so wise.
Next, it got a little hard. I think everyone knows I’m a history freak so naturally I have to name someone I love from the history books. Right now, I’m listening to the book on tape called “Prelude to Glory”. One of the prominent characters in the story is George Washington, the father of our country. I don’t think he would have enough time to answer all the questions I have.
The fourth person I thought of was Lehi. I can’t begin to comprehend what it would be like to be in his presence. He was such a visionary man, and someday I hope to meet him.
Joseph Smith was my final choice. I can’t begin to thank him enough for the wonderful church he helped restore to the earth. Without this church, I would not have such a meaningful life.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Unusual Game of Tag
By C.L. Beck
©2007
I thought I’d retire from the games of tag that have been going around the internet. However, I don’t know why I tried because when a new version shows up, I’m always shouting, “Me, me! Tag me!” And when this latest one came along … well … I just had to get into the game. Not because of the game itself but because there were two specific people that I wanted to tag after my turn was over.
Here’s what I’m supposed to write about: “Ten Literary Characters (Men, obviously) I Would Totally Make Out With If I Were Single and They Were Real But I’m Not, Single I Mean, I Am Real, But I’m Also Happily Married and Want to Stay That Way So Maybe We Should Forget This."
Just so you know, it sounds more risqué than it actually is, but just to be safe I'm going to tone it down from "make out men" to my top ten kissable men. And I’m only playing because I want to tag Darvell Hunt and Keith Fisher. (Ha ha.) We’ll see if they list ten kissable men, or if they just go into hiding. (I know, I’m bad … so very bad.)
My Top Ten Kissable Men
1. Prince Charming: What can I say? He owns a kingdom!
2. Peter Cottontail: It’s hard to resist a male who’s soft and cuddly.
3. Peter Pan: Well, I don’t really want to kiss him, (he’s too young for more than a peck on the cheek) but I’d love to go to Never-Never Land with him.
4. The Cat in the Hat: Now that’s a guy who knows how to have fun.
5. The Tramp (from Lady and the Tramp): Ooo, who can resist a bad boy?
6. Hiawatha: How romantic, a kiss on the shores of Lake Gitchigoomi .
7. Puss in Boots: Gotta love those leather boots.
8. Humpty Dumpty: I’d have given him a farewell kiss, right before the great fall. Oh, the tragedy of it all!
9. The Tinman (Wizard of Oz): A guy who not only has a heart, but knows how to cry.
10. Russ Beck: The man I've loved since I was 15. He's not only cuddly but has a heart. And knows how to have fun. If he could just inherit a kingdom and get a cool pair of leather boots, he’d be perfect. :0)
Thanks to Marsha Ward at http://marshaward.blogspot.com/ for tagging me.
Oh, Darvell and Keith—I suppose if you’re really nice to me, I’ll let you pick ten kissable women instead of ten men. What’s it worth to you? :)
View C.L.'s other work:
Newspaper column
Photography Website
Blog. Scroll down to Mon.
Life is Like Riding a Unicycle by Shirley Bahlmann--story on pg. 70
©2007
I thought I’d retire from the games of tag that have been going around the internet. However, I don’t know why I tried because when a new version shows up, I’m always shouting, “Me, me! Tag me!” And when this latest one came along … well … I just had to get into the game. Not because of the game itself but because there were two specific people that I wanted to tag after my turn was over.
Here’s what I’m supposed to write about: “Ten Literary Characters (Men, obviously) I Would Totally Make Out With If I Were Single and They Were Real But I’m Not, Single I Mean, I Am Real, But I’m Also Happily Married and Want to Stay That Way So Maybe We Should Forget This."
Just so you know, it sounds more risqué than it actually is, but just to be safe I'm going to tone it down from "make out men" to my top ten kissable men. And I’m only playing because I want to tag Darvell Hunt and Keith Fisher. (Ha ha.) We’ll see if they list ten kissable men, or if they just go into hiding. (I know, I’m bad … so very bad.)
My Top Ten Kissable Men
1. Prince Charming: What can I say? He owns a kingdom!
2. Peter Cottontail: It’s hard to resist a male who’s soft and cuddly.
3. Peter Pan: Well, I don’t really want to kiss him, (he’s too young for more than a peck on the cheek) but I’d love to go to Never-Never Land with him.
4. The Cat in the Hat: Now that’s a guy who knows how to have fun.
5. The Tramp (from Lady and the Tramp): Ooo, who can resist a bad boy?
6. Hiawatha: How romantic, a kiss on the shores of Lake Gitchigoomi .
7. Puss in Boots: Gotta love those leather boots.
8. Humpty Dumpty: I’d have given him a farewell kiss, right before the great fall. Oh, the tragedy of it all!
9. The Tinman (Wizard of Oz): A guy who not only has a heart, but knows how to cry.
10. Russ Beck: The man I've loved since I was 15. He's not only cuddly but has a heart. And knows how to have fun. If he could just inherit a kingdom and get a cool pair of leather boots, he’d be perfect. :0)
Thanks to Marsha Ward at http://marshaward.blogspot.com/ for tagging me.
Oh, Darvell and Keith—I suppose if you’re really nice to me, I’ll let you pick ten kissable women instead of ten men. What’s it worth to you? :)
View C.L.'s other work:
Newspaper column
Photography Website
Blog. Scroll down to Mon.
Life is Like Riding a Unicycle by Shirley Bahlmann--story on pg. 70
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