HolleeDaze Ink

For Daniel Silveria's Family and Friends - His Stories

2011-12-16T10:21:00.001-05:00

I "met" Daniel Silveria in 2004 when we were both bloggers on Blogit.com. When we first met, I did not know that he was wheelchair-bound—he never referred to it in any of his wildly humorous posts.

It was not until he and I collaborated on a series of children's stories that I learned he had Spinal Muscular Atrophy. In later years, Daniel would write about this in his blog post called Justifying My Existence.

Daniel was a gifted writer, a brilliant thinker, and one of my dearest friends – even though we never met face-to-face. He never complained about his life to my family or me—he encouraged us, kept us laughing, and sometimes made us cry, all though the gift of his words.

Daniel went to be with the Lord on December 10. Today, Friday, December 16, is his funeral in Brockton, Massachusetts.

Since I can't be there to celebrate the life of this gifted young man, I want to share with all of you two of the stories he wrote. They are excerpts from Introducing Paxton Grundle.

First, Daniel's description of Paxton:

“My name is Paxton Grundle. I’m six and a half, and live in a big ole house on Cranberry Street. At least I think it’s big. Everything looks big to me cuz I’m jus’ little. But I’m tall for my height. I live with my mom and dad, my dog, Fur-Face, and my big, smelly, older sister, Kelly. I like Mom, Dad, and Fur-Face.”

Kiddie Table

By Daniel Silveria

So, it’s Thanksgivin’ again and, even though I’m a whole year older than I was last year—if I did my math right—they still had me sit at the kiddie table. They sure know how to make a guy feel small. I was forced to sit with Cousin Emo, Cousin Deborah Ann, and Diaper-load Davey. Besides them, there was a bunch of new kids I didn’t rectonize. They keep addin’ new faces to the mix every year, but nobody ever runs it by me. I don’t know where they all come from. Mom told me about an ostrich, or somethin, droppin’ babies off to their mommies and daddies. Maybe it was a carrier pigeon, I don’t member.

Cousin Emo is a year older than me, but about 100 years dumber. He likes to punch ya in the shoulder when you’re not s’pectin’ it; and he kicks at your legs under the table. For some reason, nobody sees it when he does it to me, but if I taliate and do the same thing to him, then I get yelled at and get no chocolate cream pie! Emo doesn’t do this to Diaper-load Davey. In fact, most us kids keep a safe distance from Davey. He’s a good enough guy, I guess, but he’s not a winner, ‘specilly by a nose.

Deborah Ann is the most annoyin’ girl on the face of the earth—and that’s a doobies distinction, cuz all girls are annoyin’. For one thing, she’s got two first names. Jus’ who does she think she is? Pick a name and stick with it, that’s what I did. But that’s not even the most annoyin’ thing about her; she insists on bein’ all touchy-feely—GROSS! Deborah Ann tries to kiss me every chance she gets! She looks like a big ole guppy fish comin’ at you with her lips puckered all the time. I’d probably get in trouble for punchin’ her, too. So, the whole time I’m sittin’ at the table, I’ve got the two-name Deborah Ann hangin’ onto one arm and Cousin Emo sockin’ me in the other one. I was outnumbered and hand-in-capped, cuz the grown-ups at the aptilly named Grown-up Table were completely ‘blivious!

My older sister, Smelly Kelly, has been allowed at the Grown-up Table for as long as I can ‘member, and she rubs my face in it. I’ll look over at her and she’ll be grinnin’ down at me like she’s Queen Turkey. Ha ha and ha! That’s cuz she is! Queen of all turkeys—a big ole stuffed bird!

Anyway, Smelly Kelly was sittin’ next to Uncle Ned, and that’s no treat when he’s scarfin’ down Gramma Edie’s baked beans. Even Kelly gets out-smellied in that contest. P U!

Bein’ that my arms were both ocktey-pied most of the time, my food was gettin’ cold. One time, Dad told me that cold turkey was probably the hardest thing he’d ever done. It really wasn’t that hard, though. The cold mashed tatters were much worse. So, I flung most of ‘em at Emo with my fork, cattapolt style—ha ha!! Hittin’ him at all was good enough; the fact that some really got stuck in his hair for the rest of the day was jus’ gravy on the pate.

I would have taken a shot at Deborah Ann, too, but she’s such a Clingon I couldn’t get my arm free. She told me she has a crush on me, and she said it in front of everybody. That girl has had more crushes on more people than the auto yard crusher machine has had on cars. There are strains of cooties named after her! Diaper-load Davey was the only one smart enough to keep his distance.

The Santa Plan

By Daniel Silveria

I was watchin’ Barbara Walters’s 10 Most Interestin’ People of the Year show and couldn’t believe that Santa Claus didn’t make the list! Is Barbara Walters wacko or somethin’? None of the guests she inner-viewed can travel ‘round the ‘tire world in one night. Maybe some of ‘em could slide down a chimney, but I serially doubt any of ‘em could push a button in their nose and fly back up the chimney. This guy is incredible! At least interestin’, I’d say.

I stayed up last year, tryin’ to see Santa. I know, I know, that’s a bad-boy thing to do, cuz he knows when you are sleepin’ and he knows when you’re awake, an’ he knows if you been bad or good and if you stole the cake! But he’s getting’ old, ya know, so I was thinkin’ I would test ‘em to see if he was still sharp. My Gramma is like a million years younger than him, and she tries to change the microwave with the TV remote. So I figured it was possible Santa was getting’ rusty too.

So I waited and waited for Mom and Dad to go to sleep, so that I could sneak out and watch for The Big Guy. But they kept comin’ into my room, checkin’ to see if I was still awake! That was getting’ very tirin’. I had to hold my eyes open with my fingers some of the time. I kept callin’ Fur-Face over to lick my face, so that I would be freshed up, but I could tell he was getting’ aggravated cuz he wanted to go to sleep himself.

Dogs aren’t much interested in Santa Claus, I guess. Make that Dogs and Barbara Walters.

Mom came in for the third time to check on me, and this time she said that Santa was prolly avoidin’ our house cuz I was still not sleepin’. She ‘spressed concern that we might not get any presents if I stayed awake much longer. Meanwhile, I’m slappin’ myself in the head, attempin’ to keep myself from dozin’ off.

It was like 10,000 o’clock or somethin and I was startin’ to question the whole plan. Obvidiously Santa was still sharp enough to know that I was still not sleepin’. But I had stayed up that late so far, and I wasn’t ‘bout to call it quits after all that.

The next time Mom came into my room, I maked believe that I was sleepin’. She said, “Paxton? Paxton, are you awake?” and this time I didn’t say a thing.

When she left, I popped up and snucked out of my room real quiet. I barely knew where I was goin, cuz I was so tired. I heard whisperin’ in the living room, and then I heard the front door open. This woked me up right away, cuz I was thinkin’ Santa ‘sided to use the front door stead of the chimney!

I frozed right where I was. A trillion things started goin’ through my mind. I was a-scared too. If he caught me bein’ awake, there’d be no Christmas presents for Paxton Grundle. So I looked around for a place to hide. First thing I saw was the Christmas tree, but, when you’re tryin to hide from Santa, under the Christmas tree prolly isn’t the best choice. My heart was thumpin’ so fast I thought I was goin to be heartiac arrested! If I heard somebody say “Ho Ho Ho” I’d have dropped dead right then and there.

Then I jus’ started runnin’ with no ‘ticular destination in mind. I ran through the dinin’ room, passed the kitchen, into the laundry room, and then jumped into the clothes basket. But it was dark in there and would hamper my view of Mr. Claus—which was what this was all ‘posed to be ‘bout—so I jumped back out. (Also, it smelled like dirty laundry in there.)

By this time—really late—I was ‘zausted, so I couldn’t run no more. I jus’ kinda dragged myself around like a puppet. ‘Ventually I found myself crawlin’ to the sofa, which was back in the livin’ room, which was prolly where Santa was. I was ready to confess to bein’ a bad-boy and ‘cept what was comin to me. It would be worth it jus’ to see him at last.

When I finally got to the sofa, nobody was in the room ‘cept for me and the tree. It was all sparklin’ and the lights were blinkin’ off and on and off and on. That kinda made my stayin’ awake that much more harder. My eyes were all blurry, and the sofa was so soft. My head started tellin myself that I could jus’ take a quick nap before Santa came back with more presents. I didn’t believe my head, cuz it’s wrong 10 times out of 9, but my eyelids started agreein’ with my head and they started closin’ by themselfs.

And that’s when I heard the front door open again. I heard bags bangin’ and clutter clatterin’. I wanted so bad to be able to wake up, but I was like two-thirds asleep, or maybe four quarters. Beats me—I hadn’t taken math at school yet, let alone Geometry.

With eyes fuzzier than Fur-Face the time Smelly Kelly blow dried his fur, I could see big, black, snow-covered boots walkin’ toward me. As my heavy eyes went up higher, I could see red pants above the black boots. Then I tried to get my eyes to go up even further. That’s when all I saw was black, cuz my eyes were closed. Last thing I ‘member was somebody whisperin’ “Merry Christmas, Paxton.”

The next mornin’, I woked up on the sofa, surrounded by presents. I done did it! I managed to saw Santa and still got tons of gifts! Me and my family sat around openin’ up all the stuff. Fur-Face knocked over the Christmas tree, cuz he’s not used to seein’ trees inside the house—thought it was an ‘truder or somethin’, I guess. But anyway... everything was perfect and the best thing was openin’ the presents.

There’s no time like the present. No time at all.

My dearest Daniel - I love you to the moon.

Free now: Six E-books on Writing from Writer’s Digest Books!

2011-11-07T07:54:00.000-05:00

DailyCheapReads.com » Free now: Six books on writing from Writer’s Digest Books

In Honor of Andy Rooney - A Collection of Great Quotes

2011-11-05T09:55:00.001-05:00

Death is a distant rumor to the young

All men are not created equal but should be treated as though they were under the law.

Anyone who watches golf on television would enjoy watching the grass grow on the greens.

As an old reporter, we have a few secrets, and the first thing is we try the phone book.

Computers make it easier to do a lot of things, but most of the things they make it easier to do don't need to be done.

Computers may save time but they sure waste a lot of paper. About 98 percent of everything printed out by a computer is garbage that no one ever reads.

Don't rule out working with your hands. It does not preclude using your head.

Elephants and grandchildren never forget.

Figure skating is an unlikely Olympic event but its good television. It's sort of a combination of gymnastics and ballet. A little sexy too which doesn't hurt.

Happiness depends more on how life strikes you than on what happens.

I didn't get old on purpose, it just happened. If you're lucky, it could happen to you.

I don't like food that's too carefully arranged; it makes me think that the chef is spending too much time arranging and not enough time cooking. If I wanted a picture I'd buy a painting.

I don't pick subjects as much as they pick me.

I don't think the government is out to get me or help someone else get me but it wouldn't surprise me if they were out to sell me something or help someone else sell me something. I mean, why else would the Census Bureau want to know my telephone number?

I hope all of you are going to fill out your census form when it comes in the mail next month. If you don't return the form, the area you live in might get less government money and you wouldn't want that to happen, would you.

I just wish we knew a little less about his urethra and a little more about his arms sales to Iran.

I like ice hockey, but it's a frustrating game to watch. It's hard to keep your eyes on both the puck and the players and too much time passes between scoring in hockey. There are usually more fights than there are points.

If dogs could talk it would take a lot of the fun out of owning one.

If you smile when no one else is around, you really mean it.

Making duplicate copies and computer printouts of things no one wanted even one of in the first place is giving America a new sense of purpose.


Most of us end up with no more than five or six people who remember us. Teachers have thousands of people who remember them for the rest of their lives. Nothing in fine print is ever good news. Obscenities... I think a lot of dumb people do it because they can't think of what they want to say and they're frustrated. A lot of smart people do it to pretend they aren't very smart - want to be just one of the boys. People will generally accept facts as truth only if the facts agree with what they already believe. Taxes are important. President Bush's tax proposals leave no rich person behind. Voters approve of President Bush helping the kind of people they wish they were one of. The 50-50-90 rule: Anytime you have a 50-50 chance of getting something right, there's a 90% probability you'll get it wrong. The average bright young man who is drafted hates the whole business because an army always tries to eliminate the individual differences in men. The average dog is a nicer person than the average person. The closing of a door can bring blessed privacy and comfort - the opening, terror. Conversely, the closing of a door can be a sad and final thing - the opening a wonderfully joyous moment. The dullest Olympic sport is curling, whatever 'curling' means. The federal government has sponsored research that has produced a tomato that is perfect in every respect, except that you can't eat it. We should make every effort to make sure this disease, often referred to as 'progress', doesn't spread. The only people who say worse things about politicians that reporters do are other politicians. The Super Bowl isn't for kids, I had a great time though and it was worth every nickel of it because by doing this lame piece about the game I can put it on my expense account. The world must be filled with unsuccessful musical careers like mine, and it's probably a good thing. We don't need a lot of bad musicians filling the air with unnecessary sounds. Some of the professionals are bad enough. Vegetarian - that's an old Indian word meaning lousy hunter. We're all proud of making little mistakes. It gives us the feeling we don't make any big ones. When those waiters ask me if I want some fresh ground pepper, I ask if they have any aged pepper.

The Weisenheimer

2011-10-12T17:14:00.000-05:00

My youngest brother, Thomas, is something of a genius. I find this odd.

Thomas is practically a generation younger than me (a generation being the average interval between the birth of an individual and the birth of its offspring of 20 or 25 years). He was born in 1970, and I . . . wasn't.

My most vivid memories of Thomas are of changing his diapers and watching him prepare for his first day of kindergarten.

After high school, he joined the Air Force and was stationed in Wyoming after boot camp. On one of his visits home, I remember wondering where the years had gone. I knew that I had grown older, and by then had three daughters, but since Thomas was not in Ohio at the time, he was surely in a state of suspended animation wherein he never grew older, or taller.

Now he towers over me and somewhere along the line, has developed an intellect that stretches mine beyond its limits, and I ain't no dummy.

Case in point: Thomas posted a conversation between him and and his absolutely beautiful, and obviously long-suffering wife, Mona. It went like this:

Mona: I read that the planetarium says that you can fit over 100 earths inside Jupiter!

Thomas: Uh...Don’t think so. If you just mean "how many times larger, by volume" is Jupiter, the answer is straightforward. You simple take the ratio of the radii of Jupiter and the Earth and cube it (i.e., multiply it by itself three times).
Radius of Jupiter = 69911 km
Radius of Earth = 6371 km

66911
----- = 10.97
6371

10.97^3 = ~1320

So, the volume of the Earth would fit inside the volume of Jupiter
about 1320 times.

However, if you wanted to "pack Earth-sized spheres inside" the volume of Jupiter, you need to account for the "empty space" between the spheres. It has been mathematically shown that the densest possible packing of smaller spheres within a larger sphere only "wastes" about 25% of the space.

So, this means that you could fit about 990 (1320*.75) Earth-size
spheres within Jupiter.

Mona: Shut up. You're never going to the planetarium with me.

See what I mean. Kinda makes you want it give him a noogie, doesn't it?

A Review in Review - Be Careful Whose Opinion You Ask!

2011-09-14T15:29:00.000-05:00

I regularly read PWxyz, the blog of Publishers Weekly. I have always loved the magazine for keeping up with the publishing world, and with the digital age, I can do so every day, rather than waiting for my magazine to arrive in the mail.

Today, I read a post that once again highlights one of PWxyz's favorite fellow blogs - Letters of Note.

According the the About Me notation: Letters of Note is an attempt to gather and sort fascinating letters, postcards, telegrams, faxes, and memos. Scans/photos where possible. Fakes will be sneered at. Updated every weekday. It is edited by Shaun Usher.

So today, I am stealing a letter featured on Letters of Note and PWxyz, written by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) because, as a writer and editor, I have received my share of rejection letters and quiver at the thought of a bad review. This review by Twain/Clemens is fair warning to choose your critics wisely. If you want simpering praise, ask your mother to read your manuscript. If you want truth (YOU can't handle the truth . . . or maybe you can?), then see if you can get a widely-published author to read your manuscript, and brace yourself!

Publishers Chatto & Windus asked (Mark) Twain for a blurb for one of their books, Nuggets and Dust Panned Out in California by Dod Grille, which was by one of Twain’s friends, Ambrose Bierce. The publishers probably expected a kind word from Twain, but instead he ripped the book apart:

SLC

Farmington Avenue,
Hartford

4/8/74

Gentlemen:

“Dod Grile” (Mr. Bierce) is a personal friend of mine, & I like him exceedingly — but he knows my opinion of the “Nuggets & Dust,” & so I do not mind exposing it to you. It is the vilest book that exists in print — or very nearly so. If you keep a “reader,” it is charity to believe he never really read that book, but framed his verdict upon hearsay.
Bierce has written some admirable things — fugitive pieces — but none of them are among the “Nuggets.” There is humor in Dod Grile, but for every laugh that is in his book there are five blushes, ten shudders and a vomit. The laugh is too expensive.

Ys truly

Samuel L. Clemens

I Just Have to Share This Writer's Digest Article Because It's So Informative!

2011-08-29T09:28:00.000-05:00

How to Revise Your Work (& Awesome Editing Symbols You Should Know)

by Brian Klems

Maybe I’m a nerd, but I love the editing process. I love recasting sentences to make them stronger, choosing specific words to make dialogue sing, correcting grammar until it’s fit to print and drawing little squibblies all over the page (mainly because I like the way squibblies look). Honestly, I use editing marks so much that sometimes I get bored with the usual suspects and make up my own.
Here is a list of Well-Known Editing Symbols, just in case you aren’t familiar:

Here is a list of the Brian A. Klems Lesser-Known Editing Symbols Worksheet:

If you need help revising your work, check out these excellent articles filled with advice on how to turn your good manuscript into a great manuscript:

— Revisions: What Every Writer Should Know
— The Revision Process: How I Prepared My Book for Publication
— 6 Keys to Revising Your Fiction
— Revision Checklist (via agent-turned-author Nathan Bransford)

And finally, if you want to really amp up your manuscript to make sure agents read past page one, consider downloading:

70 Solutions to Common Writing Mistakes

P.S.—According to my wife, there’s no “maybe” in the sentence “maybe I’m a nerd.” Such is the life of a writer.

Follow me on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Read my Dad blog: TheLifeOfDad.com
Sign up for my free weekly eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

I Guarantee You Will Love This New Blog Or Your Money Back . . . sorta.

2011-08-07T19:03:00.000-05:00

My dear friend, Dan Silveria, has started a new blog called: Chaosmosis - The Stationary Missionary.

I would be forever grateful if you'll take some time and read it. I think you'll find it is time well-spent and that you'll be going back again and again to read this delightful, insightful, and witty blog (I couldn't think of a -ful word to use for witty).

Please let me know what you think . . .

To whet your reading whistle (say that aloud . . . weading whithle), here's his About Chaosmosis page text:

I’m a housebound quadriplegic couch-potato with an opinion on everything. You might say that I’m a cultural common-tader. (You might.) Smart people warn that one should always avoid the dangerous topics of Religion & Politics, so it goes without saying that my two favorite topics are Religion & Politics (but I said it anyway).
I’m an aspiring Catholic, not yet worthy of communion with the mystical body, but in the meantime, I’m an unapologetic apologist with a twist of twistedness. However, as St. Teresa of Avila so eloquently put it, “If I should say anything that is not in conformity with what is held by the Holy Roman Catholic Church, it will be through ignorance and not through malice.”
I love to think about big picture stuff, and here is where I’ll be throwing spaghetti monsters against the wall to see what sticks. A philosopher is simply “a lover of wisdom,” which is what you get when you break apart its Greek roots: “philo” meaning lover and “sophia” meaning wisdom. And “sofa” meaning couch and “spud” meaning potato, which is someone who watches excessive amounts of television. Oh, um, “tele” meaning distant and “vision” meaning … well, you get the picture.
Me

Mean Girls Memory Lane - Not a Nice Street . . .

2011-06-12T19:25:00.000-05:00

It is Sunday night and I am watching Dateline NBC. Tonight’s episode is about bullying, specifically among teenagers.

The show started while I was doing dishes, and I was only half-listening. What caught my ear though is when they focused on what is called, in modern vernacular, “Mean Girls.” I heard how the mean girls, who for the sake of this newscaster’s story, are actors, very slyly pick apart another girl, also an actor, in front of two “innocent bystanders.” The point of the Dateline story is to see who steps in when bullying happens, and the bystanders’ parents are watching this from a hidden room.

And suddenly I am 11 years old again and back at Loveland Junior High School, and feeling all the shame and pain being heaped on me by two of my “friends.”

The one girl had been my best friend in 6^th grade. We had both just moved into the school district and lived on the same street and did everything together. Then, in the summer prior to our 7^th grade year, another girl moved onto our street and we became a trio of best friends.

Somehow, during the course of our 7^th grade year, these two girls became my worst critics and my torturers. “Sixth grade friend” had invited me to go to an amusement park with her family, and on the day we were to go, she called and said they weren’t going. An hour later, I was outside and saw her and her family driving away, with the “newcomer” in the car, on the way to the amusement park.

I was snubbed on the street we lived on, where there were a large number of kids in our age group, although only a few of us going to the public school, while the majority attended St. Columban Catholic School until 9^th grade. It was to those kids I turned for friendship when this happened. But at school, it was a nightmare. Pointing and laughing at me in the hallways, running into me, talking about me loud enough so I could hear was the kindest treatment. However, they took it as far as going to the guidance counselor and telling him that I was bothering them, that I was constantly following them, and that they wanted him to talk to me because I was making them so uncomfortable because it was obvious that there was something wrong with me.

The counselor told me everything these two girls had said, and asked for my response. When I denied everything and even admitted that I was trying to avoid them because they were being so mean to me, he said that he had to take their word because there were two of them and only one of me, and majority rules. He warned me to stop “stalking” these two girls or he would have to step in and see that I got some kind of help.

I was devastated. I had so loved both of these friends, and I could not comprehend what made them hate me so much.

Then one day, my “6^th grade friend” had an argument with the “newcomer.” She came to me and said she had really missed me and wanted to be best friends again. She didn’t like “newcomer” anymore and it was all her idea to be so mean to me.

I was so happy to have my friend back. Oddly, though, my “6^th grade friend” wanted to then do the same thing to “newcomer” that they had done to me. A part of me wanted to get back at “newcomer.” But the thought of inflicting that kind of pain on someone else broke my heart. But my “6^th grade friend” stopped “newcomer” on our street and tore her apart, in front of me.

And I did nothing.

“Newcomer” broke down in tears and went home.

I felt horrid. “Sixth grade friend” was elated that she had that effect on her, as she must have been all the times they had had that effect on me.

The next day, I was the outsider again. No explanation. I was just ignored while the two of them went on being, well, them.

Junior High was a nightmare for me. If it had not been for Marty Faith, and Tami Funk, and Jill Baron, and some others, I would have been so absolutely miserable, I don’t know how I would have made it through the days.

High School solved everything. These two girls were no longer so important as freshman in a large school. And I had all my Catholic School friends with me now, as well as a whole new group of kids who had gone to other elementary and junior high schools in the district, and then converged on this, the only high school. I had to deal with these two only at home now, since we still lived on the same street.

We moved my freshman year, though, and the four or five-mile move put me in another school district—Kings High School. There my life was pleasant and school was an exciting adventure every day. I had marvelous friends—Rita Lester, Julia Davis, Donna Forste, Michelle Petry, Lynn Schumacher, Doreen Biehle, Martina Byrd, Cathy Stringer, and come to think of it, more guy friends than girls.

I healed while I was at Kings. All of my dear friends there helped me to feel like I was okay again, that I wasn’t some strange and fetid creature—like my two “old” friends had made me feel.

To this day, I vividly remember that feeling. I wish I had spoken up when “6^th grade friend” was tearing down “newcomer.” I am ashamed that I did not. If you are reading this and know that I am speaking of you, then I ask your forgiveness. I am heartily sorry.

And yes, I did forgive these two girls, who are now in their 50s. It took me years, sadly. And apparently, I am still healing . . .

On Going Green - a New Novel by Chris Skates

2011-04-07T07:58:00.001-05:00

This is an excerpt from the April 2011 issue of the Bridge-Logos Foundation's Newsletter:

Chris Skates—Going Green

Going Green is one of the most exciting and timely novels on today’s market. The author, Chris Skates, has twenty-one years of experience as a chemist in nuclear, industrial, and environmental chemistry. His novel is filled with suspense and intrigue involving murder, suspicion, Islam, environmentalism, terrorism, behind-the-scenes government activities, betrayal, global warming, espionage, international relations, paganism, religion, violence, romance, and faith—all in one very gripping book!

A book review in the April issue of CBA Retailers + Resources says:

“Chris Skates presents a strong Christian message without being preachy. Godly people show up throughout the story to emphasize the hand of God in daily life. His plot is ripped from today’s headlines about environmental activism versus industrial interests and complicated by ambitious politicians and governmental regulation. The characters are believable and interesting. The adversarial relationships between ‘true believer’ environmentalists who want to shut down all coal-fired power plants and the energy industry that tries to responsibly comply with clean-air and water regulations provide the backdrop for several plot-twisting surprises. Murder, intrigue, romance, humor, political ambition, and a doomsday scenario involving the thermonuclear incineration of multiple targets combine to make this a page-turner. Skates addresses real issues with great storytelling.”

Going Green by Chris Skates, ISBN: 9781610360944, is now available from Bridge-Logos, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Borders, and Books-A-Million

Beverlee Chadwick's Interview with Lloyd Hildebrand about Spurgeon, Lake, Guyon, and Other Pure Gold Classics

2011-03-31T16:34:00.001-05:00

Beverlee Chadwick is a freelance non-fiction editor for Bridge-Logos and author of "The Bridge Exhaustive Biblical References to the Father, Son, & Holy Spirit." She has edited many non-fiction books for Bridge-Logos, especially in the Pure Gold Classics series. She is currently compiling and editing a new Charles H. Spurgeon Pure Gold Classic, Spurgeon on the Holy Spirit. For one of her books, Interior Castle by Teresa of Avila she also narrated the audio excerpts. A licensed minister, Beverlee co-founded two ministries with her husband. She also operates an internet bookstore that features Bridge-Logos Foundation books, http://www.blretail.com.

Listen to internet radio with Bridge-Logos on Blog Talk Radio

This is One of the Most Beautiful Videos I Have Ever Watched

2011-03-29T08:23:00.000-05:00

I have not been blessed with a relationship like this. I have other relationships that bless me - with my daughters, my sister Babs, my father and mother,and Jeffrey. I am so thankful for those people and the love we share.
But this is something more. I hope you enjoy this and it touches you like it does me. Click on the link below.

A 27-Year Romance

Rollerblading, Daffodils, and Lemon Zest

2011-03-27T17:10:00.000-05:00

I live in a small town—not really a suburb of Cincinnati, but sort of, and not really rural, but sort of.

The community in which I live is inhabited by dog walkers, power walkers, baby walkers, joggers, sprinters, and today, for the first time, I saw a woman rollerblading.

I was outside in the cold sunshine picking some daffodils that had not faired too well in this morning’s now melted one-inch of snow. To save the happy lives of this small patch at the corner of the garage, I was bringing them inside to enjoy the remainder of their days in a pink vase atop the pie safe in the breakfast nook.

I heard an odd whirring sound and looked up to find a woman in a helmet and full-body windbreaker suit, rollerblading.

As she glided effortlessly and gracefully up and down and around the two culs-de-sac within my view, I was struck with such envy. She looked so calm, so free from stress.

And then I remembered . . .

It was the year 2000. I was living in the city of Columbus in a townhouse community. Sam, my youngest daughter, who was 12 years-old at the time, was in the throes of a rollerblading binge.

Out of a desire to enjoy this activity with my daughter, I asked Sam to teach me. Anyone who knows me well knows that I trip over dead air. I walk into walls. I have issues with gravity.

Sam’s lessons turned into a laugh riot for her and a near face plant into concrete for me. The neighbors gathered to sit in lawn chairs, drink beer, and watch. I think I heard someone ask, “What are the stakes?”

So back here in the real world, in 2011, I smile and wave at the woman as she breezes by, gather up my cut daffodils, and put them in a vase on the pie safe in the breakfast nook.

And then I mix a stick of butter with some flour and a wee bit of salt and some confectioner’s sugar, press it into a pan, and bake it for 20 minutes. While it turns a beautiful light golden brown, I grate two teaspoons of fresh lemon zest, add freshly squeezed lemon juice to sugar and eggs and flour, pour it over the baked crust, and pop it back into the oven for another 20 minutes. Then I sprinkle confectioner’s sugar over the top of these perfectly baked lemon bars.

My mom comes into the kitchen and comments on how wonderful the lemon bars smell, and we smile, get out our newest cookbook, and look at more recipes we’ll try together.

And I forget how I envied the graceful woman on the rollerblades.

Words Matter Week: What Speech or Document Do You Believe to be the Most Important?

2011-03-08T20:16:00.001-05:00

In honor of Words Matter Week, a holiday that is celebrated annually the first full week in March, the National Association of Independent Writers and Editors (NAIWE) is hosting a Blog Challenge with a specific daily topic Monday through Friday.

Today’s topic is: Words can change history. What speech or document do you believe to be most important. Why?

Although most would not call it a speech, and indeed the title given it by man does not do so, to me the greatest speech ever given is the Sermon on the Mount.

The so-called Beatitudes that begin the Sermon on the Mount indicate that this message deals with the inner state of mind and heart.

In the Sermon, Christ is explaining to the Jews that there is now a new dispensation, that no longer will they be under the Law, but under Grace. Here He outlines the before and after—that observing the tenets of Judaic Law is now passing from a physical obedience, to obedience of the heart.

Dr. Edward E. Hindson, Th.D.,D.Min., explains, “While the Sermon on the Mount is not a way of salvation, neither is it only a message to those under the law, for it obviously goes beyond the law. It is a presentation of Christian discipleship which can be wrought in the soul of an individual only by the power of God.”

The spirit of Christ goes beyond the outward demand of the law. The Christian, though not under the law, is to live above the law.

Hindson continues, “In communicating the depth of His message, Jesus used a series of contrasts between the outward demand of the law and the inner attitude of heart desired by God. In this series of contrasts, we see the depth and dynamic of the teaching of Jesus Christ, the great Master Teacher. Here we discover the practical application of genuine Christian character to true spiritual living. Here we see the Gospel in action. Here is piety on the pavement of life. The Christian may live above the demands of the law and the temptations of the world because he has an inner depth of character which is the product of the divine nature within him.”

There have been many inspiring, encouraging, entertaining, or moving speeches since the day Christ stood on the side of a mountain and talked to the gathered crowd. However, if you listen to or read all those speeches that inspire, encourage, or move you, and perhaps even those that entertain, you will see that the grace and truth taught in the Sermon on the Mount, is expressed, in part perhaps, in each of those speeches.

That is why the Sermon on the Mount has my vote.

Words Matter Week Question of the Day

2011-03-07T18:16:00.001-05:00

In honor of Words Matter Week, a holiday that is celebrated annually the first full week in March, the National Association of Independent Writers and Editors (NAIWE), of which I am a member, is hosting a Blog Challenge with a specific daily topic Monday through Friday.

Today’s topic is: Is there a word that has changed, or could change your life? What is it, and what difference would it make?

I think the most life-changing word in the human vocabulary is “Thank you”—okay, that’s two words, but “Thanks” doesn’t have quite the connotation I want here.

Thank you has become even more important in the fast-paced, technologically advanced society in which we now live.

Since everyone and his brother is now e-mailing, texting, like-ing, and tweeting, our language has been condensed to 140 words or less (just in case we want to post our comments on Twitter). The language of common courtesy has been left behind, buried under the OMGs, LOLS, TTYLs, ROFLMBOs, BRBs, and other assorted Internet slang acronyms.

When was the last time you received an old-fashioned Thank You note. For that matter, when was the last time you wrote one. My grandmother, may she rest in peace, would have me tarred and feathered if she thought I had neglected to send a Thank You note the day after I received a gift! I shudder to think of the consequences.

There is something heartwarming about getting a card in the mail (you know, the box outside your front door that someone keeps sticking envelopes into) with a handwritten note, thanking you for your generosity, kindness, thoughtfulness, or other such sentiment. That person took the time out of their day to do something that actually takes some effort, and costs them a small bit of money. They must have really been pleased with that gift.

I know, I know—it’s so much easier to dash off an email or a text. But that is exactly my point. Courtesy is not common—it takes thought and time.

A Thank You deserves to be well said.

Educate America Writer Needed - SCAM ALERT! Important!

2011-02-23T12:06:00.001-05:00

First of all, Educate America is a real company. Martha Benson, is not with Educate America - she just copied info from their site. Please note that all of this information has been sent to the FBI's internet fraud division per the Cincinnati office of the FBI. BB&T Bank requested copies of the money orders sent to me, and I have contacted Educate America and Salty Supply Inc.

I answered a job posting on David Eide’s Sunoasis Job Network for a writing position:

Writer needed

Educate! America

Educate America is about to start a blog column on our website and

requires a blog writer to hire and also a writer for our upcoming

magazine. If interested, contact me at marthabenson@live.com.

Salary:

$30/page

Apply by Email:

marthabenson@live.com

Benson wrote back to me almost immediately - hired me, sort of, sent me a form that just asked my address:

Holle,

Educate America is a nonprofit federation that pre-screens and certifies high quality national charities working in the area of education. We present these charities to potential givers in fund drives at work and on the web.

Educate America! is a registered 501 (c)(3) nonprofit organization and we are about to add a blog page to our website which is the main reason why we are seeking a writer. As stated on the job description, we will be paying $25/page and we need to know if that is ok by you.

Attached to this email is a form which i will like you to fill and sign, it serves as an agreement between us and you.

Thanks

Martha Benson

No social security info, no other type of contract was sent, which is normally how I do business. The next email I got was this:

Holle,

Presently, we have different tropical issues which are:

1) Education

2) Peace and Security

3) World Order

4) Rule of Law

5) Women and Development

6) Child Right

7) Democracy and Good Government

8) Interfaith Dialogue

9) Human Rights Education

I will like to know which of the above issues you can write about, five pages/$125.

Kindly get back to me soonest.

Martha

I wrote back asking for page length, etc., and she answered this:

Hollee,

The length will Consist of 225 words per page and you are submitting five pages, style will be a magazine article, audience are teenagers and adult cummunity, will prefer if the articles are informative, persuasive and fictional. You will be submiting your article via email (Attached), there will be an editor to proof read you article before it is published, 5 articles before every second week of the month. The payment will be sent out exactly the second week of the month.

Thanks

Martha

Then I got this email:

Hollee,

It has come to my attention that our sponsors have decided to make an advance payment for 3 month which will come in total of $1875 and your check will be sent directly to the mailing address fill in the form i sent to you.

Due to our agreement in the form which is you will be paid the exact amount of work done at the 2nd week of every month, i will want you to deduct the agreed amount of $625 and send the rest back to Educate America and subsequently payment will be sent to you as you keep writing for Educate America.

Thanks

Martha

Someone called me yesterday from a scam alert company and warned me about this company. I told him I already knew about it and had received no money from them as yet. The number he called from says Reveal Unknown 1-161-996-6025. How he got my phone number and other info, I have no clue.

So today, I get a UPS delivery from Salty Supply Inc., 100 Candace Dr. #104, Maitland Florida 32751 UPS acct # 6EA572. Inside are two money orders drawn on BB&T Bank, both in the amount of $990. I called the bank's headquarters. They traced the numbers to a $20 MO and $292 MO already cashed in a month or two ago.

I also received two emails from Martha Benson today:

As stated in the previous email, our sponsor has signed out your check and it has been sent as promised. You will be receiving the check today, it will be delivered by UPS and you can cash it out at your bank. You will be deducting the amount owe you by Educate America for the articles you have written and send the rest to our printing press in China through Western Union who are printing your article on EDUCATE AMERICA magazine as we speak and the excess fund will be needed to ship the magazines back to the United States. You will be entitled to 12 copies of the magazine which will be autographed by me and the Editor in Chief.

This is the printing press information for the Western Union:

RECEIVER'S NAME: LI PING BU

CITY: GUANGXI

PROVINCE: NANNING

COUNTRY: CHINA

I await your email with the Western Union information.

I will appreciate it if you can give me a notification when your check arrives.

Thanks

Martha

I wrote and said the money orders had arrived and she wrote back and asked me to send the money to the address in the prior email.

It turns out Martha C. Benson, in all actuality, died on April 10, 2010 and worked with charities, one of which was Educate America.

A Postscript to Yesterday's Perfect Blog Post, by Guest Blogger, Daniel Silveria

2011-02-10T16:26:00.000-05:00

These thoughts have been persisting in my mind. I thought I'd better write them down before they give up on me and go wherever it is neglected thoughts go. So my friend wrote something today which was along a similar thought process. I figured this must be a sign. My friend wrote about Perfection and being a perfectionist. What is perfect? If perfect is our goal then we need an example of this. The easy answer is God. The more difficult question is what is God? Is God perfect? I sure hope so -- He's God. His imperfections are even perfect: the inhale necessary for the exhale; the space between the notes which makes the music; the temporary absence of a loved one which makes the reunion all the more exhilarating. The power of the sweet and sour, the sour enhancing the sweetness of the sweet.

And if the creator is perfect, then are all of His creations not perfect? It seems pretty obvious to me that, if God wanted us to be perfect, we'd have come that way right out of the box, batteries included and all. However, this is the perspective of a person who is an imperfect creation, (or a creation moving toward perfection?), because clearly Scripture tells us our goal is to: "Be you therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect." At which point I imagine the apostles were so disheartened that they were ready to take their ball and go home. "Oh, is that all you want? Perfection? No problem." St. Sarcasm

OK, I made up St. Sarcasm, so let me quote somebody who actually existed, Yoda the Jedi Master, who said, "Do or do not. There is no 'Try.'"

Think of it this way, a newly engaged couple doesn't go to the bride's parents and say, "We've got great news: we're going to try to be married!" Marriage is hard work, so going into it with that kind of 'try' mindset is doomed at the outset. The bride's dad is sitting there, smiling and nodding his head, while whispering to his wife out of the corner of his mouth: "I give 'em three weeks.." Perfection is both the destination and the journey. Your ability to overcome obstacles has brought you closer to the ideal. You were not made perfect, you were made to become perfect. Your offering to God is humble, because you are only human. You are a mere creature, a creation. However, God's immense love for you graciously accepts your humble offering based on its loving intent. When you give love you glorify God, because you are giving God. God is love.

A little girl gets up early with the intention of surprising mommy by making her breakfast in bed. The little girl has limited culinary skills, so she goes with her specialty, which is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, heavy on the grape jelly. She's not allowed to go near the stove, so coffee is out of the question. Grapefruit juice is the next choice, and it's a big ol' bottle of grapefruit juice, filled to the rim, so the transfer from bottle to Little Mermaid-decorated cup doesn't go so smoothly, resulting in spillage and contamination of one corner of the PB&J. Extra soggy sandwich helps it go down easier anyway, right? The breakfast wouldn't be complete without the addition of chocolate, so a chocolate Poptart rounds out the meal. Perfect! Not surprisingly, the Mom not only doesn't reject the sticky mess presented to her, but is overwhelmed with love at the gesture when she looks into the eyes of her daughter, who is absolutely ecstatic with anticipation at the prospect of being able to please her mommy with this humble offering. It's not the presentation, it's the loving intent of its presenter.

So it is with us and God. When Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel, it was probably the equivalent of a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the eyes of God. Perhaps not even as significant, because maybe Michelangelo's intentions were not as pure as the little girl's. It's probably safe to say that the most valuable works of art -- in the truest sense -- are hanging on refrigerator doors of mommies and daddies all over the world.

I remember watching some documentary about a tribe somewhere in the third world where they created intricate works of art on the ground using various colored sand and rocks. And they were really very beautiful, but the artist would always finish the work by intentionally smearing the final stroke, in order to prevent it from being "perfect." When asked why they did this, why the intentional blemish was added, they explained through an interpreter that it's because only God can make perfect things. They didn't want to offend God by matching His impeccable workmanship. Excuse me?! I couldn't hear you; I was distracted by your enormous ego. Somebody give the bushman a slice of humble pie. We need to keep things in perspective. Without God, we are a speck of dust. Wait a minute, correction: without God, there are no specks of dust with which to make intricate sand paintings.

With God, however, perfection is the direction and the inevitable conclusion. There are many cracks and blemishes on the path to the promised land, all of which are meticulously designed to enhance, strengthen, and enlighten us along the way. After all, we are being prepped and polished in order that we may be made presentable. We, a humble offering to a father who delights in the sincerity of our hearts. All of our broken works, done with noble intent, pile up under our feet, raising us higher and closer to heaven. Just because daddy beams with pride and joy when his child gets the training wheels removed from their bike doesn't mean that he was ever ashamed that they were needed in the first place. Our Loving Father wishes for us to be comforted in His peace, not slaves to the anxiety-inducing external demands. Perfectionists are obsessed with the future, with the end results. God resides in the present, yet knows what has been and what's to come. So, if God sees the future and loves you in the present moment, what does that tell you?

"I am careful not to confuse excellence with perfection. Excellence, I can reach for; perfection is God's business." - Michael J. Fox

Is the Grand Canyon a magnificent display of God's awe-inspiring beauty or is it a giant hole in the ground? It's several centuries worth of "happy accidents." Serendipity is a choice tool of the Almighty. Although you are mistaken if you believe in accidents. Particularly if you are on purpose. And you are on purpose. That purpose being perfection. Have faith that you're heading there, and you'll be rewarded by Him taking you there. God bless you.

A Re-post of The Perfect Blog Post, (because sometimes I need to remind myself of certain truths)

2011-02-09T09:20:00.000-05:00

Today I have spent a great deal of time discussing perfection—the quest for it and its possible attainment.

I will stand up right now (figuratively as I can’t type on my laptop while standing because my lap disappears) and say, “Hi. My name is Hollee, and I am a perfectionist.”

That being said, I will also now admit that I am far from perfect in any way, shape, or form, ergo most of my life, I have been my biggest disappointment.

During a long conversation with a loved one who, in some ways, knows me better than I know myself, I realized what a hard row to hoe this has been—this standard of perfection I have set for myself. Not that I was feeling sorry for myself at the difficulties I’ve encountered since my perfection quest was initiated in my teen years—no, I have no patience with woe is me conversations when I am the woe-er—I merely acknowledged to myself that those difficulties were of my own making and not the fault of any external force.

Nor have I set the same standard for others that I have set for myself, which, when you really get down to the nitty-gritty, means that I have set myself above others since perfection was obviously not possible for them . . . Wow! That thought just occurred to me. That is not good.

But I digress.

This need for perfection has, at times in my life, hindered my ability to start a task because I was afraid I would not be able to do it completely right. It has skewed my vision of myself to such a degree that I mentally pick myself apart whenever I look in the mirror—I literally do not see what I am told others see when they look at me. It has made me choose friends and companions that I felt were not perceptive enough to see my flaws, my defects, my “idiot”syncracies. Yes, that is a harsh statement, but there it is. But in my mind this was logical—if I chose someone who was as smart as me, or as driven as me, or who had my same talents, then they would be able to see when I made a mistake. (Now please take that last sentence in the spirit it is intended, those of you who don’t know me. I do not dumb myself down—I know I am intelligent, ambitious, and have certain talents—I inherited all of those things and I won’t deny a single one. To do so is false modesty.)

My greatest fears in life are being wrong and being made to feel stupid. I don’t fear dying—I am a Christian, I don’t fear being alone—I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t fear it. Admittedly, I do fear clowns, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog post. To the depths of my soul, I fear I may make an error in judgment, in my work, in my life, and I fear that someone may find out some day that, for the most part, I have no clue what I am doing.

That last is entirely illogical, because I have spent my life learning everything I possibly can about what I do for a living, and yet, I have had no formal “schooling” in my craft. I have worked my way up or sideways through the ranks of the writing community for the past 30-plus years—I have picked the brains of everyone that I admire as a writer and gleaned what I could from the fields of work I am pursuing or want to pursue.

So in some ways my need for perfection has forced me to put myself out there—to forgo my fear of having “Stupid” written on my forehead—and asked those who do know how they do that voodoo they do so well. I would have much preferred to just stand next to them and osmosisized the knowledge from them (no, osmosisized is not a real word), but since that is not yet possible, I had to actually ask questions. Asking questions was me admitting to myself and those I questioned that I did not know something. That is and was very hard.

My need for perfection has also driven me to always do the very best I can at anything I undertake—although it has hindered me from being an undertake-er in some instances—that qualifies it as a catch-22.

The question is: “What do I do? How do I accept less than perfection in myself?”

And these thoughts occurred to me as my loved one and I were talking: Is a sunset any less beautiful when you discover that the reason for the multi-colors is pollution? And which is more beautiful—the perfectly unblemished piece of pseudo-wood, or the knotty, nicked, and weathered wood that has a story to tell?

My mother continuously reminds me that a diamond—the most perfect of gemstones—is made from coal which is decomposed vegetable matter. A pearl—my particular favorite—is not, as commonly told—made from a grain of sand. A pearl is formed when something organic, most often a parasite, penetrates the shell of a mollusk and lodges within the soft inner body of the animal. The parasite encounters cells within the mollusk's mantle tissue known as epithelial cells which grow into a sac, envelopes the intruder, and excretes a chemical substance of aragonite and calcite. This is known as nacre or the composite of a pearl.

I don’t know how not to be hard on myself. I have no clue. But I have been told that there comes a time when good enough needs to be accepted. I am not to settle for only achieving good enough—that is a bar set too low for my personality and I am done with settling—however, as long as I can truthfully say that I have given my absolute best effort, then that is good enough. I cannot be all things to all people, I cannot fill everyone’s needs, I cannot do everything myself—I have to ask for assistance, let go and allow someone else to help me (not ask for help then do it all myself anyway), learn from my mistakes, learn from others who have already successfully done what I want or need to do, and accept that there may be times when I can’t do something. I need to learn when “No” is the perfect answer.

I need to look at my flaws and defects—the decomposed vegetable matter and parasites—as, perhaps, that which makes me unique. It is those very things that keep me from being a cookie-cutter human, a Stepford, which gives me depth and contrast, just as clouds enhance the perfection of a blue sky.

I will think on these things—remind myself of them when my perfection bug gets the best of me. That is the best I can do in this instance.
However, I was told today that I am loved for who I am, flaws and all, without reservation, without modification, without an “except for . . .”

How perfect is that?

I Can Only Imagine

2011-01-30T12:13:00.001-05:00

On January 29, in the early hours of the morning, my dear Uncle Lloyd (my father's eldest brother) passed away. Lloyd Chadwick leaves behind his wife, Margaret, and his children, and all of us who loved him so.

This very morning, my Uncle Roger Head, husband to my father's eldest sister Shirley, (who is with the Lord) also passed away. My cousin Rick called us during our morning praise and worship—we’ve been having “church” at home on Sunday’s since Dad is recovering from surgery and Mom is preparing for hip replacement surgery on Tuesday.

Both of my uncles died in a state of grace—Jesus was their Lord, Master, and Saviour.

Although our hearts may be heavy at our physical loss of these two loved ones, we are not as those who have no hope. We know that Lloyd and Roger have the grand privilege now of kneeling before the Christ and El-Shaddai—God Almighty—and worshipping in Their presence.

When I received the call about Uncle Roger from Rick, I interrupted our time of worship to let my folks and sister know the news. We spoke of, as my cousin Rick said, my Aunt Shirley waiting at the gates of Heaven for Roger and her brother, Lloyd. Rick said his mother was probably yelling at Roger for taking so long to get there.

Then Mom sang a beautiful song of praise to the Lord for His promises that came straight from her heart as she accompanied herself on the autoharp.

I thought, as I often have at the death of a believer, of how much I long for the day when I can finally see the face of He whom I love most, and kneel before the throne of Yahweh and worship Him with a pure heart. I always feel a tinge of jealousy when I think of how that person, so soon passed away, is in a state of pure joy, pure peace, no more sorrow or pain. Since I became a Christian at age 12, I have felt this way. I feel sorrow for myself, yes, at the physical loss of my loved one—but I also feel envy of their ability to now be with our Father.

After her song, Mom then turned to our morning devotion from Spurgeon’s Morning by Morning, and this is what she read:

What is Unseen (II Corinthians 4:18)

In our Christian pilgrimage, it is well, for the most part, to be looking forward. Forward lies the crown, and onward is the goal. Whether it is for hope, for joy, for consolation, or for the inspiring of our love, the future must, after all, be the grand object of the eye of faith. Looking into the future we see sin cast out, the body of sin and death destroyed, the soul made perfect, and fit to be a partaker of the inheritance of the saints in light. Looking further yet, the believer’s enlightened eye can see death’s river passed, the gloomy stream forded, and the hills of light attained on which stands the celestial city. There we see ourselves enter within the pearly gates, hailed as more than conquerors, crowned by the hand of Christ, embraced in His arms, glorified with Him, and made to sit together with Him on His throne, even as He overcame and sat down with the Father on His throne. The thought of this future may well relieve the darkness of the past and the gloom of the present. The joys of heaven will surely compensate for the sorrows of earth. Be still my doubts! Death is but a narrow stream, and you will soon have forded it. Time, how short—eternity, how long! Death, how brief—immortality, how endless! Even now I seem to be eating of Eshcol’s clusters, and sipping of the well that is within the gate. The road is so, so short! I will soon be there.

Oh, how great is our God that He gives us this word of comfort, and yet, exhortation to stay the course—to not take our eye off the goal for that glory to come is what gives us strength to do what is required of us. And what a reminder of what Uncle Lloyd and Uncle Roger, and all those who’ve gone before, are now experiencing.

And so now, I sit here, writing this, and listening to Mercy Me sing I Can Only Imagine, and I thank God that my uncles with the seraphim are singing, "Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory."

Thank You, Father, for loving us so that You gave Your Son so that we may one day dance before You, surrounded by Your glory.

Mercy Me singing I Can Only Imagine w/lyrics.

For those days when you feel like an idiot . . .

2011-01-26T13:04:00.000-05:00

A good friend of mine sent me these quotes today, with the preface that I should read these on those days when I am not feeling particularly intelligent. She also pointed out, that some of these are elected officials, celebrities, or just plain people, sort of, who have the right to vote!

Now, I am sharing them with you. Enjoy.

(On September 17, 1994, Alabama's Heather Whitestone was selected as Miss America 1995.)
Question: If you could live forever, would you and why?
Answer: "I would not live forever, because we should not live forever, because if we were supposed to live forever, then we would live forever, but we cannot live forever, which is why I would not live forever,"

"Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can't help but cry. I mean I'd love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff."
~Mariah Carey

"Smoking kills. If you're killed, you've lost a very important part of your life,"
~Brooke Shields, during an interview to become spokesperson for federal anti-smoking campaign

"I've never had major knee surgery on any other part of my body,"
~Winston Bennett, University of Kentucky basketball forward.

"Outside of the killings, Washington has one of the lowest crime rates in the country,"
~Mayor Marion Barry

"That lowdown scoundrel deserves to be kicked to death by a jackass, and I'm just the one to do it,"
~A congressional candidate in Texas.

"Half this game is ninety percent mental."
~Philadelphia Phillies manager, Danny Ozark

"It isn't pollution that's harming the environment. It's the impurities in our air and water that are doing it.”
~Al Gore, Vice-president

"I love California... I practically grew up in Phoenix."
~Dan Quayle, Vice-president

"We've got to pause and ask ourselves: How much clean air do we need?"
~Lee Iacocca

"The word ‘genius’ isn't applicable in football. A genius is a guy like Norman Einstein."
~Joe Theisman, NFL football quarterback and sports analyst.

"We don't necessarily discriminate. We simply exclude certain types of people."
~Colonel Gerald Wellman, ROTC Instructor.

"Your food stamps will be stopped effective March 1992 because we received notice that you passed away. May God bless you. You may reapply if there is a change in your circumstances."
~Department of Social Services, Greenville, South Carolina

"Traditionally, most of Australia's imports come from overseas."
~Keppel Enderbery

"If somebody has a bad heart, they can plug this jack in at night as they go to bed and it will monitor their heart throughout the night. And the next morning, when they wake up dead, there'll be a record."
~Mark S. Fowler, FCC Chairman

Building the Perfect Plot | Live from the Writer's Digest Conference in NYC

2011-01-22T12:45:00.000-05:00

by Donna Gambale on January 22, 2011

Presented by: James Scott Bell

You can write a perfect plot! For real! Every time!

Ok, maybe it won’t be genius-level brilliant — that’s up to you — but it’ll be perfect.

He’ll tell you how to have a perfect structure, and it’s up to you to put your passion into to make it great.

(These principles are for a basic plot – one character, one storyline – but you can duplicate it for multilayered plots and characters.)

The LOCK System: LEAD – OBJECTIVE – CONFRONTATION – KNOCK-OUT

Lead: Create your lead character, someone that the reader bonds with. The first way to get your readers to emotionally connect is trouble or jeopardy. Happy people in happyland openings mean the reader won’t finish the chapter. What is the trouble? What’s the ripple effect in the character’s ordinary world?

Another way to connect with a character is through hardship. (Something that afflicts the lead character not of his or her own making.) Also, inner conflict or vulnerability.

Also, your lead character can’t be a wimp! (They can start out as a wimp, but it should change quickly.)

Your character must be likable so that the reader feels like something is invested is him/her. If your character is the traditional hero, or a positive hero: We care about people who care about other people. If he/she’s is a negative hero: We need to feel there’s a chance for redemption, or we’re rooting for him/her. The third option is the anti-hero.

There’s a screenwriting term — “Pet the dog” or “Save the cat.” When the hero’s in a vulnerable position but cares about someone weaker. (Brilliant moment in the movie The Fugitive — saves a boy’s life in a hospital when it puts his life in danger.) It’s great when you have this moment and it leads to more trouble.

But it’s not enough to have a great character. That character needs an objective!

Objective: A plot is how a character deals with imminent death. There are three kinds: physical, professional, psychological. The definition of death in this incarnation is very flexible — he gave various (very funny) examples of stakes that involve “death,” such as Jerry Seinfeld choosing the Soup Nazi’s soup over his girlfriend.

There are two kinds of objectives: To get, or to get away from. To get the job, to get the clues, to get the love of my life, to get revenge. To get away from the killer, to escape.

Confrontation: “A good plot is two dogs and one bone.” Create an opposition character. He/she doesn’t have to be a bad guy, just someone who has an opposite goal. The opposition must be stronger than the lead, and equally or more determined to achieve his/her objective.

Even if you’re writing about “bad guys,” you need to invest yourself fully into the opposition character. An evil character doesn’t wake up in the morning thinking, “What evil can I do?” The bad guy characters feel like their reasons are justified, and if possible, you should make the bad guy sympathetic.

* With these first three points, you have a solid foundation for your plot. You can manipulate these elements later, but first you have to understand what you’re doing. Whether you’re an outliner or a pantser, you’ll know what the next scene requires based on these elements, and you can make it organic to your novel and part of the natural progression of your story.

So how do you conclude this? (It’s been said that your first chapter sells your novel, and your last chapter sells your next novel, so this is super important!)

Knock-out: Think of the ending as the final battle. It has both an inner and outer aspect. The inner aspect is often “Will the character have the moral courage to do the right thing?” With character-driven fiction, it’s often about the character overcoming whatever’s killing them on the inside.

For the outer aspect, the choices are win, lose, sacrifice. Sacrifice is one of the most powerful endings — either literal (Jesus dying on the cross, Rick giving up Ilsa at the end of Casablanca) or more metaphorical (giving up on a dream because you need to grow up, a la 500 Days of Summer).

A successful ending should be not predictable, it should answer all the questions, and leave resonance with the readers. These principles can lead you to this ending.

PLOT STRUCTURE:

As per the structure — people like the three-act structure, and it works for a reason. He sees structure as a suspension bridge. Act 1 to the left, the long Act 2 is in the middle, Act 3 wraps it up.

(And since you don’t have James’s excellent handout…)

A suspension bridge, for your reference!

The pylons between the sections of the suspension bridge represent a doorway, or a plot point. He calls it the point of no return. Act 1 is the ordinary world, and the plot point pushes them into Act 2, forces them forward and slams the door behind them.

(For novels, you want to have the first doorway no later than 1/5 of the way in. For movies, it’s about 1/4 of the way in, but that’s because it’s a different structure. It happens more quickly in a novel.)

In Act 2, you have the death struggle. These are the organic scenes that happen because you’ve established the Lead, Objective, and Struggle.

The pylon/door/turning point between Acts 2 and 3 (where the final battle occurs) generally is one of four things: a setback, crisis, clue, or discovery. It’s something that either forces the final battle to occur or something that gives the main character the information they need to move forward to the battle.

But…. isn’t it formulaic? Yes! Why is a formula a formula? It works!

Structure is like translation software for your imagination. It won’t feel formulaic if you bring in those extras — great characters, that fire in your fiction, etc.

* Notable note: Throughout the presentation, certain movies were used repeatedly as examples that work well for this — The Fugitive, The Wizard of Oz, Casablanca, Star Wars, Gone With the Wind.

Q&A:

Q: What if you have more than 1 POV?

A: Make sure that you have these LOCK element in line for every character.

—

What a great session! Time for lunch — we’ll be back soon with more recaps!

The Gift of Nothing - Watch and Learn.

2010-12-20T23:02:00.000-05:00

This site is awesome . . . if you're an author, editor, or copy editor.

2010-12-06T17:32:00.001-05:00

I just found this great site that allows those of us who are authors, editors, copy editors, or proofreaders, to search virtually all of the style books available: OnlineStylebooks.com.

According to her site:

OnlineStylebooks.com is owned and operated by Mary Beth Protomastro, who has been reading stylebooks since high school. The founder of Copyediting newsletter, she is the copy chief of More magazine and was editor of the Time magazine stylebook. OnlineStylebooks.com is not affiliated with any of those publications.
Mary Beth created OnlineStylebooks.com to help copy editors (including herself) quickly consult a variety of style guides.

So let's say you want to find out how to format citations within text. Here's what it looks like, in part:

Now, how cool is that?

Kudos to Mary Beth for all her hard work compiling this!

The Interviewer Becomes the Interviewed - that would be me.

2010-11-18T16:43:00.001-05:00

If you would like to listen to the latest interview by Bridge-Logos Foundation Publisher and CEO, Lloyd Hildebrand, you can go to http://www.blogtalkradio.com/bridgelogos/2010/11/18/hollee-chadwick-cady-interviewed-by-lloyd-hildebrand

Oh yeah, the interview is with me.

I Sing the Body Electric . . . sorta.

2010-11-16T13:25:00.000-05:00

In 1855, Walt Whitman published, at his own expense, a volume of 12 poems, titled Leaves of Grass, that he had, according to all accounts, begun working on as early as 1847.

The volume was highly criticized, not only for its content, exalting the body and physical love, but also because of its innovation in verse form—that is, the use of free verse in long rhythmical lines with a natural, “organic” structure.

One of the most notable poems in the volume is "I Sing the Body Electric." Isn't that a marvelous title? Ray Bradbury, one of the most well-known science fiction writers, used that title for one of his short stories about a father who buys a robotic grandmother for his two motherless children. It later became one of the most poorly received Twilight Zone episodes. But that's neither here not there . . .

In this poem, Whitman explores the various aspects of the human body at length. My favorite stanza in the poem lauds a common farmer.

I know a man, a common farmer—the father of five sons;
And in them were the fathers of sons—and in them were the fathers of sons.
This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person;
The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, and the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes—the richness and breadth of his manners, These I used to go and visit him to see—he was wise also;
He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old—his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome;
They and his daughters loved him—all who saw him loved him;
They did not love him by allowance—they loved him with personal love;
He drank water only—the blood show’d like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face;
He was a frequent gunner and fisher—he sail’d his boat himself—he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner—he had fowling-pieces, presented to him by men that loved him;
When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang.
You would wish long and long to be with him—you would wish to sit by him in the boat, that you and he might touch each other.

The most beautifully written sentiment in the poem is a portion of the fourth stanza:

I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough,
To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,
To pass among them, or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment—what is this, then?
I do not ask any more delight—I swim in it, as in a sea.

The final stanza of the poem gives a catalog of body parts, both the poet’s and others’. The parts listed have functions, of course, but they also provide the raw materials for poetry:

. . .these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul.

In other words, the body becomes sacred through its linkage with the soul; while it is only the soul’s helper or accomplice, it nevertheless does not deserve second-rate status, for it enables not only spirituality but also poetry.

Why am I writing this Whitman's Sampler today?

I woke this morning, cataloging my various aches and pains, as I am wont to do most mornings now that I've surpassed the 50-year mark. In particular today, I am dealing with sciatica, which I must say, is a pain in the butt (insert "rotten joke" groan here). I said to myself, My body is revolting.

Now, in my family, this phrase would have engendered a slew of comebacks, the most significant being: "Yes, utterly revolting."

However, I use the word in the sense that my body is at war with itself. As I've aged, my muscles and joints don't seem to be as strong or as flexible as they once were. Oddly, my brain still tells me I am in my 20s and can still move my own personal mountains. Then my body smacks my brain and says, "Ahh, shaddup!"

And yet,Psalm 139:14 declares, “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”

The context of that verse is the incredible nature of our physical bodies. The human body is the most complex and unique organism in the world, and that complexity and uniqueness speaks volumes about the mind of its Creator. Every aspect of the body, down to the tiniest microscopic cell, reveals that it is fearfully and wonderfully made.*

So, today, over my first cup of coffee, I thanked God that I was born strong and energetic in body and mind, and that although my outward self is weaker, softer, and, admittedly, a bit lower than it used to be, my mind, my soul, and my spirit, are stronger than ever.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.**

*Fearfully & Wonderfully Made by Dr. Paul Brand, Philip Yancey

** Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

Amazon's Kindle Selling "The Pedophile's Guide to Love and Pleasure - Child Lover's Code of Conduct

2010-11-10T16:19:00.000-05:00

Amazon.com's Kindle publication of Phillip R. Greaves II's self-published book, "The Pedophiles' Guide to Love and Pleasure - Child-Lovers Code of Conduct" has set off a firestorm of outraged objections on Twitter and Facebook.

Greaves describes the book (misspellings included): This is my attempt to make pedophile situations safer for those juveniles that find themselves involved in them, by establishing certian rules for these adults to follow. I hope to achieve this by appealing to the better nature of pedosexuals, with hope that their doing so will result in less hatred and perhaps liter sentences should they ever be caught.

The better nature of pedosexuals? Is he kidding? There is no better nature in a pedophile! And he hopes this book will result in less hatred of the pedophile and lighter sentences? God forbid! The stiffest sentences should be imposed upon the pedophile.

Justifiably offended readers have left scathing comments on the book's web page:

From thirtysomething: As a mother of a child who has been molested, shame on Amazon for allowing such garbage to be sold on it's site. The author of this book is a predator and should never have been allowed to write or promote this trash that is called a book of information. How many children will be assaulted because of this. Amazon-take it off your site.

Jeremy Nicholson of Lubbock Texas writes: Why Amazon would allow something that is actually harmful to society as a whole I have no comprehension. I will be boycotting Amazon until this is removed and encouraging my friends to do the same. I saw this from another friend on Facebook and I have no doubt word will get around very quickly. FOR SHAME!

As of this writing, there have been 312 comments on the book's web page, demanding that Amazon remove the title from its list.

Amazon's response to the firestorm?

As a retailer, our goal is to provide customers with the broadest selection possible so they can find, discover, and buy any item they might be seeking. That selection includes some items which many people may find objectionable. Therefore, the items offered on our website represent a wide spectrum of opinions on a variety of topics.

Let me assure you that Amazon.com does not support or promote hatred or criminal acts; we do support the right of every individual to make their own purchasing decisions.

Amazon.com believes it is censorship not to sell certain titles because we believe their message is objectionable. Therefore, we'll continue to make controversial works available in the United States and everywhere else, except where they're prohibited by law. We also allow readers, authors, and publishers to express their views freely about these titles and other products we offer on our website. However, Amazon.com doesn't endorse opinions expressed by individual authors, musical artists, or filmmakers.

Amazon's assertion that this is censorship is way off base, in this writer's opinion. Amazon is a store. A store owner has the right to choose what is sold in his/her establishment. Amazon has chosen to allow this abomination to hold a place on its "shelves."

I ask that any and all who read this or any of the articles listed below, boycott Amazon.com until they remove this book from their site.

If You Must Run On, Do It Well.

2010-03-25T09:02:00.000-05:00

“In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland’s personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the difficulties and dangers of a six weeks’ residence in Bath, it may be stated, for the reader’s more certain information, lest the following pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is meant to be, that her heart was affectionate, her disposition cheerful and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind; her manners just removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty; and her mind about as ignorant and uniformed as the female mind of seventeen usually is.”~Opening paragraph, Chapter 2 of Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

Jane Austen is, by far, my favorite female author. Although she lived a relatively short life,(Dec. 16, 1775 – July 18, 1817) and certainly a sheltered one, she wrote six novels (Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Emma, Northanger Abbey, Mansfield Park, Persuasion) and many short stories, from the time she was a young girl. Her books have been serialized on the BBC and Masterpiece Classics and made into major motion pictures, bringing her humor and biting wit to new generations who may or may not have had the pleasure of reading her original works.

What absolutely delights me about Jane Austen, aside from the shining life she gives her characters, is her mastery of the language. The paragraph opening this blog is an example. It consists of one sentence! There are 116 words in that one sentence! But tell me, who would remove a single word without damaging the flow of her language? Very prettily said, Miss Austen.

Novelist Henry James ranked Austen’s work with that of the literary elites—"the fine painters of life"—Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Henry Fielding. Oddly, because Austen's novels failed to conform to Romantic and Victorian expectations that "powerful emotion [be] authenticated by an egregious display of sound and colour in the writing", (Duffy, "Criticism, 1814-1870", The Jane Austen Companion, 98-99; MacDonagh, 146; Watt, "Introduction", 3-4.) nineteenth-century critics and audiences generally preferred the works of Charles Dickens and George Eliot. Though Austen's novels were republished in Britain beginning in the 1830s and remained steady sellers, they were not bestsellers.

Every year I re-read all of Austen’s novels. Although I know exactly what is going to happen to each of the characters, I turn each page eagerly and am wistful when I come to the close of the novel. What a testament to excellent writing!

I will also admit that for a day or so after finishing an Austen book, I tend to be “exceedingly diverted” (entertained) by events or persons, and find my family members “having a pleasing countenance” (they’re a good looking group).

Austen gets in my head a bit.

Something to Dish About . . .

2010-03-20T09:15:00.000-05:00

I had a dream about a dishwasher last night. Not a human dishwasher—no, this was about the appliance.

In the dream, whoever had loaded the dishwasher had done so with a new set of dishes but had not removed the cardboard protectors between the plates and around the cups, etc., prior to putting them in the dishwasher. I had to remove all the wet cardboard and reload the dishwasher—in the “right” way (OCD, all the plates according to size, facing same direction, cups with handles turned the same way, blah, blah, blah). For some reason, whoever had loaded it had also put a framed print into the machine to clean it also. I ranted about that a bit, then removed it and dried it and re-hung it where it belonged.

I would like to know what Freud or Jung would have to say about this dream.

It’s not like I even like dishwashers—again, the machine, not the person. I love appliances, but the dishwasher is my least favorite. I consider it a storage unit. My favorite appliance is—well, it would be a toss-up between a coffeemaker and a nice front-loading washer and dryer set. I love coffee and I love to do laundry.

Then there’s the iron—I love to iron, and a really nice, heavy iron is a thing of beauty.

Food processors are right up there on my list—my Cuisinart—a gift from Ginger Mandelstein—is marvelous.

Oh wait, I have a Cuisinart toaster I gifted to myself that would certainly vie for the title of my favorite appliance. I love toast. This toaster has a defrost and reheat setting!

And then there’s my beautiful DeLonghi blender—a stainless steel and glass ice crushing marvel—a gift from a wonderful young man who loved the milkshakes and smoothies and mocha “frappucinos” I made with it.

A vacuum cleaner!—now there’s something I would dream about. You can’t beat a good vacuum cleaner with a, well, broom.

So of all the appliances I could have dreamt about, why would it be a dishwasher? I actually like washing dishes. If I had a big family or had just had a dinner party, then a dishwasher would come in handy. On a daily basis though, it would be unnecessary.

I will have to think on this dream a bit and see if there is some deep meaning to it that is supposed to enhance my life or change my direction . . . or start a new career as a Maytag repairman.

How Do You Measure Success?

2010-03-18T20:36:00.000-05:00

I’ve been spending a great deal of time learning to use Social Marketing tools—for my business and also for a PR project I’ve taken on of late. Therefore, I spend hours on Facebook and Twitter—and not playing Farmville (although I do play Mafia Wars) or notifying the ozone dwellers when I make a decision on what color socks to wear in the morning (white). I am learning how to use Facebook and Twitter’s networking and marketing potential in the fullest possible way.

Therefore I spend a lot of time, when I am not editing a book, reading other social marketing novices tweets and status updates as well as those of the gurus.

Here’s the thing—the word “success” and all its various configurations is bandied about like “change” was during Obama’s campaign.

After a full day of book editing and working on my Twitter skills, I am sitting here thinking, “I wonder what each one of these people who are touting the secret to success, think success is?” (My inner thoughts are not always grammatically correct.)

In my 51 years on this planet, I have met many successful people—or rather, what we normally would consider successful people—rich, attractive, big house, nice car, etc. I am single, so I can admit this without having to answer any questions from a spouse—I have dated a man or two or four who epitomized that definition of success. Notice the word “dated.” That’s all I’m going to say about that.

I just finished a book called “Into the Wild.” It’s the story of a young man, Christopher McCandless, aka Alexander Supertramp, who left his privileged life after graduating college and embarked on a quest to live life—the “final and greatest adventure. The climactic battle to kill the false being within and victoriously conclude the spiritual pilgrimage.”

McCandless said: "So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more dangerous to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun" (emphasis mine).

Now, for those of you who know his story, let me say, I do not advocate all that he did. What I found though—what touched my heart and spoke to who I consider myself to be—is that this attractive, privileged young man who could have bought anything, gone anywhere, albeit through his family’s wealth and influence, did not have peace of mind, did not have happiness. He was not successful.

He went on a journey to be with God, to be with himself in his very truest state—a man not influenced by the trappings of his surroundings. His “goods” were making the waters of his life murky, were blinding him to the true beauty he wanted to find in the world. His outwardly successful life was a terrible failure to him—his parents’ success was achieved through deceit, anger, and neglect.

McCandless makes a fatal error during his journey, but during the journey, he is able to find peace and to find joy.

I have for many years felt that success is not measured by a person’s bank account, outward appearance, or any other superficial quality or quantity.

Are you at peace with God? Are you loved? Do you have sufficient wherewithal to meet your needs and to share with others? Are you able to make a difference in someone else’s life, in any small way, every day? All these things define success to me.

The man or woman who gets up every day and works hard and provides gladly for those he or she loves, is successful.

I will consider myself a successful woman when I have helped all of those I love, and for whom I work, achieve their goals. That makes me happy. I am at peace with God, and I am loved by my family, and God has given me a talent that provides for me and mine.

Now, I just want to make a difference.

THE FUMBLERULES OF GRAMMAR stolen from William Safire

2010-03-12T12:37:00.000-05:00

I just had to share this with my readers:

The Fumblerules of Grammar

by William Safire
(from The New York Times)

Not long ago, I advertised for perverse rules of grammar, along the lines of "Remember to never split an infinitive" and "The passive voice should never be used." The notion of making a mistake while laying down rules ("Thimk," "We Never Make Misteaks") is highly unoriginal, and it turns out that English teachers have been circulating lists of fumblerules for years.
As owner of the world's largest collection, and with thanks to scores of readers, let me pass along a bunch of these never-say-neverisms:

Avoid run-on sentences they are hard to read.
Don't use no double negatives.
Use the semicolon properly, always use it where it is appropriate; and never where it isn't.
Reserve the apostrophe for it's proper use and omit it when its not needed.
Do not put statements in the negative form.
Verbs has to agree with their subjects.
No sentence fragments.
Proofread carefully to see if you any words out.
Avoid commas, that are not necessary.
If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
A writer must not shift your point of view.
Eschew dialect, irregardless.
And don't start a sentence with a conjunction.
Don't overuse exclamation marks!!!
Place pronouns as close as possible, especially in long sentences, as of 10 or more words, to their antecedents.
Writers should always hyphenate between syllables and avoid un-necessary hyph-
ens.
Write all adverbial forms correct.
Don't use contractions in formal writing.
Writing carefully, dangling participles must be avoided.
It is incumbent on us to avoid archaisms.
If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
Steer clear of incorrect forms of verbs that have snuck in the language.
Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixed metaphors.
Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
Never, ever use repetitive redundancies.
Everyone should be careful to use a singular pronoun with singular nouns in their writing.
If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, resist hyperbole.
Also, avoid awkward or affected alliteration.
Don't string too many prepositional phrases together unless you are walking through the valley of the shadow of death.
Always pick on the correct idiom.
"Avoid overuse of 'quotation "marks."'"
The adverb always follows the verb.
Last but not least, avoid cliches like the plague; seek viable alternatives.

Lightfinger Louie Lurking at Local Laundromat

2010-02-26T15:32:00.000-05:00

We barely made it out of there alive.

A number of years ago I made my first ever in my life trip to a laundromat.

Since that time, I have had to, out of necessity, made many more trips to the neighborhood “Fluff ‘n’ Fold” (or some variation of that name).

Today was one of those days. Our washer gave up the ghost last week and the part required to revive the poor, over-worked machine won’t be in until next week.

Once again, I had been reduced to wearing unusual clothing combinations—mismatched socks, a pair of my father’s sweatpants, and my mother’s purple tunic sweater that has flowers and kittens and butterflies and smiling frogs embroidered on it (the only one that fit me even halfway as my mother is, how shall I say this?—endowed—and I, admittedly, am not. I think, no, I hope, that someone bought this sweater for her rather than to think she saw this “beauty” and decided she had to have it. Thankfully, undergarments can be hand washed—I shudder to think of having to, well, you get my drift.

Armed with three baskets of clothes and sheets and towels, and a bag of detergent, stain remover, and dryer sheets, we headed down the road to the laundromat.

This brand new laundromat has those great triple capacity front-loaders—beautiful stainless steel machines built by a company called Dexter. (Anyone who really knows me knows that I love appliances.)

“Wonderful—we can do the three sets of sheets and all the towels in one load!” Mom’s glee, however, was short-lived.

Yesterday, while we were at Kroger, she only asked the clerk for $5 in quarters with which to do the laundry. It costs $5.25 for one load. Mom has not been to a laundromat since she and Dad lived in Sacramento the year I was born, which was back in 19 . . . uh, was a number of years ago.

Mom starts digging through her purse for more quarters.

“Ma, there’s a change machine . . .”

Now she digs for singles.

“Hey Ma, it takes twenties!”

That, dear Reader, should have been my mother’s second clue (the first being the boldly-lettered prices marked on the washers) that we were not in ~~the 50’s~~ California anymore.

While I am standing at the coin dispenser catching quarters as if it’s a Las Vegas slot machine, Mom loads another triple-sized washer with our remaining laundry.

I hasten over, pour in the detergent (Mom is three inches short of being able to see the top of the washer where the detergent goes), and add the coins. In the meantime, Mom takes the laundry baskets, our purses, and rolling carts to a table and sits down.

We chat. We check the time on the washers. We chat more. The washers are done and Mom and I load the wet laundry into the rolling carts and wheel them over to the dryers. A young mother is loading clothes into a dryer two down from ours.

A personable man of about my age approaches.

“Did you happen to take one of these carts with a white laundry basket in it?” he asks.

(Okay, I am not being hit on . . .) “Sorry, no I didn’t.” Big smile.

“Just ours,” Mom says.

I look over at the table we were occupying a few moments before. There sits, not three, but four while laundry baskets.

“Ma?”

Lightfinger Louis has struck again.

“Ma, that top basket isn’t ours!” I rush over to retrieve it for the poor man.

Mom, ever the charmer, says, “I do things like that all the time.”

“Ma!”

The young woman at the dryers says sotto voce, “Better check your pockets.”

The personable man smiles kindly at my mother and says all is forgiven.

The young woman at the dryers says sotto voce, “Might want to check your car.”

Later, after I had secured my mother to the table, I apologized to the personable man and told him I’d be committing her to a (insert air quotes here) home this week.

The young woman at the dryers counted her clothes.

Henry staggered up the stairs, his bloody hand sliding along the rough stone wall . . .

2010-02-26T09:24:00.001-05:00

This morning, my father and I were discussing opening lines—the line that sets the tone for the entire novel, news article, etc.,—the Gotchya!

Edward George Bulwer-Lytton wrote what is quite possibly the most famous of the essential killer opening lines in his 1830 novel, Paul Clifford:

“It was a dark and stormy night; . . .”

Had the author said nothing else, you would have been able to imagine the scene—we have all seen dark and stormy nights. Yet, continue he does and we are pulled into the story even further:

“. . . the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”

Dear Reader, your mission, should you care to accept it (another great opening line—from the Mission Impossible series) is to write one line and one line only. Don’t even think about where the rest of the story is going. Write one truly sticky (the one that won’t let you go) first line. Don’t give away the farm in that one line! You have to make the reader want to move on to the second line.

Post your killer line in the comments section and later we’ll discuss the best of our best.

Henry of the bloodied hand? Hmmmm, . . . I’ll have to see what’s going on there.

Where to begin . . .

2010-02-22T12:45:00.000-05:00

Most authors would agree that the hardest part of writing anything, whether it be a news article, short story, or novel, is crafting that very first line.

It is that line that draws the reader in and urges them on. It is, one hopes, a "Gotchya!"

The editors at American Book Review have compiled a list of what, in their opinion, are the best opening lines for novels.

Here are the Top Ten:

I wholeheartedly agree with the editors. Do you?

You can read the entire list of Slam Dunk opening lines here.

Vanity Fair Writer Trashes Cincinnati, Touts Evolution, and Slanders the Amish

2010-02-18T12:53:00.001-05:00

Vanity Fair contributor editor A.A. Gill vented his spleen of all his pent-up elitism and bias and near racist opinions regarding the city of Cincinnati, Ohio, in an article that was supposedly about the Creation Museum in Hebron, Kentucky.

He also takes a couple of swipes at the Amish.

Gill begins his rant, titled “Roll Over, Charles Darwin,” with these choice words:

It’s not in the nature of stoic Cincinnatians to boast, which is fortunate, really, for they have meager pickings to boast about.

Actor Paul Bettany accompanied Gill and his photographs are featured in the article. Bettany's inclusion as sidekick is due to his starring role as Charles Darwin, the author of the theory of evolution, in the film Creation.

I will not take up space in this blog to argue evolution vs. creationism. That is not my intended purpose today (and there is a new book coming out that will absolutely trample the evolution theory therefore I would be foolish to attempt to do so here).

My intended purpose is to acknowledge that Vanity Fair runs this kind of vitriolic doo-doo to gain readers. Yes, I am causing you to read the article – however, an online read does not produce a magazine sale for Vanity Fair, nor does it, in any measurable way, benefit their advertisers.

I think Cincinnatians ought to take a stand for their city.

Vanity Fair, back in the day, used to feature the best and brightest writers on the planet. Nowadays? Eh, not so much.

For My Friend, Daniel, Who is Obsessed with Polar Bears Today

2010-02-11T14:54:00.000-05:00

My dear friend Dan Silveria has been updating his Facebook status today with alarming news about Polar bears.

His first update stated: Bipolar polar bears offing themselves at alarming clip due to frigid Florida conditions. Can't bear it. News at 11

This status update was followed by these comments:

Me: Oh my! (Yeah, I know, not my best repartee)

Dan: Yeah, believe that? They retire to Heaven's Waiting Room (FL) expecting to catch some rays, but instead run into more of the same. Frosty Palm trees? And then, on top of that, they have to tolerate corny Facebook updates like this one! What a world. What a world.

Me: I was trying to come up with something using the phrase polar opposites, but am at a loss - oh well - I am not the queen of puns, as you are, well, not the queen, but the king, or at least the duke.

Dan: If the polar ice caps melt, does that mean we have to type in polar lower case letters? Yes! Moving the puns across the chessboard is for squares, man. Oh, I'm so board.

THEREFORE: to honor Dan's obsession with Polar bears today, I humbly present this:

SHOT FROM THE USS HONOLULU (LOS ANGELES-CLASS FAST ATTACK SUBMARINE) AT THE ARCTIC CIRCLE, 280 MILES FROM THE NORTH POLE-- IS THERE ANYTHING THAT SCARES A POLAR BEAR?

SNOMG!

2010-02-09T16:08:00.014-05:00

Southern Ohio has been hit with two snowstorms this week.

Now, to those of us who have lived in Vermont, New Hampshire, and especially, Maine, this ain't nothing. But Ohioans and Kentuckians are referring to this as Snowpocalypse and Snowmageddon on Twitter and Facebook. Just typing the letters SNOMG gets the point across.

Wimps.

Back in my day (AACK! I now sound like my grandmother!), my day being when I was shorter than a yardstick, and we were living in Caribou, Maine, which, for you down-landers, is near the borders of New Brunswick and Quebec, we could walk out our second story living room window and cut a path across the neighbor's roof - that's how much snow we had!

However, in Ohio, or, to be more exact, Cincinnati, a few inches of snow is not a nuisance - it is reason for a major panic attack.

Unless you're a dog.

Jazzy, the black Labrador, and Jippy, the Sheltie/maybe Chow mix, think this is a marvelous day to be alive, despite the foot of snow on the ground.

It has been said: “Cats are smarter than dogs. You can't get eight cats to pull a sled through snow” and today I found this to be true. Daisy the Calico has the right idea for a snowy day . . .

However, I think the dogs know something that cats don't - and Doug Larson said it best: "The aging process has you firmly in its grasp if you never get the urge to throw a snowball."

So cater to the child that still lives in you, and go out there and nail someone with a snowball!

Can my flying car be far behind?

2010-01-27T16:32:00.008-05:00

The Jetson’s ain’t got diddly on us now.

We have robots that vacuum our carpets, computer control panels in our homes that can set alarms, adjust lighting, adjust the temperature, water the lawn, and, I suppose, scoop the doggie-doo—well, maybe not that last thing. Of course, we now have virtual pets, so actually your laptop computer does handle the doo.

However, never have I been as excited about new technology as I have been about the new Apple iPad. Apparently, the whole of the computing kingdom is all a-Twitter about it, too, if my TweetDeck is any indication.

Out first family computer was the now famous MacIntosh. A veritable magical machine, it was the wunderkind of wonder boy Steve Jobs and a slew of other geeks who signed the interior of the original machines. It had a nine-inch screen, 128 kb of memory, and sold for $2,495!

My next personal computer (PC) was an IBM 486—I skipped the 386. It had a 50 MHz IBM 486SLC processor, an ISA bus, four PC card slots, and an IDE hard drive interface. It cost me nearly $2,100! Although, I think they threw in a free printer and a box of floppies.

After that, I gradually made my way up the computing food chain. As a newspaper editor, I used Apple, but for home computing, it was always a PC. Apple computers are not cheap.

Now I have an HP Pavilion laptop with a 17” screen and gobs of bells and whistles. I love it.

But today, Apple released this video on its new iPad, and I have computer-envy. It is lovely . . .

Now all I need is my flying car!

A Cautionary Tale

2010-01-16T20:07:00.001-05:00

If I have learned nothing else in my 51 years of life but this, I will have at least learned one of life’s most important lessons:

Never, ever, go through a U-Scan checkout lane at Kroger with Barb again.

Barb is my younger sister—she is 44. She is one of my BFFs—as she reminds me time and time again.

Today, we decided to have a girls day out, so we, without consulting each other, dressed in jeans, matching sweatshirts (although mine was Ohio State Buckeyes and hers was UC Bearcats, they were both grey with red, white, and black lettering), and Crocs. It was weird. We actually looked like one of those strange couples that dress in matching sweat suits and live in retirement homes.

First, we went to Family Dollar and puttered around, picked up some bargain items, and still managed to spend almost $70. Go figure.

Then to Kroger to pick up groceries for us and the parentals. I chose to go through the U-Scan because I was dividing the cost of what was bought between two separate checking accounts—one my mom’s, one mine.

To hasten the process, I told Barb she had to be the bagger. She positioned herself.

I scanned my Kroger card, scanned a box of hair color, handed it to Barb. Started to scan another box of hair color. The freaky scanner woman’s voice said: Please place the item in the bag. I turn to Barb and there she is reading the back of the hair color.

“Barb, put the hair color in the bag!”

“I’m reading it.”

“I can’t scan anything else until you put the hair color in the bag!”

“Fine.”

I scan the next box of hair color (there was a sale) and hand it to Barb. I proceed to scan the hairspray, have one in one hand ready to scan and another in the other hand in order to be ready to scan. Barb takes the one I’m about to scan and puts it in the bag.

Freaky scanner woman’s voice: Please remove the last item from your bag and rescan it.

“BARB!”

“What?”

I hadn’t scanned it yet.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

So the kind, scanner observer fixer person reset our order and I begin again.

I can’t continue. Barb has taken the box of hair color out of the bag and is reading it again.

“Barb, put it back in the bag—I can’t scan.”

“It was already in the bag.

“Drop it now!”

Finally, I get to the end of my order and press Pay, and have a coupon. The freaky scanner woman’s voice says: The attendant has been notified to assist you. There is a picture of a friendly woman smiling at us on the screen. The kind, scanner observer fixer person comes up behind us. Barb turns to look at him, looks at the screen, and says to the young man, “That’s not you.”

I move on to scan Mom’s groceries, which includes about 30 cans of fruit in its own juice (10 for $10!) and I decide I am not going through all this again with Barb reading the back of every can or packing them alphabetically or esthetically!

But lo, and yippee, there is actually a button you can hit that allows you to skip bagging. So I scan the cans of fruit and just keep piling them on the conveyor and hope that Barb will keep up. Worked like a dream.

Except that Barb was putting the bags of groceries that were already packed onto the U-scan “staging area” next to ours—and there was a customer waiting to use it.

“Would you like me to move those?” she sweetly asked them.

It must have been Barb’s smile—or the look of desperation on my face and the 30 cans of apricots and peaches rolling on the floor—the kind folks told her she could leave our bags on their staging area.

I swear, as we collected our bags and walked away, the young man— that kind, scanner observer fixer person—was at customer service handing in his resignation.

"Saying what we think gives us a wider conversational range than saying what we know."- Cullen Hightower

2010-01-10T19:19:00.005-05:00

I live in a house filled with writers and editors—my father is a well-known author and editor (Harold J. Chadwick), my mother is an author and editor (Beverlee J. Chadwick), and I am an author and editor.

So one would think (wouldn’t one?) that our conversations were peppered with literary references and that we always speak perfect grammar.

Not so much.

Listen in to some of our family conversations:

Mom: I guess Debbie B. is giving the baby shower for Naomi.

Me: Debbie is hosting it, but it’s at Alyssa’s house.

Mom: When is that?

Me: January 23^rd.

Mom: Is that a Saturday? Yes, it is.

Me: Barb (my younger sister), did you get the Evite (e-mail invitation) from Debbie?

Mom: How could she? Debbie probably doesn’t know Barb moved in with us!

Silence . . . .. . . . .

Dad: Beverlee, what difference does that make? It’s email!

Me (laughing): Barb, did you put in a change of email address at the post office?

Dad: Barb, I’ll turn the light off.

Barb: What light?

Dad: The porch light!

Barb: I didn’t turn it on!

Dad: You didn’t notice it was on when you came in from the porch?

Barb: No! I was concentrating on my footing.

Dad: What’s your pudding got to do with it?

Me: Why were you eating pudding on the porch?

Barb: My footing!

Mom: She was trying to walk over the dogs laying in the doorway.

Mom (talking to cats): Fwibbidy fwibbidy, him’s such a fwibbidy.

********************************************************

He had occasional flashes of silence, that made his conversation perfectly delightful.

Sydney Smith, referring to Macaulay
English essayist (1771 - 1845)

Birthdays are Not for Sissies

2009-12-22T16:40:00.003-05:00

My 51st birthday was Monday, December 21.

To celebrate, I went with my mother to her doctor's appointment at 9:45am, for her fasting blood sugar test, after which we hightailed it over to Perkins to load up on coffee and breakfast foods. I had sacrificially forgone breakfast so I could suffer the pangs of hunger and deprivation with my mother.

That's just the kind of daughter I am.

I did not skip my morning coffee, however. I ain't stupid.

After Perkins, we hit PetsMart to stock up on cat treats, buy more toys for the poor neglected cats to play with - or rather, for us to torture them with - and then headed for Sam's Club.

We managed to make it out of Sam's Club without spending $400; a feat hardly seen by man. We were highly disappointed that the little old lady who passes out samples in the meat department while shouting at the top of her lungs, "BAAACON HEEYAH - HOT BAAACON HEEYAH!" was not there. Nor was there anyone passing out samples of carrot cake or other delicacies. We did have some cheese spread on a pretzel crisp, but either they are that crunchy or they were stale, because we both had to chew gingerly to avoid losing a filling.

After Sam's club, we prepared to enter through the gates of Hades - the Mall. (Insert frightening music here: Theme from "Jaws" would be good.)

I hate malls. I can not say that strongly enough. (Peeuw! Ick Ick Ick., etc.) Mostly we were there to return some items I had purchased for my mother for her birthday, and exchange them for something she would actually wear. We ended up being able to buy her more than I had in September - the last time I had entered the Mall - due to the Christmas sale at Penney's. Mom also bought me a new Parka (white) for my birthday/Christmas from her and Dad to add to the gift of Crocs they had purchased for me already at Dick's Sporting Goods. Comfiest shoes on the planet!

We stopped in Yankee Candle, where I proceeded to knock over a shelf of candle accessories by whacking it with my purse and two huge Penney's bags. The gentlemen who was trying to convince me to buy $90 worth of candle accessories (candle topper with matching plate, with matching shade, with matching wire holder, plus large candle), convinced that he already had a sale, said, "Oh, don't worry. That happens all the time. (Suggestion - move the displays further apart!) Be careful where you step!" and then a nice woman came rushing back and cleared up all of the broken glass.

I thought for sure I was going to have to pay for my reckless abandon, or at the very least, buy all the accessories the young man was showing us - although it was for my mother, who really did not want this particular set as it was wine bottles and cheese in an Italian cafe design and she probably wanted sleeping kittens or puppies (who knows) or at least flowers - something more suitable to her tastes.

So I told the young man I wanted to discuss the purchase with my mother, who was standing behind me trying to keep me from knocking over anything else. When he walked away, I turned to Mom and said, "Quick. Leave the store quietly. Keep your head down."

"But I want to buy a candle and a wire candle topper I was just looking at.

No, Ma! He'll make me buy all this ugly other stuff."

"But . . ."

"Okay, fine. I'm leaving. I'll hide outside." I scampered deftly (yeah, right) around the various strategically placed displays, spotted the sales guy, made a left, shoved a child, leapt over a woman crouching at the tealight display, and headed into the Mall.

Mom ended up not buying anything. The guilt is weighing heavily on me for rushing her. Well, maybe a little. Actually, I told her I had a coupon in my email for the online store, and we could get it cheaper that way. Mom and I are coupon fanatics.

Then we headed to the last store to return the other birthday present I bought my mother in September, or rather, to exchange it for something you could actually unbutton. Whoever had made this lovely sweater with pearl buttons had made the button holes too small. You had the choice of pulling the sweater over your head, or, well, there is no or. Dumb design.

We were too tired to look for replacements, so we made the return, got an in-store credit. Then Mom started to swoon. I like to think it was because she realized how much I spent on her for her birthday, but she assured me she was just hot, tired, and ready to finally sit down.

After one more stop away from the Mall, where Mom proceeded to lock me out of the van in freezing weather while I knocked on the window begging to be let in while she laughed like a banshee. In explanation, she said, "For some reason, Holl, I thought when I started the van the doors would unlock, so I kept trying."

They've had this van for a decade, the doors have never unlocked when you start it!

That did not explain her crazed laughter. I offered to drive since I was now starting to worry about her competence, but she insisted she was good. I was too afraid to argue.

So, that's my birthday. We had excellent Bob Evans Chicken Pecan salads for dinner with banana bread, which I insisted was the same as birthday cake - the bread, not the salad.

Mostly, I wanted to keep Mom away from a hot stove and a cake knife at this point