End of Year . . .

It is right and fitting that the year should end curled up with an excellent book, isn't it? I have just finished reading The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield.

It was an excellent book for those who like an old fashioned whodunnit, very British. I am serious when I say old fashioned because Ms. Setterfield tends to write in a style heavily reminiscent of the 19th Century greats such as the Brontte sisters. Since I tend to that style myself it was very comfortable. My only disappointment was the Thirteenth Tale when it was finally revealed, but, since that says nothing about the plot itself, it is a small thing.

I also began to read The Fire of Your Life, a book of meditations by Maggie Ross. There are meditations for each month of the year. I've only read one, November's. I think it is in for a reread. These are not meditations to be hurried through, but relished and contemplated. They are even the type of meditations that spawn more meditations. It may indeed take a year for me to read them all.

So, back to the whodunnit: I am reviewing the genre for the purpose of beginning to write the suspense novel that has been brewing this past year. Of course, that takes reading that style of writing or, as some would say, a study of the genre. I have always loved mysteries.

Sometimes I think I have an outline taking form and sometimes I feel as though I am still feeling my way. No matter where I begin, there will have to be more flashbacks than I care to use. Past tense is dead, lifeless, static. What POV shall I use? I think that is my big issue right now.

At any rate, should any reader accost my blog today, I wish them a reflective and safe New Year's Eve and a happy New Year! One should never party and end a year in drunken revelry! They should remain watchful as the old year ends, intent on the new beginning that is coming, the fresh start, rather than waking with a hangover and beginning the year on a bad and grumpy note.

Even if you don't play handbells . . .

here is a nice distracting game to keep you from stressing too much over the minute details of Christmas preparation! I hear it is a lot like Guitar Hero.

Handbell Hero

Feeling irreverant:

Don't ask me about my inspiration for this!

I'm always a tad bit amused by Christians who the claim the label of "biblical Christianity" as though most Christians aren't "biblical". That and the "Bible believin'" Christians. Perhaps you mean you are a member of one of the One Thousand and One different denominations based on the newest, most recent, most absolutist and most accurate, mostest truest interpretation of scripture, purely and truly sola scriptura, and no other denomination that claims biblical Christianity is as valid as yours? It must be one of the newest and most sophisticated since you not only claim to believe in it, you claim to be "biblical". I realize it is lots and lots of fun to shake that Bible and try to claim "biblical Christianity", but pardon me for trying to point out that a lot of Christians think they have the Bible, too and are therefore biblical. It was the Roman Catholic Church, the original and very firstest of all first Churches that claims to be the truest of all Christian sects who formed and created the Canon--if memory serves. And they even read it, study it and believe in it, too! But it might have been before the Great Schism . . . now there are actually two original, very first and bestest Churches that can claim to be the truest and most right of all Christian sects or denominations with the claim of having the original Bible and even having created it. So, they might actually think of themselves as biblical, too. Heck! They can actually claim St. Peter and therefore most of the books in the New Testament were written by their very own Apostles! Definitely biblical. I actually think that the oldest extant Bible of all is in a monastery at Mt. Sinai--in Orthodox possession. It was my own Church that created the King James Version, THE most accurate version of scripture of all time according to some . . . er . . . uhm . . . protestant sects, authored and authorized by God himself.

*I could have my son sing that to a cool riff ... maybe I should try to revise it and add some rhyme*

Another poem:

Advent

Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Hopeless darkness,
I watch the sky.
All swirling clouds,
the endless darkness,
all oppressed.
In tearful pleas
I wait.

Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
The joy of your presence,
the gift of your love.
A ray of light
breaks through
my heart lifts,
but in the dark
I wait.

Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Hope draws me
to watch the sky.
A glimmer here,
a shade of light
the darkness breaks,
a promise comes,
balm to my soul
I wait.

Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Peace of mind,
reprieve .of turmoil,
of strife, of hunger.
You'll lift my burdens,
sooth my soul,
with songs like Larks
we'll not have a worry
gently guided,
I wait.

Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Your love is all!
And wrapped in love,
joy, peace and hope,
the dawn will come.
The light of love we all will see
forever,
for eternity.

Why it frightened her:

It had been almost two years since she had dropped out of a favorite listserv, allfaiths.com. It had been such a time waster! Shortly before dropping off, she'd been involved a round-robbin writing thread. The story line, as is true of all round-robbins, where one person writes a scene based on the previous entry, had become wild. It was an old-west meets New York City fantasy with everything from robots to vampires centered on an old country house. City slickers trying to imagine old tractors and farm dogs made it extra wild. Each character had a favorite comfort from hot tea to Jim Beam Whiskey. Among those who played in the round-robin was a character by the name of Dingo. He came complete with straw hat and baggy coveralls. It was all in good fun and some terribly fun ideas had been birthed by the group. Overall, the quality of the writing was amazing.

One day, Katie mentioned shooting a manuscript off to a publisher. It was simply a figure of speech. Before she knew it, Dingo was playing with the idea in all sorts of terrible ways. "Katie git yer gun," or "Katie's cleanin' up her gun," "Katie's on a rampage! Better find that gun o' hers before she gets here or we'll all be dead!" or "We're gonna have to run, Katie's got 'er gun!" It had gotten out of hand and it made her miserable. Dingo was stuck on the idea and no matter what, he wasn't leaving it alone. She quit the thread and quit the list serv.

Just about a month before the firs of the threatening emails came, she'd started visiting the list serv again. Almost the day she returned, she had said something in a discussion on the subject of the war in Iraq and Dingo had become irate. He wasn't the least bit subtle about it, either. He was cold. Katie thought the post had been quite inoffensive, really, and thought he'd misread what she'd written. She tried to set the matter straight, but every post she wrote boomeranged on her and he simply became more angry. It puzzled her that others seemed to take his side. She even tried rereading her own post to see what could have been so offensive. It was certainly inadvertent. That was the first time it ever occurred to her that the man was a little off-kilter.

But now, here were those same things mentioned in these emails that related so perfectly to the things Dingo had been saying in the round-robin. Except they were threatening, not just uncomfortable. And now the other Steven Kingly thriller characters were being introduced. It all made sense now. And she had a good idea that the person threatening her was either Dingo or somebody else who had participated in the round-robin.

It wasn't that the risks of playing around on the Internet had never crossed her mind. She'd always been alert to the possibility, but no red flags had ever flown over the innocent games the group of writers had been playing. Wisdom reminded her that this would have always been the case. People don't ever associate with weird people like that knowingly.

Notes: (So, I don't lose my notes, I'll write them right in.) A year and a half later she catches Dingo doing the same thing on the list serv that he'd done to her to another woman.

As flu season begins . . .

Some may be interested in this article in the New York Times today on how flu spreads and why it is a phenomenon of the winter months.

Study Shows Why the Flu Likes Winter

So stay indoors and humidify the air! Or, take a shot.

And, as long as I am providing public service messages, this one is from Snopes on a slick credit card scam:

credit card scam

My burden:

In a square of cloth I place my woes:
The desire for what's been lost;
The ache for those when my love fell short;
the regrets for things I didn't do
and for the things I did.
I gather up my fears, remember each
and how I ran, then drop them in.
I should have trusted you.
And shame! For when my pride was hurt
--as though pride is ever good
or served myself or you.
It's big and bloated and oozes shame,
I wipe my hands of it.
Trembling, I recall mistakes I've made.
What I valued that I shouldn't,
What I should, but didn't.
Regrets! They're heavy and they hurt.
I cry as I shove them to the pile.
What time I've wasted--
when a second can have such impact,
and I whiled away my hours.
The pile of sins, the wrong's I've done,
the burdens that bore me down.
Ashamed, I'd rather hide.

I gather the four corners of the cloth,
and pull and center, tie the bundle closed . . .
with all my strength I lift it, and struggle out the door.
Beyond the tree and down the path
until I reach the summit of the hill
and there I lay my burdens down at his feet,
and offer up the me that is in it.
I feel a soft, caressing breeze,
an almost unheard whisper.
The bundle shrinks,
it floats aloft,
weightless in his unseen hand.
I'm free, unfettered,
tearful for the joy.
I'd promise to not build another pile,
but spend my time as seconds count
and his will, mine.
Where you will me, Lord!
My burden--yours.