It is only a test. I’m trying out Open Live Writer, an offline blog editor. There are times when I travel that I don’t have internet access, but I’d still like to record my thoughts for later publication. So I’m giving this software a shot. The idea is to have things ready to go and then once I find an internet hotspot, the post will appear on my blog pretty much instantaneously.
It looks like I can schedule a post for a later, so I’m hoping this will pop up on the appointed day. Looks like I can’t specify a time for the post to fly over to my live blog. Guess we’ll see when it deigns to show up.
I’m hoping I can format pictures here.
As nearly as I can tell, I was able to pick a size, and adjust the placement of this image.
We’ll see. Trust, but verify is my motto when it comes to technology.
I also thought I’d try out different font sizes. This is Georgia 10.8, which I think will be a little small.
12 point is more readable. If this thing is WYSIWYG (What You See Is What You Get) I’ll reset the default to 12.
So I’m cautiously optimistic that this will work. Boy, if anyone had told me a decade ago that I’d be as adventurous with technology as I’ve become, I’d have laughed myself silly. It’s been a steep learning curve for me, but I’m trying.
Sometimes, I’m very trying…but that’s another post!
Lots of people make Bucket Lists. They like to dream about the ultimate adventure, things that are "must do's" before they leave this planet. However, I'm leaning a different direction.
I have an Un-Bucket List. Here are 5 things I would NEVER do. See if you agree.
Run with the bulls. It's never a good idea to tease animals. They only have few ways to let you know they don't like it and none of them are good for you. Call me crazy, but there's a reason bulls are kept in sturdy pens. These are big, dangerous quadrupeds with pointy horns. Confine them in narrow streets with thousands of people screaming around them, then encourage them to chase you, and you've got a recipe for disaster on your hands. 12 people were gored just last summer at the San Fermin festival. If I wrote a character who tried something like this, they'd be TSTL (Too Stupid To Live).
Swim with the sharks.(See Run with the Bulls for an explanation of why it's unwise to tick off animals for sport) Of course, sharks don't have pointy horns. They have teeth. Bunches of them! In rows, for pity's sake! There are adventure dives offered that put you in a cage while surrounded by great whites. Are you kidding me? What has to break inside you to need that much adrenaline?
'Nuff said.
3. Watch the movie Titanic. (Surprised you with that one, didn't I? I heard your collective gasp.) I have never and will never watch this movie because I know how it ends. The boat sinks. No matter what happens before that, I know the story will not end well. (This tendency to reject unhappy endings has also caused me to send a Nicholas Sparks novel splatting against the nearest wall.)
4. Jump out of a perfectly good airplane. I'm not afraid of heights. I enjoy flying, especially in a small plane like a Cessna. My DH is a private pilot and we used to have a 182 which we flew all over the western US. We saw things no one else sees--a long scrape in the earth ending with a mound which we think must have been a meteorite, and once, a perfectly heart-shaped lake high in the Cascades with no roads leading in or out. I love small planes. But I don't enjoy the feeling of impending destruction. Why anyone would want to parachute out of one that is working properly escapes me completely.
5. Stop reading. Since kindergarten I've been in love with the written word. It's been said that we read to know we are not alone. A life lived with only my own ideas, thoughts, and feelings bouncing around my head would be dreary indeed. Books turned into movies aren't the same. Any screen-based entertainment just sort of washes over me. But a book! I live it. Some of them become part of me forever. It's a private conversation between me and the author. I treasure that sort of deep sharing. If someday, God forbid, I lose my sight, I'll turn to books on tape.
OK, these are my "never will I ever's." What's on YOUR un-bucket list?
I'm usually a little slow on the uptake when it comes to popular culture. So this year when I stumbled upon Pentatonix, I couldn't wait to tell my kids about this wonderful acapella group. My daughters rolled their eyes and said, "Yeah, Mom, we've known about them for ages. They're great, right?"
They really are. So on the off chance that you're as culturally backward as me, I thought I'd share my belated discovery with you. Here's the link to O, Come All Ye Faithful, in case you're reading this blog by email and won't get the embedded You-Tube vid. It's so worth a few minutes of your busy holiday.
Yes, I confess. I am the Anti-Shopper, which makes Christmas especially trying. But each year I step up and set out in search of the perfect gifts for my family.
And each year it seems there's one particular toy on every kid's Christmas wishlist. This time, it's a Hatchimal. From what I understand about them, the child gets to watch the mystery toy peck its way out of the egg it comes in, and then the kid is supposed to interact with the pet so that new levels of engagement are "unlocked." Eventually, the toy can be taught to dance and talk. You're cautioned not to throw out the instructions in case you want to reboot the Hatchimal to an earlier level.
Sounds like a lot of work for a fuzzy little do-dad to me.
Of course, the holiday hoopla was just as frantic when my kids were young. Back in the 80s, the be-all, end-all toy was a Cabbage Patch Kid. And they were pretty hard to snag. The toy store in our mall sold out their entire shipment in just a few minutes.
I should know. About a week before Christmas, I'd stood in line trying to get one for #1 Daughter. But even though I was too late to buy a doll that day, I thought to ask if I could have a rain check. Surprisingly enough, the store manager agreed to give me one and took down my contact info in case they received any more before Christmas.
A call came on December 24th.
"The item you requested is in," said the mysterious voice on the phone.
I'd almost forgotten about it. "Oh, you mean the Cabbage Patch D--"
"Shhh!" the voice hissed. "Don't say it out loud."
"OK." It all sounded way more cloak-and-dagger than this suburban housewife was used to. Nervously, I twined my fingers in the corkscrew phone cord. (Yes, Virginia, phones had cords back then!) "When can I--"
"Come to the store within the next 30 minutes or we'll call the next name on the list."
"I'm putting on my coat right now," I promised.
"When you get here, do not tell anyone what you have come for. Just ask for Irene."
"O--" The line went dead. "K," I said to the dial tone.
I hurried to the mall and, feeling as if I should have worn a trench coat instead of my parka, I presented myself at the toy store with ten minutes to spare. Irene came out from the back room with the same haunted expression on her face you see on mailmen or UPS drivers this time of year.
"With hair or without?" she asked cryptically.
"With." I blinked in astonishment. Apparently, I was to take the doll sight unseen.
"I'll bring it out while you pay the cashier," Irene said. "Under no circumstances should you take it out of the bag until you reach your car."
She wasn't kidding. There had been near riots over the silly things the week before.
So, hugging the parcel to my chest, I made my way back to my car and didn't even open it there. I waited until I was safe in my house. It was then that I discovered...
It was a boy!
I'd been expecting a pig-tailed or curly-headed girl. Instead, we got Clinton Bobbie. (The name was on his birth certificate and "adoption" papers.)
#1 Daughter was delighted. She'd always been a bit of a tomboy anyway so a boy doll was perfect. Of course, he had no batteries, no software. All the hugging and petting in the world wouldn't "unlock new levels of interaction."
But that was ok. Clinton Bobbie ran on imagination. He didn't need to learn to talk or dance. #1 Daughter did that for him. They had plenty of adventures together without the benefit of technology.
Come to think of it, the present they talk about most often is the year I gave them each a "Discovery Box." I filled a shoebox with odds and ends--a set of magnets, a book about identifying birds, a disposable camera, a magnifying glass, a small notebook to record their discoveries, a fresh set of colored pencils, scotch tape, construction paper, and scissors. There may have been more stuff, but those are the things I remember.
They loved those boxes.
Long after battery-operated toys died, they found new ways to play with the things in their Discovery Box. Imagination and curiosity really is the most powerful force in a kid's arsenal.
So now it's your turn to share. What mega-toy was your White Whale? Were you able to capture it or did it elude you? Is there a gift you received as a child that stands out in your memory?
Let me start with a little disclaimer. If you do not celebrate Christmas, I want you to know I mean you no disrespect with this post. But since I'm a Christian, this time of year is important to me. So that's why I'm sharing it.
Most years, our choir sings a cantata for Christmas, a nice neat collection of pre-assembled anthems by one arranger connected by narration. This year our director decided he wanted to pick songs from lots of different composers. He collared me after practice one night. Our conversation went like this:
Director: "Since we've got a published author here, why should I waste time trying to find readings to insert between pieces? You can write something, can't you?"
Me: "Well, yeah..."
The Christmas story has been told & retold countless times, but I've been itching to try my hand. However, when this opportunity presented itself, I had a small attack of the "oh-golly-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into's" until I figured out that I just needed to decide on a point of view character. If I told the Christmas story from behind one set of eyes, that would make it easier.
I settled on Mary. As a Protestant, I feel we often short-change her. She had arguably the deepest relationship with God recorded in scripture. Strong, faithful & humble, she must have been a remarkable person.
So here's my Christmas cantata, complete with links to the musical pieces we'll be doing on Sunday. Hope you enjoy...
Mary's Song
Mary: “Mary
treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.”
That’s what
my friend Luke wrote. What he couldn’t
capture with his words was the longing I felt as we waited for the Messiah to
come. The whole world groaned under the weight of Rome. But we were taught that
all things would be set to rights when Messiah came. He would reign, the rabbis
promised us, in the spirit of David and his kingdom would cover the earth with
righteousness.
So we prayed. We hoped. We waited.
And God
answered our prayers…in a way I never could have expected.
Song: Oh,
Come, Emmanuel
Mary: Anyone who has ever wished to see an angel has
never met one. They are fierce and terrible... and beautiful beyond belief. When one appeared to me in a blinding flash
of light, I could do nothing but fall to my knees. But even more than his appearance, his words
frightened me. I was favored, the angel said. All generations would call me
blessed.
For God
intended to use me, the lowest of his handmaids, to bring His Son into the
world.
Mary:
Jesus was with God when the earth and the stars were called into
existence from nothing. It is his voice in the thunder, his power in the
rolling sea. He made the world and everything in it. Yet in all his creation
there was found no room for him.
He ought to
have been born in a palace, swaddled in silk, and warmed by a fire. But God’s
ways are not ours. Instead he came into this world in a stable. Straw was his
bed. The ox and ass lent their warmth and sweetened the air with their breath.
I remember
he cried softly that night. So I reached down…and held God…in my trembling
hands.
Song: Away in a Manger
Mary: I knew
from the beginning that Jesus was no ordinary child. He belonged to the ages,
to all peoples and races. He was chosen as our ransom, the very Lamb of God,
slain from the foundation of the world. Still, my heart hoped he would be just mine for a season.
Instead,
that first night, shepherds came in a rush, babbling of signs and wonders. The
host of heaven could not keep silent. The morning stars, who sang at creation,
cried aloud that the salvation of God had come to earth.
And the
shepherds had come to see my child, my Holy One, with their own eyes.
Song: The First Noel (Be ready to click to skip thru the ad before this piece.)
Mary: Except for those months when I
carried him beneath my heart, Jesus was never only mine. Others sought the true
king as well. In a distant land, they studied the heavens. They pored over
scraps of prophecy. And then a star led them as they traveled far.
Over sand
dune and wadi, past ziggurat and temple, their caravan came. The horses and
camels were swift to obey their desert-born masters and faithfully bore those
seekers to worship at my son’s feet. Unlike
the shepherds who came with empty hands, these visitors brought worthy
gifts—gold, as befitted a king; frankincense, to honor Jesus as their high
priest; and—
A fist
closed around my heart when they revealed their last gift. It was myrrh. The spice used to anoint the dead.
Song : Carol for
Seekers
Mary: He was
my son. My heart. My beloved.
He is the
Lion of Judah, and King of kings. He is the rose of Sharon, the lily of the
valley. He is the love of God made flesh, the willing victim that we might be
freed. He is that fragrant essence that lifts the heart of
man in the cool of the evening.
If I close
my eyes, I can still smell the sweet perfume of grace.
Song: Cold December
Flies Away
Mary: And so He came. Against all expectation.
Against all reason. He left heaven,
forsaking that realm of perpetual light to take on our darkness. He gave up the
power of God and clothed himself with our dusty weakness. He was willing to do whatever was necessary
to redeem his poor, lost creation.
Even to die
in our place.
You see, He
couldn’t bear to see us banished from Eden again. He wants us to be with him,
not only in this world, but in the one to come. Once death closes my eyes, I
believe I will open them again to see only light.
Jesus was
born. Not only for Israel. Not simply for eager shepherds or wise seekers. He
came for us all.
Let Him show
you his love. Let Him surround you with his mercy. Let Him be born in your
heart.
Hey! Welcome to my pixelated home. I'm glad you dropped by. Writing is kind of a solitary activity, so the friends I make on line are special
to me. Let me pour you a cup of cyber-coffee and we’ll put our feet up for a
while.
People often ask me if I always wanted to be an author. The truth is that while I’ve been an avid reader since kindergarten, I can’t say I always wanted to be a writer. Unless, of course, you count the MONKEES fan
fiction I wrote when I was in 5th grade! (Be honest. Wasn't that little Davy Jones just the cutest thing!)
So instead of writing all my life, I’ve been—hold on!—a
professional opera singer, a teacher, a choir director, a homeschooling mom, a
Realtor, a banker and now finally a published author. Fairly late in life
(read: after our kids were grown) I had the freedom to explore what the
storytelling voices in my head were trying to say. I’ve loved learning the
writer’s craft, but it’s an ocean of stuff. I feel like I’m still just dipping
my toes in the shallow end.
2 To be honest, I startedwriting The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club
because I was homesick. We were living in Boston at the time and, while New England is a
fascinating part of the country, I really missed the Midwest, and especially
the Ozarks (a lovely bit of Americana and one of the prettiest places you could wish to call home). So
I wrote about a heroine coming back to fictional Coldwater Cove.
But unlike me,
she wasn’t happy about returning to flyover country. She was there because
she’d been disgraced and had nowhere else to go. Then, the writing voices in my head
encouraged me to pair her with a wounded warrior, a tough guy who hasn’t let
the fact that he’s missing part of his leg change who he is at his core.
I wanted to write the kind of books I love to read--ones where a reader can expect a few laughs, a few tears,
and a guaranteed happy ending every time.
My own life experiences definitely pop up in my writing. I couldn’t make up some of the
silly things that happen in my books! I’m not saying my dad is exactly like
George Evans (my heroine’s father) but he does have a running war with the
squirrels in his yard, and likes to pinch a penny till it squeals.
I love exploring characters who’ve lived on the edge and have something deep to share about the human spirit.
That’s why I really enjoyed writing Jake Tyler, the hero in The Coldwater WarmHearts Club. In addition to having lost a leg from just below the knee, Jake’s dealing
with PTSD, like many of our returning vets. He does his best to hide the
moments when his time in Helmand province intrudes into his life in Coldwater
Cove, but sometimes, he finds himself back in the land of the Khyber Pass.
Check out this exclusive excerpt to see what I mean. Here's the set up:
Jake takes Lacy on what he hopes
will be a romantic boat ride on Lake Jewel. Unfortunately, the rowboat sinks
and they’re forced to swim. As he nears the shore, Jake tries to stand, but his prosthetic leg gets stuck in the sandy bottom and he has to take it off. Then
to make matters worse, his PTSD rears its ugly head at the worst possible time…
***
Jake side-stroked toward shore. It was slow going. A pair of jays scolded overhead,
their cries unnaturally loud. To his hyper-vigilant ears, it sounded like a
warning. Like the high-pitched ululations of Afghani women . . .
He focused on the flat rock outcropping at the
water’s edge where Lacy had already climbed out. Flecks of mica glinted in the sunlight. It was
almost as if the rock was shining a searchlight on him, the better to
illuminate his humiliation. He didn’t want Lacy to see him like this. He
couldn’t let anyone see him. He wouldn’t—
“Get
down, Tyler,” his commanding officer whispered fiercely. He yanked Jake down so
roughly, he landed hard on his knees and then went flat on his belly.
He
and the lieutenant had trekked for three klicks, forded the Helmand River in
the dark, and now were humping it up a desolate hill. The plan for this recon
mission was to use the night-vision gear in their packs to get a look at
activity in the village over the ridge. Taliban fighters were suspected of
hiding within the civilian population there, but Jake’s CO needed accurate
intel before sending in the whole unit to flush out the bad guys.
“There’s
a sniper out there,” his CO said.
There
was no moon, but Jake had never seen a night sky so filled with stars. They
stretched in brittle pinpricks from one horizon to the other.
“A
sniper can’t hit what he can’t see,” Jake whispered back.
“This
one can. If you break over that ridge standing up, you make a void in the stars
behind you. It’s a bullet magnet. That’s how Stensrud bought it last month.”
So
Jake crawled. Slowly. Upward. Taking care not to make a void. Not to expose his
position by breaking over the ridge. Not to be seen.
Once
he reached the top, he rolled onto his back, clutching his weapon in one hand.
He couldn’t turn loose of it or he might not find it again. It was so dark.
Even the stars had gone dim. He—
“Jake?”
Someone
else was there. Someone who was patting his cheeks. Whoever they were, they
were sitting up beside him. Breaking over the ridge.
“No! There’s a sniper.
Get down,” Jake said as loudly as he dared.
In
the last firefight his unit had been in, his buddy Henderson had been right by
his side when he took a bullet. Jake couldn’t bear to watch the light go out of
another pair of eyes. Not if he could help it.
Even
though he couldn’t see this new jarhead clearly, Jake grabbed him and yanked
him down hard beside him before the enemy sniper could pick him off.
“Jake!”
He blinked slowly and
found himself lying flat on his back on the rock outcropping at the lake’s
edge. Chest heaving, he gazed up at the canopy of a forest near to bursting
into full leaf.
He wasn’t downrange in
Afghanistan. It wasn’t night and that darn sure wasn’t another jarhead he’d
manhandled into a position of supposed safety on the rock beside him.
“Lacy,” he
whispered.
Jake realized that
instead of his weapon, he held his prosthetic leg in his left hand. He’d had a
flashback. Zoned out for a bit.
In front of her.
His belly spiraled
downward. He’d rather she had walked in and caught him naked in a frigid
shower. Cold water does a favor to no man, but it would have been preferable to
this.
She’d caught his soul
naked. She’d seen him at his most
vulnerable. His weakness had broken over the ridge.
*** So what do you think? Want to know more about Jake Tyler?
Discover The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club at these fine stores!
I’m hoping I can format pictures here. 
