Open Mike Night: Denise Unland 3

Write On Joliet's Open Mike Night: Ken McGee

Write On Joliet's Open Mike Night: Tom Hernandez

Happy Thanksgiving BryonySeries Fans with an Excerpt from "Staked!"

For a day that celebrated the joys of feasting on animals, a surprising amount of people crowded Living Water Worship Center. A woman wearing a bulky fur coat and heavy make-up scooted closer to the elderly man on her left in a futile attempt to make room for them.

          

“Go ahead,” Brian whispered to Steve. “I’ll take Ellie and Fawn and look for another seat.”

           

 Deanna resisted John-Peter’s nudges to get into the pew first, but since he refused to cozy up to the giant raccoon, he grabbed Deanna’s arm, pushed her into the seat, and quickly slid beside her. Steve squeezed next to him and blocked further movement.

           

“That was a dirty trick,” Deanna mumbled.

          

 John-Peter grinned open-mouthed at her and then said, “Shh. The music is starting.”

           

 An off-key guitar band opened the service. John-Peter gazed about the bare white walls and tried to ignore the grating twangs. Steve closed his eyes, smiled, and tapped his foot. Deanna squirmed restlessly and jabbed her elbow into his ribs.

           

 “Sit still,” John-Peter hissed.

            

“Make me,” she hissed right back.

             

At the song's completion, everyone clapped, and the guitarists immediately began another. Deanna yawned loudly, and John-Peter slid his finger in her mouth. She slapped his hand and whispered angrily, “You messed it up.”

           

 “Cut it out, Deanna.”

             

“You’re not my boss.” She yawned again, this time wider and louder.

           

Finally, the pastor assumed the podium. For the next forty-five minutes, the man recounted every food-related story in the Bible, beginning with The Garden of Eden and continuing through Peter’s vision of the unclean animals. Deanna’s eyes drooped. John-Peter stifled his own yawn and accidentally bit his tongue.

            

“But all the food in the world will never satisfy our hunger for God, who made everything that sustains us.” The pastor raised his hands. “Let us all stand and sing our thanks to God.”

            

The nauseating smell of dead fowl assaulted John-Peter’s stomach the moment Ellie opened the front door. Even the garlic from the mashed potatoes couldn’t mask it. Cindy walked from the kitchen and noticed his discomfort.

            

“Whew, it’s hot in here.” She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Brian, can you open the window by the sink? It’s stuck.”

           

 “Cindy,” Darlene called out. “I can’t tell if that lentil loaf is done.”

            

Brian kissed Cindy on the cheek and started up the stairs.

            

“How was church?” Aunt Cindy asked. 

            

 “Packed. But the girls behaved themselves.”

            

After they had all gathered around the table and Steve had begun the blessing, the front door blew open.

           

 “Sorry I’m late,” a red-faced Kellen said as Cindy rushed from the table to take his coat. “My flight was delayed.”

           

 Brian said, “Ellie, let Uncle Kellen sit by Aunt Melissa.”

           

 “I wondered what happened." Melissa looked up as Kellen assumed the vacated seat and unfolded his napkin.

            

 “Arthur was supposed to call," Kellen said, huffing between words.

           

  “He did call when you were taking a shower,” Darlene passed the platter of turkey to Kellen. “I forgot to mention it.”

            

 John-Peter carefully observed Kellen's pouring of gravy over everything on his plate. Kellen stopped in mid-stream and stared back. “Is there a problem?”

           

 "Your face is bloated and blotchy.”

           

 Kellen puffed the air from his cheeks as he set down the gravy boat. His hands were ruddy and swollen; the veins were engorged “It’s a little warm in here, that’s all.”

           

 Brian opened another window. Kellen picked up his fork. Steve cleared his throat. Melissa nudged Kellen. He raised blood-shot eyes as red as his lapel rose, noticed Steve’s folded hands, and laid the fork against the plate.

            

Steve bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, we give you thanks and praise for bringing us here today to celebrate your bountiful goodness.”

             

John-Peter studied the lentil loaf Aunt Cindy had sliced. A little dry, but not bad for a first attempt.

            

“And we thank you for providing us with family, people we can love and who love us. We ask you to continue blessing us in the coming year so we can once again join together to give thanks. Amen.” Steve reached for the cranberry sauce. “How’s that? The food didn’t even have time to get cold.”

            

The phone rang.

           

 “You sit,” Brian said to Cindy. “I’ll get it.”

            

“There’s pineapple in the sweet potatoes, Grandpa,” Deanna said.

           

“Well, it’s a good thing I like pineapple.”

            

“I helped make them yesterday, before you guys got here.”

           

“Then I’ll have to take an extra helping.”

            

John-Peter gestured his fork at Ellie’s plate. “You haven’t touched your Brussels sprouts.”

            

 “Brussels sprouts are pukey.”

            

Brian reappeared, looking grim. “Melissa, it’s for you.”

           

“We’ll wait to go around the table,” Darlene said.

            

John-Peter had hoped this year they might skip the "I’m thankful for…” ritual his grandmother always insisted they perform. Be thankful for what? His best friend was in love with a marionette; he was related to no one in his deceitful family; and his doctor just told him (DELETED. SPOILER).

          

“More turkey, Kellen?” Brian said.

            

Melissa sat back down, biting her lip to keep from crying.

            

“It’s Carol,” she said, picking up her napkin and placing it on her lap. “They’re not sure what happened. The aid who brought her dinner tray found her unconscious so they called an ambulance.”

            

“Thanks, Brian,” Kellen said, taking three large slices and then checking his watch. “Do you want to fly back with me tonight, Melissa?”

            

She shuddered and rested her head in her hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

            

Darlene interrupted. “I’ll be fine driving alone. I'll have Steve and John-Peter to keep me company.”

            

“Grandpa,” Ellie said. “We have two kinds of pie tonight: pumpkin and apple."

           

 "Make up your mind, Melissa," Kellen said. "I haven't got all night."

            

“Maybe I should go," Melissa said. "I’ll go call the hospital and tell them I’ll be there tonight.”

           

Steve pushed away his plate and patted Ellie’s hand. “Your grandmother won’t let me eat two pieces.”

            

“You probably shouldn’t have one,” Darlene said.

Write On Joliet's Open Mike Night: Colleen Robbins

Ladies and Gentlemen, We Finally Have a Book!

Staked! is ready to order directly from Createspace.

We will try to have the bryonyseries.com website updated this weekend with ordering information.

Amazon should have the book listed within the week.

For those that cannot wait, you may order through this link: www.createspace.com/4707676.

Thank you for your patience, and happy reading!

Write On Joliet's Open Mike Night: Duanne Walton

Write On Joliet's Open Mike Night: Kristina Skaggs

Irish Piano Music

The Flowers - Sing my song

BryonySeries Throwback Thursday: Old Folders

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Old Folders

It’s not just birdhouses I move out of my way. Actually, today they are sitting on top of a stack of folders, another gift from another friend. This former church pastor spent a lifetime promoting the value of positive thinking. Each time he gave a presentation or led a seminar of some kind, he created a folder full of corresponding material. While cleaning out his office, he came across a stack of these folders and gave them to me. I still have three children living at home, one is in college and the other two are homeschooled, not to mention all the hard copies of notes I'm saving regarding Bryony, so I go through folders like mad. I figure I’ll just toss the information and save the folders.

However, the content in each of these packets catches my eye. The one open on my lap features a graveyard cartoon. The tombstone says, “Here lies someone who was going to be happy tomorrow.” There is also a page of stress busters, A Creed for the Discouraged, a plan for becoming more encouraging, and an entire page of suggestions for praise. I’m uplifted just sifting through them.

The kids can buy more folders. These are going downstairs in a place I will see them. When someone passes through my door in need of encouragement, assertiveness training, a self-esteem boost, or a hug, I’m going to hand them one of these folders, compliments of my friend. That way, in spirit, he continues to pass along the blessing.

Vampire Penguin | Desserts | Sacramento | DinnerWire

Seeking Writerly Advice on Stuck Scenes

So I'm stuck on some scenes in Kellen's portion of Before the Blood, battle scenes, to be exact, in seventeenth century Europe, to be precise.

I've read descriptions of battles, studied artillery, formation, etc. Heck, I even have some diagrams.

Because I knew they would take some time, I saved them for my day off yesterday.To my great annoyance, they are not coming together, and they are still not done.

So last night, I reached out to another writer, one who writes great fight scenes, and asked for some guidance. The chapter won't work without these scenes. He's contemplating them and willl get back to me. I plan to take his advice, work a scene, and then send it back to him for some feedback, so I can rework it.

I'm excited to learn something new. :)

Oh, and about Staked!?

Sarah Stegall looked at the files last night. She noticed one page break that didn't stick in Chapter 24, fixed it, and re-uploaded the file. She said when Createspace reviews them (should take about a day), I should just double-check the cover and the page break and approve it. She went through the entire 500-page plus manuscript page by page last night.

Walking the floors with Sarah when she was a colicky baby was so worth it. ;)

'Bout Ready to Scream...Paging Sarah Stegall...

Createspace has reviewed the files and made "adjustments" and recommends ordering ANOTHER physical proof.

What adjustments??? We made minor changes to interior formatting, and the cover was already approved!!!

I. Am. Ready. To. Scream.

(Gulps coffee).

Hoping Sarah will say, "Pschaw, this is simple."

Hoping...

"Staked!" Has Finally Come Into the Homestretch

I spent an hour today with Sarah Stegall before church pouring over this third novel in the BryonySeries and making a couple final adjustments.

She uploaded the book today and has already viewed and approved the online proof. All that's needed is for Createspace to approve it. It's unlikely it will not, as Staked! has already been twice approved. We found the formattting errors in the proof.

I estimate Staked! will be available for purchase within the next couple of days. Thank you, vampire fans, for your patience and support.

Now to put the first ten chapters of Before the Blood as a single file, ready to email to Sarah once Staked! is available, so she can work beta reading magic on them...

Having So Much Fun in Seventeenth Century Germany...

...that I forgot to post a blog today.

So since Saturdays are dedicated to Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, and all things Irish, I'll say just this:

“Cha d’dhuin doras nach d’fhosgail doras.”

Now back to pretend while the muse is hot.

This Weekend and Story Round-Up

Fiction tonight and tomorrow and also into Monday, as I have a REAL free day this time (I worked about half of the last one because I had to be gone part of a day that same week).

Today, however, will a  gallop. I left work early yesterday to be filmed for a community television segment. That, combined with losing a day next week, well, maybe "gallop" is too mild a word.

In the meantime, here's my week in review:

New Lenox veteran's 47-year search for fellow marines finally leads to reunion

By Mauverneen Blevins

The title says it all, the story provides the details

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/10/22/new-lenox-veterans-47-year-search-for-fellow-marines-finally-leads-to-reunion/a12w9aw/

An Extraordinary Life: New Lenox Township man was strong in spirit

On a crazy and rough Monday, I actually received a telephone call from a reader, telling me how much this story inspired him.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/10/29/an-extraordinary-life-new-lenox-township-man-was-strong-in-spirit/af1cb2w/

Manhattan air force captain doesn't let traumatic brain injury squelch his drive

By Jeanne Millsap

After I submitted this story, the copy desk messaged me to say this topic of TBI is underreported. I totally agree. Far more awareness is needed. Even with a slight amount of injury, the struggle can be enormous...and lifelong.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/10/29/manhattan-air-force-captain-doesnt-let-traumatic-brain-injury-squelch-his-drive/axjnk3m/

Joliet Junior College student to compete in culinary Olympics.

Even sweeter, it's this studen't first competition. Oh, and she likes to bake Christmas cookies. Recipe included.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/09/29/joliet-junior-college-culinary-student-to-compete-in-culinary-olympics/arubbe/

Joliet Catholic church has undergone many transformations

The pastor at the Church of St. Anthony that spearheaded them - and throughly enjoys discussing them - has a unqiue history with this church, too. Make sure to check out the stunning photos by our very talented photographer. The vintage ones are pictures of pictures, but the way Lathan shot them, one can't tell.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/10/22/joliet-catholic-church-has-undergone-many-transformations-looks-to-the-future/a201c8l/

Romeoville restaurant hosts movie screening to benefit Toys for Tots

By Jeanne Millsap

"In My Brothers" shoes is fiction, but it's inspired on a true story of a man who tours Europe in his deceased brother's shoes to fulfilll his brother's dream. The brother died during activy millitary duty. An ideal film for veterans and anyone that has struggled with loss.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/10/22/romeoville-restaurant-hosts-movie-screening-to-benefit-toys-for-tots/azg39wq/

BryonySeries Throwback Thursday: Playing God

Playing God

“God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light.” Genesis 1:3.

As a Christian, I mostly focus on “God is love.” Except for the joyful experience of carrying seven children (one at a time), I’ve only given “God as creator” a polite nod.

Then I wrote three novels.

With fiction-writing, I caught a glimpse of God’s joy to speak something into being. “Let there be Munsonville,” I cried, and lo! Munsonville was, including Simons Woods and Lake Munson. I breathed the breath of life into my characters, and they lived (and died) at my word.

Anyone who sweats long hours at the keyboard knows building an imaginary world is not that simple, nor is it done in seven days. There's writing, rewriting, editing, and more rewriting. Yet, even God’s creation is not static, but ever-transforming.

But glorious? Heck yeah!

The Hobbit: The White Council: Christopher Lee returns.

Ashes

I figured since I've already posted some excerpts from John's story, I'd post this. It contains no spoilers, and the writing style is different from the previous section. However, it's an example of how I do see chapters almost as short stories in their own right, with a silent exhortatin to turn the page.

Before the Blood, Kellen's Story, Chapter One: Ashes      

            War.

            It's all Metta knew. It's all Metta had ever known.

            Every day of each of her fifteen years, "Because of the war," was the barricade to every wish and want.

            "Why can't we have eggs?" Metta grumbled into her bowl of beans and vegetable broth.

            "Because of the war," her father  would answer. "The soldiers stole our stock."

            Metta did not know what "stock" was.

             "Why can't we have a big fire?" Metta whined when her body shook from winter blasts, despite feather blankets pulled to her nose.

             "Because it's dangerous to venture into the forest," her father would answer, "where soldiers are hiding, because of the war."

            Metta wondered what a forest looked like.

              "Why can't we have a doctor?" Metta whined when her body blazed with fever and coughs racked her chest.

             "The doctors are busy with the wounded," her father would answer, "because of the war."

            Metta wondered what a doctor looked like. She only knew about doctors because Greta's grandfather had been a doctor, before he died in the war.

            The hut was too empty and quiet. That, too, was because of the war.

             She wanted Pawel, Henning, Drewes and, Arnth, but each brother had left, one by one, to fight against the Spanish armies and never came home. Were they still fighting? Were they wandering mercenaries or street beggars in some far-off village?

             Her father had no answer. That irked Metta.

            "Families should be together," Metta sniffled over her sewing.

             Her mother, still kneading, glanced at Metta's father.

             "That cannot be," her father muttered and poked at the fire, "because of the war."

             From that day forth, her father stopped answering questions. The next month, her mother was gone, all because of the war.

            Metta swung the bucket as she trudged to the well. The noon sun warmed her arms and pretty brown curls. Talk to no one, her mother always warned, especially men in uniform. So Metta ignored the frauen's gossip and impatiently waited her turn for water. She stomped her foot. She loudly sighed. She had many weeds to pull.

            She sulked walking home. The wood bucket bump-bumped against her shins and sloshed. Her frowned at the half-empty bucket, but he did not beat her. He even let her take some water to the fields. Why had her father changed?

            Then came the day that changed everything.

             "They are distributing eggs," her father had announced.

            Metta had grabbed her basket and flew out the door, never stopping until she reached the village center. The lines were long and wide. Metta took her place, doubting she'd see any eggs.

            "Psst."

           

            She looked up. A man, black hair sleek in the sun and blue uniform clean, kindly smiled down at her.

            "Come with me," he said.

            Metta followed him behind the shops. Still smiling, he lifted the cloth from a bushel heaped full with eggs. He filled her basket and told her to return at sunset. She looked quizzically at him and shook out her curls so he could see how pretty they were.

            "Have you no tongue?" the man asked.

           

            "My mother told me not to speak to you," Metta said.

            The smile fled. "Then you must obey your mother." The man replaced the cloth and turned to leave. Metta grabbed a cuff.

            "My father gave no such instruction. Why must I return tonight?"

            He stopped, surprised, and dropped his voice. "A surprise."

            His words angered her. Her cheeks burned.

             "We in Grotekop don't get surprises," Metta said bitterly, "because of the war."

             The man softly laughed, brushed her cheek with his knuckles, and walked away.

            At sunset, Metta came back. She beheld the man in the distance, leaning against a fence. As she approached, he held up a sack.

             "Look." He pulled the ends open.

            Metta looked. At the bottom lay a chicken with a broken neck.

            "My gift," he said, "to you."

             Metta studied the flies crawling on the fowl's open eyes.

            "I've never had a gift," she said.

           

            "And now that you have received one, what do you think?"

             "I do not know," Metta raised her eyes. "I've never tasted chicken."

             The man chuckled. "Well, then, run home and ask your mother to cook it. Then come again tomorrow and tell me if you like gifts."

            Metta's eyes narrowed.

            "I have no mother," she said hotly, "because of the war."

            She snatched the sack, turned her back, and marched home. Her father showed Metta how to pluck the chicken. Metta watched him cut up and cook the chicken. She wondered at this taste of bird flesh, firm, chewy, so different from beans, bread, and wild onions and asparagus.

            Weeks passed.

            "They are distributing grain," her father said.

           

            Metta took an empty bucket and raced to the village center. She scarcely felt the bucket's bumpety-bumping on her shins. Again, she faced a sea of hungry people. Again, men in blue uniforms shared their stores. But was "her man" among them? Forgetting food, her father's order, and the man's rude comment about her mother, Metta climbed onto a wagon and stood tall. She shaded her eyes and peered. Yes, he was there!

            "Mr. man!" she cried and waved. "Mr. man! Mr. man!"

            He looked up and saw Metta. So did a second uniformed man, who shouted at her to get out of his wagon. But Metta's man reached her first and helped her down.

           

            "Can't you behave?" the man sternly asked, but his eyes were twinkling. He turned to the other soldier. "Laech, take my place."

            Laech scowled at Metta. "You bad girl. If you were my daughter, I'd whip you." He glanced at Metta's man and said, "Whip her good, Captain Weschler." Then Laech strode back to the crowd.

            Metta turned bright eyes at her man. "You're a captain?"

            He clicked his boot heels together. "Captain Brandt Weschler, Fraulein."

            Giggling, the first giggle of Metta's life, she curtsied back. "I'm just Metta."

            Brandt gazed intently at her. "Well?"

           

            "Well, I very much like gifts. Have you others?"

            "Not today," Brandt's face turned serious. "I was hoping you might give one to me."

             "I have no gifts," Metta said, and Brandt added with her, "because of the war."

             They both laughed.

             "Laugh again," Metta said. "It makes your eyes very blue and crinkly."

              "I cannot laugh on command. But I know a way to make me smile."

            "How?"

             Brandt pointed to his cheek. "Kiss me. Here."

            Metta's needle moved in and out of the cloth, as she blushed in memory, but not that memory. It was only a kiss. It was only on Brandt's cheek.  

'          

            That time.

            She and Brandt roamed the forbidden forest, realm of soldiers, now the hideaway of Metta and her soldier. More than once, after Brandt bid her farewell where the trees met the grove and then disappeared back into woods, Metta picked a snow daisy and pulled off its petals while murmuring, "Er/sie liebt mich. Er/sie liebt mich nicht," all the way home.

            Her father grew suspicious of her itchy eyes and sneezing.

            "You have either wandered near the forest," he said, "or you are sick."

            Yes, Metta was sick, sick of war, so sick that Metta had become sick. Metta feared she would die. She did not recognize this strange sickness. It was not the fever, headache, and rash of typhus victims. It was not the fever, headache, and swelling of plague victims.

             No, this was a new sickness.

            As soon as her eyes opened to dawn, she vomited. She vomited her breakfast. She vomited her lunch and dinner. She vomited for no reason. Her pretty curls grew dull and limp. At night, she cried scalding tears for Brandt, so bravely fighting the enemy. His victorious homecoming would crumble to ash. He'd return only to mourn her death.

            And then she vomited into the dirt.

              "A pox on Catholics," Brandt said, and he spat tobacco onto the ground. "All they know is war."

            Metta did not understand this talk of Catholics, Lutherans, and Calvinists. But it sounded important when Brandt spoke of it.

            "When will war end?" Metta asked.

            Fire flashed in Brandt's wonderful blue eyes. "When they learn our lessons, lessons not taught from the pulpit."

            Metta shivered with delight at Brandt's commanding authority and grasped his arm tighter. "You are strong, and your army is mighty. The Catholics should be very afraid."

            Brandt stroked Metta's curls and stared into her eyes. "Are you afraid of me, Metta?"

            It was not fear Metta felt when Brandt looked at her that way. She nearly fainted when Brandt did more than look. She hated her father's beatings, but Brandt's pounding sent her to heaven. So was death good?

            Metta knew death's face. She had seen its frozen features on enemy corpses in the streets. Death looked like her father before she had become sick: sunken eyes, wasted limbs, raspy breaths, and hard and swollen belly, as hard and swollen as Metta's belly.

            It was good her father had died. It was good he had not seen her sick. With joy, Metta had dug a grave, dragged him to the yard, and rolled him into the hole. With joy, she had shoveled dirt onto his stiff and lifeless frame. He was never the same after the French had raped and dismembered her mother.

            "Watch over my mother, Metta," Brandt had said before he had galloped away. "I trust you."

            Metta could not listen to his words. They hurt her heart, and she clung to his coat.

             "Don't leave, Brandt!" She buried her face in the rough cloth. "Don't leave your Metta."

            Brandt's voice was solemn. "I'm leaving for you, Metta. For my mother. For the family we will raise. For the villagers. For all the blood spilled on German soil by wrath of Ferdinand II. To have a future, we must have freedom. There is no other way."

            So Metta had moved into Ilsabe's hut. But now, Metta was dying. And Metta could not watch over Ilsabe if Metta was dead.

            Summer's heat withered at autumn's chill. Metta gathered twigs and broken branches to keep the fire burning at night. She worked the harvest. She gleaned the fields. She patched the thatched roof. Metta did not die.

            Autumn's chill became winter's cold. She and Ilsabe lugged home manure from the landowner to burn for warmth. All winter, they huddled about the fire. They ventured out only for more manure and to beg for food. Metta did not die.

            The warm winds of spring blew away winter's frigid ones. Again, Metta gathered twigs and broken branches until spring grew strong, and fire was not needed.  Metta did not die.

            Soldiers shuffled home. Metta's man was not among them. Tomorrow, Brandt would come back, she told herself as she lugged the bucket to the well. Tomorrow, she told herself, as she gathered wild herbs. Tomorrow, she told herself as she worked the spring planting.

            Ilsabe grew restless inside the hut while Metta worked. So Metta led her to the well. Metta lowered her bucket. In the water's reflection was a soldier. Metta dropped the bucket. She spun around. The soldier wore blue. Metta knew that straw-colored beard and hair. She  grabbed his sleeve as he passed.

             "Give me news of Captain Weschler!" Metta demanded

             Laech irritably shook off her hand. Metta's courage failed. She whimpered at his harshness. Then she shook. Then she sobbed.

             "I'm sorry, Metta," Laech said. "He was my friend, too."

            A strangled cry broke from Ilsabe's lips. Tears ran from unseeing eyes.

            "What are you saying?" Metta cried and lunged at Laech.

            But Laech broke free and kept walking. Through swimming eyes, Metta watched him leave. Ilsabe moaned little moans and groped Metta until her hand found Metta's belly. The child inside responded with a firm kick.

            Something deep within Metta, not the baby, twisted hard and turned to stone. Metta's fear of death was now a wish for death.

             The war had won.

A Rather Productive Weekend, In Some Ways, And Yes, That Included "Staked!"

Quick synopsis on a busy Monday morning:

* Completed Chapter 1 of Kellen's story in Before the Blood

* Completed a couple thousands words of Chapter 2 of Kellen's story, same novel

* Spent several hours yesterday evening with Sarah Stegall, combing through Staked!, answering any lingering questions and fixing any lingering formatting/copyediting errors. Sarah's plan is to upload Staked! this week, adjust any shifting, and release the book. (Crossing fingers this time...)

* Two episodes of Family Guy with Daniel on Friday night, two episodes of Once Upon a Time with Rebekah on Sunday (We missed church because Timothy had to work and took the car, hence, some of the productivity).

* On the down side, I didn't get as many briefs edited as I had hoped on when I went into work on Sunday. Once I knew my ambitious plans were naught, I split my time between the easy ones and the "time-consuming, needing heavy editing ones" that I'd been setting aside.

* All this in spite of computer issues. Flash drives won't read on the desktop, internet acting like a spoiled three-year-old...

Fast reflections as we stand poised to (finally, we hope) release Staked!

* What a strange wonderful journey writing the BryonySeries has been. A fleeting idea that caught hold of my muse almost three decades ago grew into more than the single novel I had planned to write. I have learned so much about writing, editing, story construction, character and plot development, dialogue, the publishing world, blogging, social media, etc. than I ever could have imagined.

* On that journey, I have met some incredible people: fellow writers, amazing editors, loyal readers, talented artists. For this, I am most grateful.

* I have also had the opportunity to share my growing knowledge with others beginning the journey. For this, I am also most grateful.

Curiously, while writing the prequel, looking backward is also looking forward.

Or is that vice versa?

Either way, write on!

 

Chalk 2minutes cute short film from Navin Kumar on Vimeo

Steward Setback Saturday: Justice (By Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara)

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Justice

By Ed Calkins, the Steward of Tara

In Bryony, when Melissa first meets Ed, he shares with her the secret to his ruthless reputation: enemy conquest through limericks. Below, the steward offers an example of his approach.


While doing his route in a van, a newspaper carrier, Howard, was attacked with a baseball bat. Although the van was filled with newspapers, it's believed the thief's intentions was to steal the vehicle. Howard was completely unarmed; he knew that he had a route to complete.

Although much older than the delinquent assaulting him, Howard resisted and was able to maintain possession of his van, even after taking a hit to his sternum and ribs. Though the strike of the bat probably broke some ribs (Howard doesn't know for sure, because he doesn't have medical insurance) he finished the route without a single complaint.

This cowardly act should not go unpunished!

I call upon all who read this to think badly about the thief with a baseball bat. Don't hold back in your negative thoughts towards this truant. As for the heroics Howard, now known as Howard the Brave, I have composed this limerick.

You and I would've probably just ran
Told the thief "take the papers and van."
But Howard our hero,
Whose complaints number zero
Faced the thung with the bat like a man.

I invite all of you to let justice be done. Send this would be robber down through timeless infamy for this cowardly act. If you are so outraged as I am, compose a limerick immortalizing this delinquent's cowardice. Posted on the it on the Internet or write it on the bathroom walls, but let the rhyming and meter become immortal.

One hundred years from now, an ancestor Howard the Brave need only mention that he is such in any bar and he will be rendered free beer. All descendents of the other one will have to bear the shame.

Getting Better About This

:)

Taking advantage of opportunities

By Jeanne Millsap

Joliet Junior College DACA recipient is also this year's student trustee, and boy, does he have big plans!

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/09/29/taking-advantage-of-opportunities/adk3g2j/

Pets of the Week

Looking for that special canine or feline to share (dominate) your living? Search no more!

 http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/10/31/pets-of-the-week-for-nov-3/ac9cqi2/

An Extraordinary Life: Minooka woman taught academics, faith and life lessons

A teacher to the end, Mary Pat Collins also understood what it meant to be a "lifelong learner."

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/10/27/an-extraordinary-life-minooka-woman-taught-academics-faith-and-life-lessons/as7ibqo/

Frankfort chiropractor has served on U.S. Olympic committees sports medicine team

By Jeanne Millsap

He also recommends two stretches everyone should be doing each day. Are you?

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/10/24/frankfort-chiropractor-has-served-on-u-s-olympic-committees-sports-medicine-team/aqbpax/

5-star restaurant with 3-star prices

It's owner and chef literally worked his way from the bottom up. Furthermore, his grandmother's recipes are on the menu, and he shared one very special recipe that is NOT on the menu.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/09/29/5-star-restaurant-with-3-star-prices/ay3tzzp/

Joliet church witnessed changes, renewal in 95 years

Read reflections from those entwined in those changes.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/10/22/st-mark-african-methodist-witnessed-changes-renewal-in-95-years/aaurbfg/

Joliet motorcycle association hosting fundraiser to benefit local children

By Jeanne Millsap

I like everything about this story.

http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/10/22/joliet-motorcycle-association-hosting-fundraiser-to-benefit-local-children/ak3warr/

BryonySeries Throwback Thursday: Naming a Baby is Easier Than Naming a Song

Monday, January 17, 2011

Naming a Baby is Easier than Naming a Song

Not that I took naming any of my children lightly.

Each time, I put much thought and prayer about the perfect name for this particular child. I said it aloud. I printed it on block paper. I wrote it in cursive with sidewalk chalk on the front porch. The name had to fit my children’s looks, personalities, and even destinies. I wanted them to like their name, to be proud of it. They would wear those names for the rest of their lives.

On Saturday, James Onohan (http://www.jamesonohan.com/), who composes and plays original piano music, sent me two, newly recorded songs for my review. He’s creating a ten-song Bryony CD and has already written its theme song (It’s beautiful). The songs (I love them!!!) were accompanied by a request to collaborate with him in their naming.

So, early Sunday morning, in the morning’s wee hours, while I rolled and delivered Sunday newspapers, I played and replayed those two songs and jotted down notes as I listened to them. What was James trying to communicate? What might he have felt as he wrote and played them? What was I feeling? What Byrony images did the music conjure up for me?

Later that day, I emailed my impressions to James, and he sent me his ideas. He’s pleased with the exchange because he really wants his music to reflect my book. We haven’t named the songs yet, but we’re closer to it today than yesterday. My seventeen-year-old daughter shook her head at me during the umpteenth listen and said, "Well, whatever you're into.'"

Oh, I am so into this!
So, why is this harder than naming my children? With my children, I had certain first and middle names assembled that I already liked and a goal for bestowing them. Heck, I even had a formula: one Old Testament name, one New Testament or saint name, and a combined meaning of the two.

I think it’s trickier to simultaneously and accurately sum up James intention behind a song while correlating it to Bryony, but I’m finding it no less sublime than naming a child. As my publicist would say, ‘We’re making history,” so the titles have to be right.

James’ songs are going to wear those names for a very, long time.

Lucas and the Vampire Joke

So I was finishing up work last night when Sarah called. First excited thought: She's done formatting "Staked!"

It was actually my grandson Lucas, excitedly calling his "Vampire Grandma" with a joke he'd just read.

Question: What is a vampire's favorite fruit?

Answer: A neck-tarine.

Have an awesome day, vampire fans!

Revealing Character Through Dialogue

There are several ways readers get to know the characters in your novel. One is by "show" (The reader experiences the character as he/she is revealed), another is by description (A character's physical appearance and demeanor gives clues to the personality).

A third is through the opinions of himserlf/herself and the other characters. An example is Cornell Dyer from Visage. 

In Cornell's own words:

Amateurish paintings of astrologic symbols, hexagrams, and magic wands covered the motor home’s white exterior. A sign painted across one side read: The Thaumaturgical World of Professor Cornell Dyer: Amulets, Fortune-Telling (with and without cards), Ghost-Hunting, Horoscopes, Numerology, Palm-Reading.

“You have reached The Thaumaturgical World of Professor Cornell Dyer. We offer amulets, fortune-telling--with and without cards--ghost-hunting, horoscopes, numerology, palm-reading, potions, séances, spells, and vampire-slaying. The professor is busy saving the world right now, so please leave your name, number, and a detailed message after the beep. He will return your call as soon as possible.”

And in the words of others:

. I can’t wait for you guys to meet my husband. I’m sure he will have lots in common with John. Cornell’s a professor, too.”

“He is?” Melissa wondered if Julie had not given her prejudiced information about Katie’s situation. “What kind of professor?”

“He’s a professor of the esoteric.”

“The what!”

“The esoteric. You know, the occult.”

“I know what esoteric means,” Melissa said, losing patience with her old friend. “Katie, you can’t be serious.”

Katie giggled. “I sure am. Not only is he smart, he’s very compassionate, which is why we travel around the country. That’s all Cornell does is help people, kind of like an old-fashioned medicine man. He goes from place to place teaching people about the mystical world they can’t see and fixing their problems.”

This last statement did it for Melissa. “He solves their problems? For free?”

           
 “Big problems, little problems; it doesn’t matter to Cornell."

“Melissa, you would not believe the voluminous amounts of research this man has singlehandedly accomplished and documented. He’s filled shelves with the details of his experiments. They’re referenced and cross-referenced, graphed and charted. I couldn’t read it all if I spent every night there. The man’s a pioneer into another realm.”

 “He’s a glorified birthday party magician."

Cornell grabbed Melissa’s hand, slapped one business card into it, and said, “Call me at this number tomorrow morning when John wakes up.”

She tried to return the card, but Cornell closed her fist around it and gave her an enigmatic smile. Melissa snatched her hand away.

“Cornell Dyer, it’ll be a cold day in hell when I call you.”

“That’s “Professor” to you.”




How long Melissa frantically paced outside the restaurant she did not know, but at some point the front door opened, and Cornell stepped outside. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the building.

“Nice evening,” he said around the butt.

“Bug off."

Cornell blew out smoke. “You don’t like me, Melissa.”

“Wow! You really do have a crystal ball.”




“I told him what a wonderfully awesome job he had done that night, and he thanked me. Then he cut another piece and offered me a slice, too. I didn’t really want any cake because of my diet but then decided the cake must taste very good because I’d seen Cornell eat three pieces. 




John-Peter picked up his plate, tilted it to his mouth, slurped the remaining juice, and then said, “Maybe you should call Cornell Dyer.”

Oh, how she despised the sound of that man’s name!

“John-Peter, please be quiet.”

“Father says Cornell is a genius.”




He plopped onto the couch, turned on the television, and braced his feet against the coffee table. Melissa angrily strode across the room and shoved his feet onto the floor. Cornell yawned, but did not otherwise react, except to pick up the television guide. and ask, “What’s good this time of day?”

Lois, Eli, Poppyseed, and True Food

Sometimes people wonder why I and my three youngest adult children travel forty miles to a dying church - St. Nicholas in Homewood - with a handful of members every Sunday. It's hard to explain in words.

Certainly, it's not simply because it's Eastern Orthodox, as Joliet has four and Homer Glen, a little closer, has a Byzantine Catholic church, one I had attended for many years when it resided in Joliet. On the plus side of St. Nicholas, this church has a joyful spirit that wonderfully transcends the soberness accompanying many Orthodox traditions, and when it closes its doors altogether, finding a suitable replacement for it in my life will be challenging.

No, it's about God. It's about the people.

First, God.

Many years ago, in the mid-80's, an acquaintance of mine ministered to me during a particular rough time in my life. One of the things she did was to pile me and my three children into her station wagon with her and her four children and drive to St. Nicholas for a Wednesday evening Prayer and Praise service. Yes, many churches have such services, and I had refused her for a year before I needed the distraction. Once inside that church, I found something I hadn't expected to find.

I found God.

No, I'm not sharing a conversion testimony, for God has always been in my life. But in the quietness of my spirit, I knew this church was where God meant me to be. It's not a large church or a beautiful church, in the sense of traditional Orthodoxy architecture and icnonography. But SOMETHING in that church spoke to me. And one night, when everyone was in the fellowship hall, preparing to leave, I ducked back inside to reverence the icon on the tetrapod and silently beg God to find a way to make me part of this church and its community.

And He did. And I have grown spiritually in unbelieveable and breathtaking ways.

Now, the people.

At first glance, they are ordinary people, nothing spectacularly spiritual about them. But they do pray, not dramatically, hands-in-air showy kind of prayer or overly-pious, staid, look-down-your-spectacles kind of praying, but ordinary when-I-remember-to-do-so kind of praying, the kind most of us do (unless we have a structured prayer life), if we were honest enough with ourselves to admit it. But it is sincere praying. And through these prayers and our decades-long history together, we are connected in strong and subtle ways.

Yesterday, one of older members said farewell. In many ways, Lois has always reminded me of my godmother: a professional woman in the days when women were not professional women, never-married, confident, humble, independent, somone who gave rides to church to those that did not have one and who continued to drive, along, from the Calumet City side of Hammond to church until this past summer, when she experienced a bout of stomach flu that knocked her down a few pegs.

Anyone that has followed this blog knows that our family is slowly emerging from a few years of crisis. During this time, Lois, with whom I have always enjoyed conversing, periodically called me to see how we were doing. She sent occasional greeting cards. She assured me of her daily prayers for us. She passed along historical magazines for the boys and presented me with a small, but beautiful, piece of Orthodox art that stands behind my phone at work, a reminder of the forces of good people behind me.

During these months that were difficult for her, I occasionally called her as she had called me, rejoiced with her as her strength returned, verbally high-fived her at the progress she made in downsizing her home, and agreed with her that moving to Kentucky to be with her family was a good idea.

The move came sooner than she had anticipated. Last week, while walking to work, I had talked to Lois, who anticipated the move would be in three weeks. On Sunday, she shared it was her last Sunday. Her brother had deciced to come for her this week. The farewell was bittersweet, but we had a very special and private moment. She said kind and complimentary things to me, and I assured her that any trait she admired in me was due to the prayers of godly women like her. I wished her well in this next adventure of her life and a promise that my prayers will accompany it. And they will.

So, I was on call this weekend for two newspapers. Fortunately for me, I didn't have to address any breaking news (as breaking news is not my best skill), but a number of other nstances did occur, and I dealt with them, I believe, successfully. The culmination did cause Timothy and I (Rebekah and Daniel had spent the weekend ni Mendota) to be late for church, late enough that he debated the wisdom of attending at all.

Let's just say I persuaded him otherwise.

In retrospect, with Lois leaving, this was a good thing. Also, Timothy has the ministry of washing the windows at St. Nicholas, one that was, shall we say, thrust on him, but one that he, nevertheless, has embraced and mastered, in the spirit of Alex Tytus, another godly man who unobstrusively kept the windows sparkling for many years, despite failiing health. So that task must be accomplished every Sunday.

Feeling rather discouraged, we walked in just as the communion prayer had started. Eli, an 80-year-old wonderful Serbian man, grabbed my arm as I walked past.

"Oh, thank God, you're here!" Eli whispered excitedly. "I brought poppyseed!"

Eli occasionally brings poppyseed potica, candy for my heart and soul, as I have loved anything poppyseed since childhood, when my Bohemian grandmother would make these delectable poppyseed coffee cakes, a recpe that went to the grave with her. I shared this once with Eli, and he now keeps a few extra slices to the side to ensure I get some. And I always share my unabashed appreciation for it. Last time when he brought potica, he made sure I took a couple pieces home, too.

So before I could respond, Eli also said, with a huge grin, "I brought extra, just for you. I was so afraid you weren't going to make it today."

"Extra," on this particular day, meant half a potica. After church, I spent six hours at The Herald-News trying to catch up on editing briefs (I did not catch up), being interviewed via phone by a Columbia College student, and snacking on potica, a vivid reminder of the positive forces in my life. Today, I have a vacation day, but will probably work at least half of that, but from home, so the day will be less hectic. But there will be potica. I'll enjoy the taste, think of my grandmother, and feel warmed as Eli's enthusiastic remembrance, hopefully half as warm as he felt from the joy of giving it to me.

So why do I atttend a church forty miles away from home when we're cash-strapped? I'd be a stupid fool not to attend.