Oh, there you are, Perry!

I know, I know . . . it's a cryptic title.

Feel free to comment if you get it.

Anyway, my apologies for the "dead airtime"! THINGS have been happening, upon which I will elaborate later. For now, here's an appeasement–one of my infamous parodies.


Born To Be Mild

Got my motor runnin'
Sittin' in the driveway
She's lookin' for her dentures
And it's takin' half the day.

Yeah, I thought I's gonna make it happen
If we hurried we'd see the race
We wouldn't miss out for once, and
We'd find a good space.

But like a true middle child,
She was born, born to be mild
As the thrills slip by,
It makes me wanna cry.

Born to be mild . . . .

Born to be mild . . . .

An Author it Training - For the Wounded, Sick, and Sorrowing

So much sorrow and loss, lately . . .

For the families of Tucker, Jamie, Ross, David, Mary, Peggy, Bob. And for all the others out there who are sick or injured, wounded or grieving.

For the Wounded, Sick, and Sorrowing


Papa Healer,
My friend is hurting so.
It seems hard
To face such intense pain, sickness, sorrow.
Often,
It seems harder still—
To stand by,
To feel helpless,
While someone I love so deeply
Suffers so deeply.
I want to do...
Something!
...Something like You did.
With a touch,
Burn all disease from my friend's body.
With a word,
Tear out every microbe, toxin, cancer cell.
With the force of my faith,
Cast every wound,
Every sorrow,
Every loss,
Into the Pit from whence it came.

Papa....

Guide my lips to pray,
My hands to serve,
My arms to hold,
My feet to go,
My heart to love,
In ways my friend needs most.
Let me be one of the faithful ones
Who carried the paralyzed man to You.
Grant that my faith be enough for my friend's healing.

Papa Healer,
I "open the roof"
And bring my friend to You.
Open the heavens,
And bring your healing touch
To my friend.
             

An Author in Training - "Know Thyself" (Part 2)

I know, I know . . . .

I promised back on July 25, that I'd tell you what I'd learned about myself as a writer. So, here you go:

I ran into a major case of writer's block early in the summer and I couldn't figure out why. As I struggled with understanding it and overcoming it, I reached what I believe is a major insight about myself as a writer. I realized that at the beginning of the summer, I submitted a book proposal to an agent, for a book still in progress, and it was after that when the writer's block showed up.

Now I think I know why. One of the ingredients of a proposal is a chapter-by-chapter outline of the story. Some writers do their best writing from an outline--what I would call a "constructed" writer. Other write their best by letting the story grow--what I'm calling an "organic" writer.

Long story short, I think I'm an organic writer. I find my best writing happens when I let the story grow as it grows. I may prune it, train it, re-pot, graft bits onto it, but basically, it is what it grows to be. For me, that seems to result in a story that feels like it's being told by someone who was there.

My problem this summer? I had an outline! I've always been taught that a good writer "should" create and write from an outline. So, I was trying to be a "good" writer, and write the story the way the outline said it was going to go. What does an outline know? My characters and I decide what's going to happen next! That's what makes writing fun and interesting for me (and I think for my readers).

So, I've decided to ditch the outline. Oh, I'll stick it in a drawer and refer to it for general guidelines--sort of. But I know where the story started from, and I know where it's going. (The ending is already pretty much written.) I'm excited to see how it grows.

You're welcome to come along for the ride.

P.S. I'm coming to believe that all of us tend to naturally live our lives more one way or the other—constructed or organic. There's no right or wrong. Asking which one is right is like asking, "Which is right, an oak tree or a house?" There's a place for both. The problem comes if we can't flex enough to use the other approach when necessary. Which way seems to work better for you?

Spoon! - another sample

Eva had awakened that morning with a song running through her mind. She tried to remember where she had heard it; whose song it was. After a few moments' thought, she remembered—it was the song of the mountains, rising to the east beyond the garden. The melody soared and plunged, with clear, high notes, followed by a deep thrumming, almost too low to hear. As it repeated itself in her head, she felt a sudden inspiration. She could combine the various songs to make a symphony of praise!

Eva began to search through the melodies she had stored in her memory for other parts of the song . . . a tree! A towering evergreen, its shape mimicking that of the mountain and the whispering swish of its needles a delicate counterpoint to the mountain's song. Next she thought of a small, clear mountain stream, glittering in the sunlight and tingling its way downhill toward the center of the garden. The next part she thought was a meadow filled with the low humming of bees, interspersed with the varied chimes of an assortment of flowers, finishing with the grace notes of butterflies, flitting here and there through the composition.

  Eva breathed a sigh of satisfaction at the arrangement she had thought of. If she could think of it, it must exist somewhere. Humming the song she had put together, she set out to find the place where it existed.