What Makes a Character?

I loved boys’ books when I was a kid. Boys’ books involved excitement, adventure, people working things out. Girls’ books never seemed to get any more exciting than girls sneaking comics into school, or Flora MacDonald rowing her Bonnie Prince Charlie boat – since he was declared “bonnie” I really wasn’t that interested. So I read my brothers’ Christmas gifts before I read my own. And I considered myself in reading heaven when my parents bought me a complete set of Conan Doyle stories. Yay!

Today’s books are different. There are lots of female protagonists rising above terrible dangers. I’m almost embarrassed to recommend books to my husband because I wonder if he feels as I once did, that all the best books are for girls. But we’ve learned together, it really doesn’t matter if the protagonist is male or female – I loved my brothers’ boys’ adventure tales, and what mattered was the story, the characters, events, ideas and places in some kind of balance. Same now; my husband loves Ninth House.

Before we married, my husband introduced me to his favorite science fiction books. The balance was different. The ideas and places mattered more than story and character. And I was intrigued. So many cool ideas.

Modern books – at least the ones we’ve been enjoying – give greater prominence to characters. But, rather like the ideas of those old scifi novels, they have to be convincing characters. They don’t have to be male or female, or bi, or trans, or… But they have to be believable.

I got hooked on Ursula LeGuin at some point. Her books have fantastic balance. The characters are part of the idea and part of the place, and everything comes together in a convincing whole. I wish I could write like her! But, meanwhile, I’ll work on creating convincing characters for my novels, stories, novellas… and even for poems?

So what makes a good character?

Influenced by Le Guin, I’d suggest a character has to be a natural part of the story’s time and place; they have to belong to the idea that’s driving the story. Because ideas are “outside” the “normal”, I guess that means the character has to not quite belong, even though they’re naturally part of the setting. A child protagonist will have to be inquisitive, maybe even disruptive. An adult will have to be, at least in part, an outsider. An alien will learn. An octopus will ponder (I loved Remarkably Bright Creatures!)…

Where does that leave the observer narrator – not part of the story at all; just watching it play out? I guess I’d want my observer to enjoy the same sort of curiosity as the reader, or else to be so different that the reader wants to understand the observer as well as the story.

Which leaves me still pondering… what makes a good character? Maybe it’s just someone who lives in the author’s head and talks so much the author has to let them out. I need to get back to letting my characters out!

Are You Productive?

I once read a book called “The Productive Writer” by Sage Cohen. (The link should take you to my review on Goodreads.) Sometimes I remember that’s surely what I aspire to; to be a writer, and to be productive. And sometimes life gets in the way.

If you produce an email a day, does that make you a productive writer? If you read a hundred emails a day, are you a productive reader? (What if you only reply to one in a hundred?) And does collaborating with your spouse on resume-writing make you a productive editor?

What about seeing a book re-released? Does that make you un-productive since it was first removed from publication, or productive because it’s back? Or is productive simply a state of mind. I will call myself productive. I will rejoice in what I’ve produced. And I will…

…BE A PRODUCTIVE WRITER!

This month has seen the re-release of my “last” two Five-Minute Bible-Story books (11th and 12th in the series), and I’m very proud of them, even if the color versions are awaiting release, and the next book in the series  merely fills me with stories and no time to write . I will make my state of mind productive and I’ll claim that yes,

I’VE PRODUCED SOMETHING!

Plus I just updated my website to include links to the new books. That’s “productive” isn’t it, even if I have’t updated it yet to include just one book on a page… And…

I’ve almost finished editing the print version of “Where Love Begins” for Donna Fletcher Crow, author of delightfully British mysteries and gentle romances. I shall rejoice in the fact that…

SHE’S PRODUCTIVE, AND I’M LOVING IT!

I’ve almost finished printing out the paperwork for this weekend’s Writers’ Mill meeting. And… DRUMROLL! … I have actually written something/produced a whole piece of writing. It’s a story I hope my Writers’ Mill colleagues will critique for me, so I can submit it to the Northwest Independent Writers Association for their anthology.

PLEASE WISH ME LUCK.

It’s another Tale of Hemlock, and I really hope it works because, as the doubts creep in, as I wonder if I’m productive after all, and as that state of mind falls prey to states of  reality…

• I’d love to find homes for the Hemlock series (maybe rewriting it comes first).
• I’d love to write more Five-Minute Bible-Stories.
• I’d love to see A Nose for Adventure come out (it’s slowly climbing the list with Linkville Press).
• I’d love to write more novels.
• I’d love to have 48 hours in a day.
• And I’d love to stay awake!

But am I productive? Are you? And what’s your state of mind?

Peter’s Promise
Kindle
Print (B&W)

Paul’s Purpose
Kindle
Print (B&W)

 

Are you a speaker or a narrator?

Tomorrow I’m the not-quite-guest speaker at our local writers’ group (hard to be a guest when you’re always there). I’ll be talking about narrative voice – past/present, 1st/2nd/3rd person narration and all that good stuff – and our upcoming contest prompt is “dialog.” So, if you write in first person, is the narrative voice the same as the use in dialog?

Given that readers will spend 6-12 hours listening to that narrative voice in their heads, with no gaps to get a word in edgewise, perhaps I should hope I don’t write in my speaking voice, else I’d drive my readers crazy and they’d never come back.

Which kind of begs the question, if I’m the guest “speaker,” speaking for around an hour (yes, with gaps for questions), will I speak in my narrative voice, my dialog voice, or something else entirely?

Anyway, here’s a rough draft of what I’m planning to say:

Why does Voice matter?

1. Because the reader makes a huge commitment  to spend time – 12-24 hours aloud, 6-12 hours silently –  in company of this voice
2. Becauser the author commits… lots more hours than that to writing in this voice, so you’d better enjoy it
3. Because there’s a reader/author contract – you will make it worth the reader’s time (they’re paying you in time and money)
4. Because of reader expectations –
   1. If it’s a legal contract, should be written in legaleze, but equally…
   2. A sweet old lady’s voice in sweet small-town America probably shouldn’t devolve into pages of swearing
   3. A soldier’s voice as he runs rampage in city shouldn’t devolve into romantic pillow-talk
   4. And what about memoir? Or when people say, “I’m so sorry this happened to you…” when perhaps it wasn’t memoir
      1. How do we avoid being identified with first person narrator, vs.
      2. how do we prove we have the right to tell the tale?

What are our Voice options?

Point of view	Tense	Assumptions or examples	Advantages	Disadvantages	getarounds
First person hero	Present	YA dystopia?	Immediate Action experienced alongside character SYMPATHY for hero	Can’t see at a distance. Whiny, introspective, boring? Temptation to tell it how it happened – too much detail… NOT NATURAL!	Make sure it’s a real narrative voice. 2nd pov character?
	past	Memoir? Noir Jane Eyre Huckleberry Finn	Less immediate Double consciousness – future looking over past character’s shoulder Assume the protagonist survived	People ask is it real?	Disclaimer? Make protagonist obviously different from self
First Person multiple heroes			Get to see multiple points of view, maybe of same events Get to be in multiple places at once	Need separate narrative voice for each (NOT SAME as dialog voice)	3rd person only requires one narrative voice
First person observer		Great Gatsby	Comment on events Hear about events from other people so don’t have to be present	Can’t see inside protagonist’s head
Third person hero			Can spend more time describing internal (even subconscious) thoughts, but maybe can’t “say” them. EMPATHY for hero	Not as immediate Can’t see at a distance	Put 1st person thoughts in italics? More than one viewpoint?
Third person multiple heroes		J.R.R. Martin   Brian Doyle	Don’t need separate voices for separate viewpoints. Can give all sides of epic events	POV character can’t keep secrets from the reader. Be careful how you switch – one per chapter, one per scene, one per paragraph…	Don’t break the reader’s neck, don’t make readers dizzy or confuse them   Use hiatus to separate views
Third person observer		Mystery	Sees all, knows all the characters’ actions (but not their thoughts). Gets to keep secrets and make comments	Have to keep it interesting. Can’t get inside heads.	Good plot!
Third person omniscient		Dorothy Sayers	Sees all, knows all, does get inside their heads, so no secrets “Little did he know…”	So… if there are no secrets…	Need a really good plot

Examples

Tense change

Princess Stella was walking in the forest. Her thoughts drifted back to the corridors and chambers of the castle. Her feet trod lightly on the loamy ground. Her breath drifted in front of her face in gentle puffs of air. Then a wolf leapt out at her.

She falls back in horror. As the wolf’s red eyes stare into hers, as drool drips from the ends of its fangs, her body trembles and she knows she’s going to die.

Why did the writer change to present tense – identifying with the character while writing an exciting scene. Fix it just by changing the tense. Maybe use italics…

                She fell back in horror. I’m going to die. The wolf’s red eyes…

Person change

Princess Stella was walking in the forest. Her thoughts drifted back to the corridors and chambers of the castle. Her feet trod lightly on the loamy ground. Her breath drifted in front of her face in gentle puffs of air. Then a wolf leapt out at her.

I fall back, terrified. The wolf’s red eyes stare into mine, and drool drips on my face from the ends of its fangs. I’m going to die.

Again, identifying with the character. If we change it all to “I,” we might lose sympathy for the character whose head’s stuck in a castle while she walks in a forest, so have to decide what we’re aiming for.

Tense change 1^st person

I was walking through the forest, not a trouble in my mind. Okay it wasn’t the castle of my youth, but it was beautiful. Then a wolf leapt out at me.

I fall back, till I land with a thump on the ground. The wolf’s red eyes stare into mine, and drool drips on my face from the ends of its fangs. I’m going to die.

Present tense is more immediate, and, just like switching to italics for internal thoughts, we’re allowed to switch tense sometimes. Just need to make sure it fits the voice.

                I was walking through the forest, not a care on my mind, when suddenly this bloomin’ great wolf leaps out at    me!

Point of view change

Princess Stella walked hand in hand with Prince Jim, dreaming of the future they might share. Then a wolf leapt out at them.

As Jim released her hand, Stella fell, and the wolf seemed set to pounce. She turned around, sure Jim would rescue her, already imagining how she would fall into his arms afterward. But when she caught sight of him, he was already halfway across the clearing, fleeing in terror and wondering where on earth the wolf had come from.

Maybe “fleeing as if in terror, or as if he were trying to guess where the wolf had come from.”

I tidied my library

The best thing about getting flooded last year is the fact that one of our sons’ bedrooms has now turned into a library. I’ve always wanted a library of my own and, being somewhat of a book hoarder, I’ve always dreamed of having enough space to organize my books. Of course, the fact that my library’s shelves are (in many cases) stacked two deep and two high (and bending) does make it a little hard to find anything. I lost Brooklyn. Then I found it and lost A Man Called Ove, which surely should have been next to A Long Way Down. Then I forgot where the Ursula Le Guin paperbacks had been filed, though hardbacked Malafrena and the Dispossessed were safe on the top shelf. While looking for them, I realized I now had Asian novels on two different shelves, mixed up with The Thirteenth Tale and Olive Kitterege. So… I tidied my library, again. Each book like a much-loved friend, long-forgotten, long overdue an email or a letter… each character reminding and begging me to read me again… each shelf ever heavier while I cleared all the volumes from the floor.

Oddly, the empty spaces on my shelves seem to grow and shrink with no perceivable logic. But at least space exists, so new friends can join the old. I love my library!

Then there’s that secret shelf upstairs, where I hide my dream that someone might file my books in a library one day. Novels of small-town characters together with Biblical fiction for kids and novellas mysterious and strange… short stories in anthologies… even poetry and picture books! Would they ever go on the same shelf as each other?

New characters beg me to write me again and I turn to the computer… Write a blogpost, write a novella, enter a contest at our local writers’ group… Open up a page and…

… well, this is what we did for our Writing Exercise at the Writers’ Mill …

1. Write the number 1. This is the Beginning of your story. Ask who, what, where, and when is your character? What does your character’s heart want? (This is an exercise in character development.)
2. Next write the number 5 (NOT 2) This is the End of you story – how will your character and/or world change? (How will your character develop?)
3. Write the number 3. This is the Middle – how is your character struggling to effect that change?
4. And now you get to write down number 2. How did your character get into this mess and why (internal and external reasons)? (And our writing exercise morphes into the realm of plot development)
5. Almost done: write the number 4. How did your character successfully resolve his/her/its problem.
6. And finally, put things back in the right order and WRITE, from beginning to end.

 

What are your New Year Resolutions?

Last year–last December–my mum, aged nearly 90, crossed the Atlantic to spend her winter with us. One plane was cancelled; the rescheduled one was late; she missed her connection; she changed planes in half an hour; she struggled with middle seats because of her new schedule and finally played the “nearly 90” card to beg for an aisle seat; and she arrived 12 hours late! As we drove home in the car, my husband played a CD of Christmas carols and Mum, aged nearly 90, surely worn out from the longest day ever of hassles, sang Oh Come All You Faithful. It was nearly midnight–a midnight to remember!

So now it’s 2018. Mum will stay with us until February, and we’re delighted to have her. I shall take her to see cats at a local cat cafe. We’ll visit the sea again with a friend. We’ll shop like mother and daughter–a treat since we’re so rarely together. We’ll enjoy discovering that Alexa is as obedient to Mum as she is to me. And we’ll laugh together when Mum says “You can’t print my story out; it’s only on my tablet.” “Mum, we have a printer downstairs.” Oh yes, and we’ll go to our local writers’ group–TOGETHER!

So those are my January resolutions. I know I’ll keep them. But as to February, that’s a whole month away, and the rest of the year even further. I’d resolve to catch up on book reviews, but I’m always getting further behind as I find new books I’m offered and “can’t wait” to read. I’d resolve to finish my next novel, Imaginary Numbers, but I’ll need my writers’ group friends to keep me on track. I’ll go to Mum’s 90th birthday party, come hell or high water, no matter how many planes get cancelled or delayed. And I’ll grow a year older–now that’s the sort of resolution I really should keep.

But maybe I should resolve to complain less, sing more in the back of the car, and enjoy the moment, like Mum! Maybe I should learn from her. And maybe we should all do something like that.

Meanwhile I’m persuading Mum to resolve to write again–an essay a month for those contests we run monthly at our writers’ group. This month’s challenge is to answer “Why am I here?” and Mum’s formula for a great essay is:

• Think of someone else that you care about, and an event that might have taken them from you, or from the world.
• Think of another someone else.
• And finally think of yourself.

It seems a good recipe for a good attitude to life, or for new year resolutions! Thank you Mum.

How was your day?

“How was your day?” I ask as my husband returns from work. Sometimes he asks me the same question. Friends ask. Neighbors might ask. But what should I say? How was my day today? And what’s productive anyway?

• Productive in washing, cleaning, tidying up…? It all has to be done again next week.
• Productive in yardwork? Well, my herbs are still surviving and being eaten by husband, self and squirrels.
• Productive in work that I actually get paid for? I don’t earn a lot, but I do get paid to edit novels sometimes, and I almost finished the final edit on one today. That’s a productive day.
• Productive in editing my own work perhaps? I worked through the publisher file (from my publisher, Cape Arago Press) for Paul’s Purpose–number 12 of the Five-Minute Bible Story Series. That was productive, and depressing. You can find the e-book of Paul’s Purpose here, but maybe you should wait to buy it until I’ve worked through the the errors I found.
• Productive in writing? I wish (from which you may deduce the answer is no). But I did log onto Amazon author central to see if I’d sold any of my Halloween short stories (Not the Night for Murder). They don’t list sales from the current week though, so the answer was no.
• Productive in producing books? I finally released the Kindle version of an anthology (the Writers’ Mill Journal Volume 6) for our local writers’ group. If they paid me for this (minimum wage? how many hours?) I’d earn as much producing as I do editing. But they don’t. It’s my gift back to those who give me so much encouragement.
• Productive in drawing? That’s what I do (on the computer) when my brain’s so fried I can’t see words anymore. It doesn’t count as work, I suppose, but it illustrates books sometimes for that writers’ group. There’ll be quite a few of my pictures in our next release–Carl and June: Tales of Two by Matthew McAyeal and the Writers’ Mill.
• Productive in cooking? Nah, I had some good leftovers so we ate them. Really good was the leftover birthday cake from the Writers’ Group. If they pay me in cake I’ll be happy… so I’m happy.
• Productive in shopping? I still can’t fathom how I fitted it in today, but yes; I bought gluten-free bread, real bread, fruit and vegetables, milk, beer and cheese–the essentials of life (except for chocolate, and I still have chocolate leftover from my own birthday–Yum!).
• Productive in blogging? What do you think? I even sent out a newsletter earlier this week. Click here for my mail-chimp sign-up  if you’d like to receive it… please 🙂

So, “How was your day?”

Mine was productive it seems.

How Soon Is Soon?

I was going to write a blogpost soon, but that was hours ago. I was going to advertize my new novellas soon, but that was days ago. My husband was going to choose paint colors soon, but that was months ago. And my next novel, Subtraction, was going to come out soon, but how soon is soon?

Then yesterday I got good news. Subtraction has a tentative release date of August 1st. Hurray! So now I shall have to advertize soon, beg for reviews, try to get the book into stores… and dream. And definitely dream. Because Subtraction completes a trilogy begun with Divide by Zero and continued in Infinite Sum. Sure, I’m working on Imaginary Numbers now, but that will follows lives on different paths. Subtraction completes the arc of lives wounded by Amelia’s death. Subtraction follows the absent father, and places him very present on center stage. And I can’t wait to see how it will be received.

As to those novellas, perhaps they’ll be fodder for another blogpost, coming “soon.” But for now, here’s a taste of Subtraction, following the writing prompt.

Writing Prompt:

Our writer’s group’s experimenting with different points of view – it’s amazing how they can feel like different authors when you let them on the page. So…

1. Imagine a teacher walking into a classroom. The students stare.
2. Start the story in first person from the teacher’s point of view. “New class. New students. What do I do? Will they listen?” and write for just 5 minutes.
3. Continue in 3rd person omniscient – what does the teacher look like? What about the students. What are they thinking? What does the teacher think? How does the lesson begin? 5 minutes again.
4. Then finish with nothing but dialog between teacher and students, and see where it takes you.

When you’ve finished, meet Andrew from Subtraction, as he meets his new class:

Part 1

1

“Now children, today I will teach you to subtract.” Andrew marched to the front of the classroom, ready to start his second year with these kids. He frowned as he pondered whether addressing a middle-grade, special-needs audience as children might be insulting, but his mind seemed devoid of alternative words as it sank into more familiar mathematical terms. “Subtract,” he repeated.  To take away, abuse, discard, destroy…

Youthful faces, ranging from blandly accusing to sleepily bland, stared back at him, and clearly couldn’t care less if he frowned or cried. Faint groans arose, inspiring that familiar tightness in his chest. But these students, subtracted from their regular classes, weren’t rejects; not really; not yet; Andrew wasn’t going to fail them if he could help it.

“Sub-traction.” He spoke the syllables carefully and wrote the word with a purple flourish on the whiteboard. The pen squeaked louder than the nervous quiver of his throat while he half-turned to check the children were seated, and to see who was laughing.

A class clown bounced on his chair in the middle of the room.  “Is that like action that’s not acting right?” Beetled eyebrows wiggled, mimicking the bouncing of the tall boy’s limbs.

“Nah,” groaned the one known as Jonah the Whale, squashed like a deflated football in his seat near the door. The force of Jonah’s voice blew strands of sandy hair up like a helmet, and he clawed his armpits with stubby fists. “ Sub-track; it’s like acting subhuman, like what you do.” He pointed to the clown.

Andrew rapped a ruler on the desk. “No teasing in class,” he insisted. Then he repeated, slowly, solemnly—fiercely driving down the whimper of his new-year apprehension— “We’re studying subtraction.”

For a moment, the deep, cultured tone of his own voice distracted him. Who am I? he wondered, and who am I to teach them? But he couldn’t pause to evaluate the answer. “Subtraction is sometimes called taking away.” And what has been taken from me?

Andrew’s eyes wandered, taking in shapes, positions, posture, provocation and more. Meanwhile he pondered what these middle-school rejects might make of the phrase, taken away, they who’d never been given enough in the first place? Inhaling an unhealthy burst of dry-erase solvent, he dragged himself back to the present and began a slow walk around the room.

Fair-haired Amy sat near clownish Zeke. She wrapped thin, freckled arms around the treasures on her desk. Her lips were parted as she muttered under her breath, “Not take away. Not take away.” The delicate voice reminded Andrew of the tick from an antique clock, from an antique home, from a life long lost. He leaned forward to offer comfort to the child. Doll-eyes blinked, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on some curious infinity. Her face, pink-cheeked and porcelain smooth, bore only the tiniest hint of unlikely concern, as if she were looking through a window at someone else’s lesson.

“Ah, Amy.” Andrew sighed. “Nobody’s going to take your treasures away.”

Three safety pins from a diaper set were arrayed in the middle of her desk. Buttons in multiple colors formed jagged hills beside them. A pencil with rainbow-colored point, and a pad of rainbow notelets were neatly positioned between musically drumming fingers.

“First we add things,” Andrew said, raising his voice as he marched toward the front of the room again. “Then we have a collection”—a collection of buttons perhaps, and did Amy know how many were lying there?—“and then we…”

“Takeaway! Like burgers!” brayed Julie’s rusty voice of triumph behind him.

Andrew turned. “Well, not quite, Julie,” he admitted, feeling the focus splinter.

“I want my takeaway. I want.” Loud thumps of threatening persistence on the desk accompanied Tom’s voice. Angry Tom, he was in his fourth special school for misbehavior and might soon be dropped out entirely unless teachers like Andrew could win him over. But chaos rumbled over other desks as well.

Andrew tensed, needing a clearer answer, before things fell apart. Then he felt a bubble of inspiration turn his frown to a smile. This was why he did this job. This was why he loved it.

“Yes. Yes. And yes,” Andrew announced, facing the class from behind his desk and pumping his arm with the words like a teenager. His tones turned increasingly valiant as his gaze slid across the sea of puzzled faces. “You’re right.” He pointed to Julie. “Tom’s right… And you… and you… Let’s order some takeaway, just as soon as we’ve got this done.” Then he started to count, pointing to the students each in turn. “Let’s order… seven, eight, nine burgers.”

“I want nuggets!”

“Nine orders of food.” Andrew corrected himself. “And I’ll be in charge of passing them around.”

He had their attention now, or food did anyway.

“I’ll set the box down on my desk, right here. And when I’ve handed one meal to Jonah… you tell me… how many more will be in the box?”

“Me first,” shouted Tom, ignoring the question. But others students waved fingers to count and tried to work it out.

Shy Amy’s head hung down as she continued to play with the buttons on her desk. Her fingers wove in hypnotically distracting patterns. Don’t look at her. Don’t watch. You’ll make her mad. But blue eyes focused suddenly on Andrew, cold as winter, distant as spring. Red-button lips pursed into words, spoked out in a quietly determined, uninflected voice. “Eight.”

“Very good, Amy. So then I give one meal to Amy.” Andrew waved a hand with the imaginary parcel. “Just wait a minute, Tom. And how many are left?”

Middle-grade mind needed a pause before answering, “Seven?”

“Then to Tom… “

“Hurray!”

“Six… five… four…”

The students completed the sequence at last, and Andrew announced in triumph, “That’s subtraction, class. When we take something out of the box, we’ve subtracted it.”

Faces shone back at him in that pause within the triangle of trouble, food and learning. Then Jonah the Whale bounced his chair, legs creaking scarily. “So, when can we eat?”

Whispers rustled, then Tom’s throaty voice rang out, combining threat and doubt. “Order it! I’m hungry.”

Andrew took out his phone. “What’s the number? Anyone know?”

Then food’s calm promise brought peace, giving Andrew a chance to spend more time in quiet discussion with Tom. He said all the right words, warning of all the right consequences, taking into account the rightness of Tom’s desire for burgers, and adding a reminder that the whole class needed to learn. Subtract a little bad behavior here and there, don’t shout too loud, look like you’re taking notice, and all will be well.

Meanwhile Shy Amy drew with her rainbow pencil, plus and minus signs entwined with whispering shades and colors on the rainbow page. Take away her autism, and who might Amy be then?

Take away Amelia’s autism…?

Voices from the past ushered a host of memories in Andrew’s mind. Amelia was the girl long gone, long lost under green of trees and waving branches in a place called Paradise—Amelia, her mother, Andrew’s parents, Carl… all subtracted like numbers from his page. He let his gaze drift to the window, hoping the sky’s bright tones would wash his palette clean again. But who-am-I doubts combined with the whispering of leaves and chatter of children. He couldn’t forget. That long slow walk between Tom’s desk and the classroom door could take a lifetime, waiting for delivery’s knock.

 

Maundy

A new command was given on Maundy Thursday – a mandate – mandatum – hence the name. And in honor of “loving one another,” priests wash parishioners’ feet, kings and queens give coins, and altars are stripped ready to remember that giving of it all.

The story below comes from my Bible gift book: Easter, Creation to Salvation in 100 words a day. And if you want to know what happens next (the end of the world perhaps), look for Revelation, from Easter to Pentecost in 100 words a day. Enjoy.

(And if you want a writing prompt, write about the wonder of the season – Easter, spring, whatever season this means to you.)

44. Maundy Thursday

The streets were quiet. Night had fallen, everyone sleeping or praying, except for them.

“Strange about the bread,” said James, still tasting forbidden matzos eaten after lamb.

“And the blessing”—“This is my body,” the master had said, reminding them of something they were too full, or too tired to remember.

They stopped at a garden, sat on rocks, lay on grass, their bodies weary with food. And they barely noticed when Jesus left to pray with Peter, James and John.

Matthew looked up. “Huh? Where’d they go?” then, “Wonder what happened to Judas.”

Voices whispered. Armor jangled. Footsteps approached.

Mark 14:22 “…Take, eat: this is my body.”

 After they’d eaten the Passover meal, Jesus blessed and broke another matzo. He prayed over the third cup of wine—cup of redemption, blood of the lamb—and the feast drew to its end.

Maundy Thursday evening begins a three-day celebration of Easter: Maundy pennies to the poor; priests washing the people’s feet. But it’s communion that matters most—bread and wine shared in remembrance of Him. We file out from church, leaving the light shining in a tiny garden—shrubs and flowers, a place of Easter prayer.

And through the night, people visit, to watch and pray one hour.

45. Good Friday

It didn’t seem so long ago she carried her baby to the Temple, and an old man prophesied, “A sword will piece your heart.”

She hadn’t known what sort of sword. There were all the little swords of childhood, watching and caring for the boy, losing and finding him. There was the sword of his leaving home, and the day he addressed the crowds: “These are my mother and brothers,” as if she hadn’t left everything to follow him too.

This sword was a soldier’s spear, piercing her dead son’s heart.

A mother shouldn’t have to watch her baby die.

John 1:29 “…Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.”

 Good Friday’s service is the long one. We stand and kneel and sit on cue, and pray for all times and all peoples.

The priest holds up the crucifix—“Behold the wood of the cross.” And all other symbols stay hid under their purple cloths—statues in mourning. The congregation marches forwards to bestow our reverent kisses, quickly wiped.

It must look strange—we fools for Christ; irrational kisses in remembrance of God’s salvation. I touch my lips to plastic, and my heart touches mystery.

Returning home we celebrate with hot cross buns, sweetness and spice, pleasure and pain together.

46. Holy Saturday

“They tell me Judas has killed himself. I doubt I could even do that right.

“Remember me, Jesus? I’m the one that betrayed you; told them I never even knew you. I stood there, and I saw you look at me.

“Remember me? I’m the one that couldn’t walk on water after all; can’t even walk right on land. You said you’d build your church on me, called me a rock. Some rock. Some church.

“Remember me, Jesus? And you tell me to remember you.

“I remember seeing you dead and buried, so tell me, now what do I do?”

John 15:5 “I am the vine, ye are the branches…”

 We left the church in silence on Good Friday, the altar bare—no candles, no flowers, no music, joyful or sad. On Saturday evening, we’ll meet together in the parking lot, beside the Paschal fire, the air filled with excitement and smoke, shouting “Alleluia” instead of “Crucify.” On Holy Saturday evening we’ll all stand forgiven, and the grave lie empty.

New light, new life, new hope tonight. My brother, the priest, sings “Lumen Christi” and we answer “Deo Gratias”—light of Christ; thanks be to God. Beautiful music, beautiful prayers, and beautiful hope.

This night, our Savior is risen.

47. Easter Sunday

“King of the Jews.”

“So they say.”

“D’you think he’ll stay dead?”

The older man laughed. He’d been a soldier long enough to know, the dead don’t walk. “We killed him son.” And if they could keep the body guarded, maybe peace would return to the violent province.

They sat around the fire, telling war stories to flames, cursing the land, scorning people who might be foolish enough to try to steal a corpse.

Then they saw what they could not see, and heard what they could not hear. In the morning, the grave stood empty; the dead had walked.

John 11:25 “…I am the resurrection, and the life…”

 Jesus walked the earth again for forty days. His disciples saw Him. Huge crowds ate and talked with Him. And those who chronicled events wrote their tales, while eye-witnesses still lived to disagree. Like newspaper reporters today, each stressed his own version. But together they tell one story, one the authorities couldn’t suppress, though it would have been so easy to disprove—if there’d only been a body.

After the forty days, Jesus disappeared. After fifty, at the Jewish Pentecost, the Holy Spirit turned frightened fishermen into Fishers of Men. And two thousand years later Christians still follow the carpenter.

How Many Shades Of Gray

So, the flood’s all dry, the floor is uncarpeted and gray, the walls are holey and gray, the cieling’s gray (don’t ask–the previous owners painted it that way!), the sky’s most definitely gray (and most probably raining), and my mood… well, my mood is distinctly gray too. Meanwhile we look at paint colors, floor coverings (not not not not carpet, never again!), light fittings and more. Dreaming, wishing perhaps? Meanwhile time goes on.

I can scarcely believe it’s almost two months since our basement flooded. Two months since the panic of stepping into water while something (yet unknown) banged and roared and electrical outlets sparked (I know, what kind of idiot steps into water without checking, but I was running downstairs to investigate the noise and I didn’t see the reflections). Two months since incredible sons carried tons of wet carpet outdoors. Two months since incredible friends took charge and pushed us into action. Two months since incredible neighbors waded in to help. Two months since…

And since then I’ve studied many many shades of gray. A good friend who knows about color suggested we try not repainting in the dreaded worn-out white. “How about white with a touch of blue?” we asked. But it’s a big room. Anything too bright and white is going to glare at us. She suggests we try gray colors–gray with a touch of blue perhaps–and to explain she took me shopping where she found a sample card for me covered in many shades of gray. It’s slightly disturbing how many of the shades sport names like “summer rain” or “winter showers.” Torrents and flooded basements come to mind…

So, the flood’s all dry, the floor is uncarpeted and gray, the walls are holey and gray, the cieling’s gray, and we’re looking for better, brighter, more colorful grays to cheer up our lives.

My world is filled with shades of gray.

And my writing prompt for our writing group is very simple: Water water everywhere!

Let’s write

1. What’s your favorite color?
2. What might make water appear that color?
3. Write a story where the color of water changes.
4. Try to include the color of somebody’s mood.

New Year, New Edits, New Words?

I don’t make New Year resolutions on the grounds that I’ll always break them. But I do make plans, and this year I plan to work harder on writing and editing, read more productively, spend less time looking at or wishing I could create advertisements, and write fewer book reviews. 200+ reviews is just too many for one year, and too much time spent not writing.

Peter’s Promise on Amazon

With all this in mind, and with my mum – my greatest fan and my best editor – still staying with us, I decided to start each day by editing a section from my upcoming children’s book, Paul’s Purpose. (It’s the sequel to Peter’s Promise, above.)

Of course, I know Paul had many purposes, and so do I: in writing children’s Bible stories I want to:

• Show the stories of the Bible are set around real people in a real world,
• Show that the world of history and saints wasn’t so different from the world of siblings and friends,
• Encourage and entertain middle-grade readers – I want them to think, laugh, and turn pages; I want pre-school listeners to enjoy being read to as well;
• Encourage and entertain middle-grade educators – I want them to be ready to give and find answers – to model looking for answers on Google, in the dictionary or in the Bible (or anywhere else);
• Encourage and improve reading and language skills – I like to include some words my readers may not have used before, because the real world is filled with words we all might misunderstand, and
• Encourage and improve critical thinking skills – I like my readers to ask questions, because without questions, the answers can’t make sense.

So …

After talking with Mum, I’d love to know your opinions.

• Can I use such words as “erudite” “persistent” and “single-minded” in a children’s book?
• Can I refer to “virility-fertility rites” (with no further explanation) when my characters complain about what goes on in pagan temples?
• Is “God’s mark hurts” a sufficient explanation of why a boy might not want to be circumcised, or should I just avoid the whole question, though it seems like it was a pretty big question at the time?

Meanwhile, since I always turn these blogs into writing exercises, here a

Writing Prompt

• Think of something in the natural world – a bird, a stone, a river…
• Imagine how it came into being – evolution, hatching from an egg, rain-clouds with dried fish-eggs waiting to hatch…
• Then tell its story, from its own point of view:
  • One paragraph (or sentence) for the beginning
  • one for the middle, or the present day
  • and one for the end, or end of the world, or “Help! It’s raining fish!”

It’s raining ice here. Keep warm.