Hey, ya'll! So I believe I mentioned in my last post that I wanted to go on missions' trip this summer. Well, I am pleased to announce that yesterday we sent a little something out in the mail...a little something addressed to Wycliffe Bible Translators in Dallas, Texas.
About a week ago, my mom visited the Wycliffe Bible Translators website and took a look at what their teen missions' trips were like. Now, in case you're not familiar with Wycliffe, they are an organization 100% devoted to the concept of the Good News of Jesus Christ being available to every man, woman, and child in his or her native tongue. They employ missionaries to take the gospel into the farthest corners of the earth to teach and translate everything God has to say to the local people. This has an effect that we could never comprehend- can you imagine being a Christian and not knowing a word of the Bible? Obviously, the Bible in forms that make it accessible to anyone on earth is a must if the spread of Christianity is to effectively continue.
Anyway, the Wycliffe Bible Translators site is where we found something that caught my attention...an all-teens' trip to Guatemala.
This is more than just a tropical summer escape, however. Once we arrive in Guatemala City, we will begin a study of K'anjob'al- a Mayan language! After that, we will fly to Huehuetenango, where we will meet two missionaries, who will explain to us how God's Word is forever changing individuals and communities. San Miguel Acata'n will be our next destination, where we'll lodge with real K'anjob'al families, eat their food, work with them, and speak to them in their native tongue so we will develop a good grasp of the language before we head for the Zaculeo ruins and Lake Atitlan, which just happens to be the place where the founder of the Wycliffe organization first worked with the Cakchiquels to translate the Bible into their own language!
Now that I've told you what I'll be doing, I have some prayer requests for you- First and foremost, that will be light for God, secondly, that I'd get accepted, and thirdly, that God will provide health, finances, and whatever else the team members might need. Thank you very much!
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
SOO Excited for this Summer!
Have you ever felt like there was something missing in your life- something you KNEW God wanted you to do, but you just didn't know what it was?
That's exactly how I felt as I looked ahead to this summer- the very last one I'd have pretty much open before I had to concentrate on sending out college applications. But instead of wasting my time "enjoying" one of my final summers at home, I wanted to do something that would bring glory to the Name of God and leave a lasting impression on the world.
People often say that we only live once. Usually, they mean do whatever you want. Drown yourself in pop culture. Eat junk food. Party 'round the clock. And, for pete's sake, avoid the word tomorrow like it would inject you with a new renascent bout of the bubonic plague!
On the flip side, we only live once. God has given us this time and this chance- this one chance for us to prove our love and dedication to Him. What will you be spending your one life doing- wasting it on your pleasure or impacting the world for Christ?
Last night, I decided that this was it. I stand teetering on the brink between a child and an adult. The final hours are ticking by as I glance nostalgically behind me then summon enough courage to peek down at the deep, mystical waters below me. It will not be long now. In a matter of moments, I will lose my foothold on all I've ever known and plunge blindly into the waters in which God ordained me to swim.
But now, I believe, I am ready to take the preliminary dive.
Ever since I was a little girl, I can remember saying "I want to be a missionary when I grow up." I was around five at the time, so people would be surprised that I knew what the word missionary meant. Not having accepted Christ as my Savior yet, I am now not sure that even I knew what it all entailed! My point is here, however, that ever since I could define a missionary as "people who tell other people about Jesus", God had sown seeds into to my tiny little heart. And through the years, those seeds began to blossom (even later in life when my dream job became a farmer's wife, the idea of being a missionary never fully went away).
Now, I feel a strong inclination to share my faith with others, make Christ-like impressions on those who otherwise might not ever have heard of our Lord and Savior, and leave a stamp of tender sweetness, servitude, and hope upon the lost lambs of God. With my pen ever at my side, I know that this is what I want to do with my life.
So I decided not to spend this summer in vain. I have promised myself something I've never dared to do before. I'm going on a missions' trip. Where and through what company I'm leaving up to God, but I honestly couldn't imagine a more productive, God-glorifying, educational, and enjoyable activity on which to spend my time. After all, if I think that a life of feeding God's flock and serving his sheep is my calling, why wait for college? Why not give it a shot?
Another thing Mom and I are wanting to do is a local outreach program our church orchestrates called Outbound Ministries. America is in desperate need of change, so why not start by sharing the Gospel with the lowliest of the low, those who have the misfortune of ill health, etc.? It is these lives that- since only a miracle can turn many of them around- will be the most noticed by our citizens.
The problem with American Christians is that we're complacent. We know what's wrong...we talk about what should be done...what we'd love to do about it...and yet what do we do all day? Eat. Sleep. Get whatever we have to do over with as quickly as we can. Turn on the TV. Turn up the stereo- you name it, we do it. But what we don't realize is that in doing so we're really allowing Satan to walk all over us. We're doormats for the very feet so eager to run into the clutches of sin.
I just have one question for you...if God told you that tomorrow was your last day on earth, would you act any different? Of course you would! So would anyone. The catch is...what if tomorrow is your last day? There's no way of knowing that your car won't get in an accident next time your cruising down the highway. There's no way of knowing when Jesus will return. Life doesn't come with a moneyback guarrantee. Either you do something great with the time you have or you don't. Your choice.
I'm also planning to really get serious about my writing this summer, since I have a goal to have a book contract in my hand by this time next year. In case you don't know me that well, for the past four years, writing has been something I love doing. There's nothing like sitting down with a pen and paper or at a keyboard and just letting your thoughts run and then pulling those thoughts into a hopefully cohesive and well-written story. I also love the sound of words when their strung together in a pattern that's inventive, unique, and original. Plus, the published word reaches thousands and perhaps millions. What could be a better way of sharing my faith than to weave it into the pages of a book?
Of course, not all of my summer is going to be hard work- I'm going to take a little time for myself as well. For instance, in approximately 7 hours and 50 minutes, Mrs. Jolly is going to getting online to book six Jonas Brothers concert tickets for Philadelphia on July 23rd. Katie, Ellen, Lauren, and I are all HUGE fans of these three guys and Bekah's comin' along for the ride, so we are planning on having another trip to New Jersey packed with music, swimming, slumber parties in the RV, and all that sort of fun!
That's exactly how I felt as I looked ahead to this summer- the very last one I'd have pretty much open before I had to concentrate on sending out college applications. But instead of wasting my time "enjoying" one of my final summers at home, I wanted to do something that would bring glory to the Name of God and leave a lasting impression on the world.
People often say that we only live once. Usually, they mean do whatever you want. Drown yourself in pop culture. Eat junk food. Party 'round the clock. And, for pete's sake, avoid the word tomorrow like it would inject you with a new renascent bout of the bubonic plague!
On the flip side, we only live once. God has given us this time and this chance- this one chance for us to prove our love and dedication to Him. What will you be spending your one life doing- wasting it on your pleasure or impacting the world for Christ?
Last night, I decided that this was it. I stand teetering on the brink between a child and an adult. The final hours are ticking by as I glance nostalgically behind me then summon enough courage to peek down at the deep, mystical waters below me. It will not be long now. In a matter of moments, I will lose my foothold on all I've ever known and plunge blindly into the waters in which God ordained me to swim.
But now, I believe, I am ready to take the preliminary dive.
Ever since I was a little girl, I can remember saying "I want to be a missionary when I grow up." I was around five at the time, so people would be surprised that I knew what the word missionary meant. Not having accepted Christ as my Savior yet, I am now not sure that even I knew what it all entailed! My point is here, however, that ever since I could define a missionary as "people who tell other people about Jesus", God had sown seeds into to my tiny little heart. And through the years, those seeds began to blossom (even later in life when my dream job became a farmer's wife, the idea of being a missionary never fully went away).
Now, I feel a strong inclination to share my faith with others, make Christ-like impressions on those who otherwise might not ever have heard of our Lord and Savior, and leave a stamp of tender sweetness, servitude, and hope upon the lost lambs of God. With my pen ever at my side, I know that this is what I want to do with my life.
So I decided not to spend this summer in vain. I have promised myself something I've never dared to do before. I'm going on a missions' trip. Where and through what company I'm leaving up to God, but I honestly couldn't imagine a more productive, God-glorifying, educational, and enjoyable activity on which to spend my time. After all, if I think that a life of feeding God's flock and serving his sheep is my calling, why wait for college? Why not give it a shot?
Another thing Mom and I are wanting to do is a local outreach program our church orchestrates called Outbound Ministries. America is in desperate need of change, so why not start by sharing the Gospel with the lowliest of the low, those who have the misfortune of ill health, etc.? It is these lives that- since only a miracle can turn many of them around- will be the most noticed by our citizens.
The problem with American Christians is that we're complacent. We know what's wrong...we talk about what should be done...what we'd love to do about it...and yet what do we do all day? Eat. Sleep. Get whatever we have to do over with as quickly as we can. Turn on the TV. Turn up the stereo- you name it, we do it. But what we don't realize is that in doing so we're really allowing Satan to walk all over us. We're doormats for the very feet so eager to run into the clutches of sin.
I just have one question for you...if God told you that tomorrow was your last day on earth, would you act any different? Of course you would! So would anyone. The catch is...what if tomorrow is your last day? There's no way of knowing that your car won't get in an accident next time your cruising down the highway. There's no way of knowing when Jesus will return. Life doesn't come with a moneyback guarrantee. Either you do something great with the time you have or you don't. Your choice.
I'm also planning to really get serious about my writing this summer, since I have a goal to have a book contract in my hand by this time next year. In case you don't know me that well, for the past four years, writing has been something I love doing. There's nothing like sitting down with a pen and paper or at a keyboard and just letting your thoughts run and then pulling those thoughts into a hopefully cohesive and well-written story. I also love the sound of words when their strung together in a pattern that's inventive, unique, and original. Plus, the published word reaches thousands and perhaps millions. What could be a better way of sharing my faith than to weave it into the pages of a book?
Of course, not all of my summer is going to be hard work- I'm going to take a little time for myself as well. For instance, in approximately 7 hours and 50 minutes, Mrs. Jolly is going to getting online to book six Jonas Brothers concert tickets for Philadelphia on July 23rd. Katie, Ellen, Lauren, and I are all HUGE fans of these three guys and Bekah's comin' along for the ride, so we are planning on having another trip to New Jersey packed with music, swimming, slumber parties in the RV, and all that sort of fun!
Sunday, February 22, 2009
My Sweet Sixteen Surprise
Bending over a pad of a paper, I sat on the couch, busily scratching away a letter I was writing as Constance Phelps, the character I'm going to play in our co-op's annual production. Creeping into the corners, yellowed light crawled over the expanse of the floor. My parents reclined at a desk, conversing with each other.
"Do you think we should tell her?" Mom said, looking at Dad. He nodded a slow, casual consent.
"Tell me what?" I asked.
She turned to look at me. "We planned a little surprise for your sweet sixteen...do you want to know what it is or do you want to be surprised?"
I wasn't sure. What do you say? If it's a surprise, then don't you want to, well...be surprised? At the same momen, however, I was held captive by an insatiable curiosity.
"Just let me guess," I finally said.
I guessed quite a few things- Jonas Brothers tickets (well, Dad DID use the hint JB in D, and by doing so claimed that for my surprise we were going to drive past the Jonas Brothers' new house in Dallas, since we were staying there at the time), Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (which came from Broadway to a local theater last week), The Phantom of the Opera (based on another of Dad's silly clues- POTO), Broadway, New York City, etc. THEN they proceeded to tell me that all of those things were indirectly related...hmmmm...sounded interesting!!!!!
"The Jollys are coming?" I finally said.
They looked at each other knowingly, making noises that communicated to me my little hunch was correct!
Saying she had been wondering how to make my birthday one that I'd remember, Mom proceeded to tell me that she thought to contact Mrs. Jolly and ask if the girls could come down. But...ssssshhhhhh! They couldn't tell- it was supposed to be a surprise!
That very day, Ellen, whose birthday is six days before mined, had been texting me, saying that it was our b-days soon and stuff like that. Completely unaware that my mother had similar intentions, I suggested that we celebrate our birthdays together. Mom said that my telling her this compelled her even further to e-mail the Jollys.
On Thursday, Ellen saw the e-mail. Calling to her mom, she asked her if they could do it. Ten minutes later, while on the phone with Mr. Jolly, she gave Ellen a thumbs up!
"I was in shock for like five minutes!" Katie exclaimed as she retold how Ellen had dragged her out of the schoolroom to tell her the news.
So now I sat in a Dallas hotel room, a huge smile tilting the corners of my lips as I absorbed everything Mom and Dad told me. It was unbelievable. Things the girls and I had been talking about but had pretty much written-off as impossible were coming true in an instant! For example, this time they'll be staying for not five days, or six days, but TEN WHOLE DAYS!!!! Also, we had for almost a year been hoping without much hope that they could come to the Spring Ball, which is a Christianized, family-oriented version of the prom that our co-op puts on every year for the teens and their parents. We're all totally excited for that, since going to the Hoedown AND the Ball was initially a "no" for the girls- and now we're all talking about possibly getting up-dos done from someone we know who does 'em cheap!
And perhaps the icing on the cake for me is the movie. Katie and I have a dream of becoming actresses and starring in movies together. And now, we have that opportunity- on a sort of smaller scale, but it's an opportunity nonetheless. The assistant director for our co-op's play sent out an e-mail to everyone saying she was in charge of getting a group of people together to do a local movie shoot. I've been trying to get Bekah to do it for a while, but she wasn't sure. It was kind of disappointing to know that no one I was super close with was going to be on set. And, then....
"I talked to Mrs. Furnish and arranged for them to do the movie," Mom announced.
By then, I wanted to scream. The whole thing was unbelievable! For months, all of these things had been simply dreams to the girls and I- right down to the very time slot being considered and like the exact number of days we had wanted to hang out together (10-14, we had been saying). And now, within a few days, they were all coming true!!!!
So the fearsome foursome (Bekah's stayin' too. She absolutely FREAKED when I told her!!!) will be complete once more. Thanks so much, Mom and Dad! You guys made my- year!!!
"Do you think we should tell her?" Mom said, looking at Dad. He nodded a slow, casual consent.
"Tell me what?" I asked.
She turned to look at me. "We planned a little surprise for your sweet sixteen...do you want to know what it is or do you want to be surprised?"
I wasn't sure. What do you say? If it's a surprise, then don't you want to, well...be surprised? At the same momen, however, I was held captive by an insatiable curiosity.
"Just let me guess," I finally said.
I guessed quite a few things- Jonas Brothers tickets (well, Dad DID use the hint JB in D, and by doing so claimed that for my surprise we were going to drive past the Jonas Brothers' new house in Dallas, since we were staying there at the time), Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (which came from Broadway to a local theater last week), The Phantom of the Opera (based on another of Dad's silly clues- POTO), Broadway, New York City, etc. THEN they proceeded to tell me that all of those things were indirectly related...hmmmm...sounded interesting!!!!!
"The Jollys are coming?" I finally said.
They looked at each other knowingly, making noises that communicated to me my little hunch was correct!
Saying she had been wondering how to make my birthday one that I'd remember, Mom proceeded to tell me that she thought to contact Mrs. Jolly and ask if the girls could come down. But...ssssshhhhhh! They couldn't tell- it was supposed to be a surprise!
That very day, Ellen, whose birthday is six days before mined, had been texting me, saying that it was our b-days soon and stuff like that. Completely unaware that my mother had similar intentions, I suggested that we celebrate our birthdays together. Mom said that my telling her this compelled her even further to e-mail the Jollys.
On Thursday, Ellen saw the e-mail. Calling to her mom, she asked her if they could do it. Ten minutes later, while on the phone with Mr. Jolly, she gave Ellen a thumbs up!
"I was in shock for like five minutes!" Katie exclaimed as she retold how Ellen had dragged her out of the schoolroom to tell her the news.
So now I sat in a Dallas hotel room, a huge smile tilting the corners of my lips as I absorbed everything Mom and Dad told me. It was unbelievable. Things the girls and I had been talking about but had pretty much written-off as impossible were coming true in an instant! For example, this time they'll be staying for not five days, or six days, but TEN WHOLE DAYS!!!! Also, we had for almost a year been hoping without much hope that they could come to the Spring Ball, which is a Christianized, family-oriented version of the prom that our co-op puts on every year for the teens and their parents. We're all totally excited for that, since going to the Hoedown AND the Ball was initially a "no" for the girls- and now we're all talking about possibly getting up-dos done from someone we know who does 'em cheap!
And perhaps the icing on the cake for me is the movie. Katie and I have a dream of becoming actresses and starring in movies together. And now, we have that opportunity- on a sort of smaller scale, but it's an opportunity nonetheless. The assistant director for our co-op's play sent out an e-mail to everyone saying she was in charge of getting a group of people together to do a local movie shoot. I've been trying to get Bekah to do it for a while, but she wasn't sure. It was kind of disappointing to know that no one I was super close with was going to be on set. And, then....
"I talked to Mrs. Furnish and arranged for them to do the movie," Mom announced.
By then, I wanted to scream. The whole thing was unbelievable! For months, all of these things had been simply dreams to the girls and I- right down to the very time slot being considered and like the exact number of days we had wanted to hang out together (10-14, we had been saying). And now, within a few days, they were all coming true!!!!
So the fearsome foursome (Bekah's stayin' too. She absolutely FREAKED when I told her!!!) will be complete once more. Thanks so much, Mom and Dad! You guys made my- year!!!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
A Few Poems
"I love the sound of words," I announced a couple nights back while standing over a stack of school books in the study.
It's true. Words a certain ring- a music to them. Sweet, subtle, unobtrusive music that fills the soul with awe, sends chills down the spine spine, or soothes the weary at heart. Sometimes symphonious melody is obvious, as when one reads a work of Shakespeare, other times (most exemplified by modern day novels) it is not. But whether prettily pompous or soundlessly sly, there is magic, charm, and intrigue in reading a string of flowing words.
Perhaps the sounds of a sentence display themselves best within the rhyme in meter of a poem. Now, poetry is very difficult to compose, since differing types of stanzas require different rhymes and meters. Many times, the number of lines is regulated as well, so the author only has so much space to express their thoughts! The compact compressment of these ideas straight from the heart and soul of the author polishes and enhances the sound which trumpets forth, however, causing (at least for me) a very pleasant read to occur.
Poetry is also a good way to get your thoughts out, and lately I've been finding myself in the wee hours of the morning (knowing that I'm really supposed to be in bed and must retire into sleep's jurisdiction soon), scribbling down a sloppily metered-out poem. And I just love it. The minute my pencil touches the blank paper and I think of what I'm going to write, I feel as if to pen words is my calling, that something great will eventually come of it- and I know I'd rather spend my life doing it than doing anything else. It's the most amazing feeling in the world, and one that cannot be repeated. Through my first attempts at poetry, I have found a renewed love of words, and I thank God that He has given me this gift because it brings me complete joy. And, once all of life's complications are sorted out on paper, I have a sense of peace.
Since I'm loving this new little hobby of mine so much, I've decided to share a few of my poems with you. Now, don't count the meters because they're terrible, but I hope you will be able to at least try to enjoy my pitiful stabs at perfecting poetry.
And that is All I Ask
Pages empty, blank, and bland,
Taunting me with might,
Daring me to set in hand,
Whatever I may write.
Poem, or prose, or fiction powerful,
Flow from this daunting task.
Whatever it is, may it please God,
And that is all I ask.
I'm Not Your Love (This is actually the chorus to a song I'm writing, but I also passed it as a poem for a Valentine's Day party)
One look in your eyes,
And I know your heart's bleedin',
I've hurt you so deep,
There's no hidin' your feelins'.
I'm sorry I can't be,
What you've been dreamin' of.
I'm sorry for everything,
But I'm not your love.
The Poisoned Pen (more a proverb than a poem)
Writing writ with poisoned pen,
Is better never writ than read.
It's true. Words a certain ring- a music to them. Sweet, subtle, unobtrusive music that fills the soul with awe, sends chills down the spine spine, or soothes the weary at heart. Sometimes symphonious melody is obvious, as when one reads a work of Shakespeare, other times (most exemplified by modern day novels) it is not. But whether prettily pompous or soundlessly sly, there is magic, charm, and intrigue in reading a string of flowing words.
Perhaps the sounds of a sentence display themselves best within the rhyme in meter of a poem. Now, poetry is very difficult to compose, since differing types of stanzas require different rhymes and meters. Many times, the number of lines is regulated as well, so the author only has so much space to express their thoughts! The compact compressment of these ideas straight from the heart and soul of the author polishes and enhances the sound which trumpets forth, however, causing (at least for me) a very pleasant read to occur.
Poetry is also a good way to get your thoughts out, and lately I've been finding myself in the wee hours of the morning (knowing that I'm really supposed to be in bed and must retire into sleep's jurisdiction soon), scribbling down a sloppily metered-out poem. And I just love it. The minute my pencil touches the blank paper and I think of what I'm going to write, I feel as if to pen words is my calling, that something great will eventually come of it- and I know I'd rather spend my life doing it than doing anything else. It's the most amazing feeling in the world, and one that cannot be repeated. Through my first attempts at poetry, I have found a renewed love of words, and I thank God that He has given me this gift because it brings me complete joy. And, once all of life's complications are sorted out on paper, I have a sense of peace.
Since I'm loving this new little hobby of mine so much, I've decided to share a few of my poems with you. Now, don't count the meters because they're terrible, but I hope you will be able to at least try to enjoy my pitiful stabs at perfecting poetry.
And that is All I Ask
Pages empty, blank, and bland,
Taunting me with might,
Daring me to set in hand,
Whatever I may write.
Poem, or prose, or fiction powerful,
Flow from this daunting task.
Whatever it is, may it please God,
And that is all I ask.
I'm Not Your Love (This is actually the chorus to a song I'm writing, but I also passed it as a poem for a Valentine's Day party)
One look in your eyes,
And I know your heart's bleedin',
I've hurt you so deep,
There's no hidin' your feelins'.
I'm sorry I can't be,
What you've been dreamin' of.
I'm sorry for everything,
But I'm not your love.
The Poisoned Pen (more a proverb than a poem)
Writing writ with poisoned pen,
Is better never writ than read.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Gomorrah- First Excerpt
A pale, dusty dusk settle over the flat, Texas plain. Slowly, the stone-strewn gravel roads drained themselves of the bustling blood sustaining desolate desert life. Mothers gathered their children about them, glancing into the shadows as they corralled them into the house. For a few minutes, dark yellow lights glumly glowed from the homesteads- billows of smoke poisoning the air as they spilled from the stacks. Scents of cooking meat and roasting vegetables seared the atmosphere. Then, with sluggish languidity shades draped over the houses’ drooping eyes, extinguishing the light with its black barricade.
Connor Adams, arm resting on the wheel of an old red truck, squinted into the blackness, counting homes as he passed by. Beyond him, the country yawned on and on, deep and cavernous, waiting to swallow him whole. 1, 2, 3….
Rocks rolled under his tires, jarring his way as he bounced along, headlights plowing their way through the night. 4, 5, 6….
Tossing a nervous glance behind his shoulder, he pulled into the seventh driveway. A slight chuckle escaped his lips as his eyes lighted upon the garage door. Crisp, crimson paint contrasted sharply against the withered planks, which were washed in a cracked coat of white. The red cross, still freshly vivid, bled its pitiful tears, crying out in scarlet drops for the community that created it. Through its middle, it tolerated a terrible black slash, and beneath it, inky, emboldened words made this statement:
“Painted with the blood of the Lamb.”
Connor chuckled again, imagining what the young reverend’s reaction must have been when he saw it. The color had probably drained right out of his enthusiastic, cheery face. He might have even dropped his Bible. Now that would’ve been a sight to see!
Tap, tap!
Jumping out of his reverie, the boy peered out of his window and into the dark, dreary world. His girlfriend, Amelia, stood outside, huddled against the cold of the night. She held her hot pink purse protectively to her being.
Click!
The doors popped open with a press of his finger. Winking at the girl, he gestured to her with a flick of his head. Uneasiness echoed in her gaze, and she turned towards the slumbering house once more.
Knitting his brows together, he bit his lip. She wasn’t usually like this. Something must be wrong.
Beneath the gentle rap of his knuckles, a hollow pound resounded, resonating like judgmental gavel. “C’mon, Amy….”
She faced him once again. Beckoning her inside, he pointed to his wrist. They didn’t have much time.
Uncertainty still rang through her being. Staring at him dumbly, she wavered, swaying a bit with the blow of the wind. A little voice whispered inside her, small and still in this breathless moment- this pivotal choice. It begged her, beseeched her, to go back, to return to her parents, to listen to them, and to never look back.
Looking behind her once more, she sighed. They were sure to find out- bound to find out. She couldn’t hide forever.
Pound, pound, pound!
When she turned around, Connor gazed back at her, his big, brown eyes swallowing her in his snare. Slowly, she reached out, fingers wrapping around the car door handle. She had promised. Given her word. And she couldn’t bail out. Not now.
Pulling upon the handle, she swung the door ajar and climbed in. The worn cushions failed to comfort the squeaking seats, releasing eerie moans from the pit of the vehicle. Quickly, she thrust her purse onto her lap and reached for her seat belt. The heat of Connor’s keen gaze prickled the back of her neck, beads of sweat breaking over the surface of her skin. Sliding the belt into its little receiver, she locked herself into her fate.
She refused to look at him, concentrating all her attentions alluding to somewhere else…somewhere beyond the fragile silence fallen between them. The unknown force fettered her body in tremulous shakes. Peeling back the zipper of her bag, she dove her hands deep inside, probing at the darkness gawking at her through the gaping hole. Lipstick, coupons, wallet….
The subtle drumming of her heart escalated into a wild pound, ringing throughout the perverted night, filling it with the knowledge of their very presence. Leaping nimbly over the contents, her fingers fled about, retreating from the time she knew was not their friend.
She halted. Pressing lightly down, she explored the item found. Plastic molded beneath her touch, mounding only at the bottom. A sigh escaped her lips. It was still there.
“Right,” she said, zipping up the bag and encircling it in her arms once more. Flipping her chin into the air, she set her jaw, staring down the dark cloak smothering the windows with the lack of light. “Hurry, before they see us.”
The ancient motor sputtered and spat, grunting as it struggled to start. Shoving the key deeper into the ignition, Connor’s face convulsed into many lines as he twisted it about. Amelia looked at him, concern creeping past her nervous composure. Tense silence tautened the atmosphere, suffocating them in its close quarters.
Groaning one last time, an outburst of ire issued from the throat of the vehicle, winding its fateful spin through the darkness of the night. The thread of threat looped around the moment, constricting all into the confinements of its slight, slender, knot. Digging her fingers into the seat, Amelia braced herself. Lurching, the engine roared into life, the beams of light before them once more paving their way.
Swerving around pot holes, Connor gripped the steering wheel with a steady hand. Amelia set her jaw, eyes glued to the house hung with the awnings of blackness. Her heart fluttered like a wingless bird, wanting nothing more than to soar, to get out of this mess, to be free. With every passing second, the roll of the wheels sent the building further and further into the shadows. Just a little more now….
They pulled onto the road and, with great stealth, crept quietly away.
Connor Adams, arm resting on the wheel of an old red truck, squinted into the blackness, counting homes as he passed by. Beyond him, the country yawned on and on, deep and cavernous, waiting to swallow him whole. 1, 2, 3….
Rocks rolled under his tires, jarring his way as he bounced along, headlights plowing their way through the night. 4, 5, 6….
Tossing a nervous glance behind his shoulder, he pulled into the seventh driveway. A slight chuckle escaped his lips as his eyes lighted upon the garage door. Crisp, crimson paint contrasted sharply against the withered planks, which were washed in a cracked coat of white. The red cross, still freshly vivid, bled its pitiful tears, crying out in scarlet drops for the community that created it. Through its middle, it tolerated a terrible black slash, and beneath it, inky, emboldened words made this statement:
“Painted with the blood of the Lamb.”
Connor chuckled again, imagining what the young reverend’s reaction must have been when he saw it. The color had probably drained right out of his enthusiastic, cheery face. He might have even dropped his Bible. Now that would’ve been a sight to see!
Tap, tap!
Jumping out of his reverie, the boy peered out of his window and into the dark, dreary world. His girlfriend, Amelia, stood outside, huddled against the cold of the night. She held her hot pink purse protectively to her being.
Click!
The doors popped open with a press of his finger. Winking at the girl, he gestured to her with a flick of his head. Uneasiness echoed in her gaze, and she turned towards the slumbering house once more.
Knitting his brows together, he bit his lip. She wasn’t usually like this. Something must be wrong.
Beneath the gentle rap of his knuckles, a hollow pound resounded, resonating like judgmental gavel. “C’mon, Amy….”
She faced him once again. Beckoning her inside, he pointed to his wrist. They didn’t have much time.
Uncertainty still rang through her being. Staring at him dumbly, she wavered, swaying a bit with the blow of the wind. A little voice whispered inside her, small and still in this breathless moment- this pivotal choice. It begged her, beseeched her, to go back, to return to her parents, to listen to them, and to never look back.
Looking behind her once more, she sighed. They were sure to find out- bound to find out. She couldn’t hide forever.
Pound, pound, pound!
When she turned around, Connor gazed back at her, his big, brown eyes swallowing her in his snare. Slowly, she reached out, fingers wrapping around the car door handle. She had promised. Given her word. And she couldn’t bail out. Not now.
Pulling upon the handle, she swung the door ajar and climbed in. The worn cushions failed to comfort the squeaking seats, releasing eerie moans from the pit of the vehicle. Quickly, she thrust her purse onto her lap and reached for her seat belt. The heat of Connor’s keen gaze prickled the back of her neck, beads of sweat breaking over the surface of her skin. Sliding the belt into its little receiver, she locked herself into her fate.
She refused to look at him, concentrating all her attentions alluding to somewhere else…somewhere beyond the fragile silence fallen between them. The unknown force fettered her body in tremulous shakes. Peeling back the zipper of her bag, she dove her hands deep inside, probing at the darkness gawking at her through the gaping hole. Lipstick, coupons, wallet….
The subtle drumming of her heart escalated into a wild pound, ringing throughout the perverted night, filling it with the knowledge of their very presence. Leaping nimbly over the contents, her fingers fled about, retreating from the time she knew was not their friend.
She halted. Pressing lightly down, she explored the item found. Plastic molded beneath her touch, mounding only at the bottom. A sigh escaped her lips. It was still there.
“Right,” she said, zipping up the bag and encircling it in her arms once more. Flipping her chin into the air, she set her jaw, staring down the dark cloak smothering the windows with the lack of light. “Hurry, before they see us.”
The ancient motor sputtered and spat, grunting as it struggled to start. Shoving the key deeper into the ignition, Connor’s face convulsed into many lines as he twisted it about. Amelia looked at him, concern creeping past her nervous composure. Tense silence tautened the atmosphere, suffocating them in its close quarters.
Groaning one last time, an outburst of ire issued from the throat of the vehicle, winding its fateful spin through the darkness of the night. The thread of threat looped around the moment, constricting all into the confinements of its slight, slender, knot. Digging her fingers into the seat, Amelia braced herself. Lurching, the engine roared into life, the beams of light before them once more paving their way.
Swerving around pot holes, Connor gripped the steering wheel with a steady hand. Amelia set her jaw, eyes glued to the house hung with the awnings of blackness. Her heart fluttered like a wingless bird, wanting nothing more than to soar, to get out of this mess, to be free. With every passing second, the roll of the wheels sent the building further and further into the shadows. Just a little more now….
They pulled onto the road and, with great stealth, crept quietly away.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Gomorrah- My Latest Book Idea!
Bienvenindos a la Desperado, Tejas! Or so reads the rotting wooden sign on the land fringing the little Texan town of Desperado. Formed by a friar as a refuge settlement for both American and Tejano (hispanics opposed to Mexican government) families, it waited hand and foot upon the body of Christ, never turning any of the sick, dying, or desperate out of its rickety wooden gates. Advocating simple, submissive, and anonymous obedience to the doctrines taught by the Christian faith- the shining light in a world darkened by the sinister powers of Santa Ana's army.
When outlaws began to hear of the hospitable countrylife conducted in this caring way, however, they began to feign ferocious disease, limping into the town doors in their deceitful disguise. For weeks, the consumed the beds of those wasting into oblivion, coughing, sputtering, and shaking in fevered trembles, simply to awaken one day with complete "healing". Then much rejoicing would break out among the people for the miraculous revival of health. The sick one would go to the church and drop to his knees, but seldom was the either fear or thankfulness to God in his heart.
But he still feared the world. Upon asking a minister, he would remain in the town to "help". At length, mysterious thefts, deaths, and disappearances occurred. The town of Desperado had eaten the poisonous apple of sin.
Now, nearly 200 years later, it is a wasteland of atrophed morals, a dilapidated citadel, its gates now firmly closed against the truth. Criminals roam the roads, undaunted and nearly always unchecked by the police, who have their hands so full they are helpless. Danger lurks around every corner. No one is safe.
This is the home of Connor Adams, a 17-year-old student whose family scraps by through his dad's auto tinkerings, his mom's gas station job and singing gig at the local bar, and his job of washing vehicles at a used car shop. The book opens as he's bouncing down a wide, unpaved street veining through the residential area of the town, counting the old houses as he passes. He pulls into one and his secret girlfriend Amelia Williams hops into the passenger seat. As they drive, he meets one of his friends, and, on Amelia's prompting, they begin to race. Unfortunately for them, tucked into the shadows is the car of Sheriff Blunt, the head of the Desperado police force. She snags them on her radar, and, with lights whirling in the dark atmosphere, gives chase. Connor's friend quickly darts into an alleyway, but him and Amelia are forced to the side of the road, where he tries to shove her into the driver's seat, saying he doesn't have his license. Walking to the window, the Sheriff demands to see it, and when she finds he has nothing to give her, makes a thorough inspection of the car. Upon her return, she asks Connor if this is his automobile, and when he replies in the positive, handcuffs both of them on the charges of illegal driving and car robbery.
However, while sleeping behind the bars of confinement, he sees a conglomeration of shades shaped like wicked beasts crowding around the city and speaking of its demise. His eyes are opened, and a shaft of Light streams in upon the deeds practiced by him and his friends. A voice from above tells him that he is chosen to bring Desperado to her knees...but he only has five days to do it before the staying hand of God loosens the demons, and all that he's ever known is utterly destroyed.
When outlaws began to hear of the hospitable countrylife conducted in this caring way, however, they began to feign ferocious disease, limping into the town doors in their deceitful disguise. For weeks, the consumed the beds of those wasting into oblivion, coughing, sputtering, and shaking in fevered trembles, simply to awaken one day with complete "healing". Then much rejoicing would break out among the people for the miraculous revival of health. The sick one would go to the church and drop to his knees, but seldom was the either fear or thankfulness to God in his heart.
But he still feared the world. Upon asking a minister, he would remain in the town to "help". At length, mysterious thefts, deaths, and disappearances occurred. The town of Desperado had eaten the poisonous apple of sin.
Now, nearly 200 years later, it is a wasteland of atrophed morals, a dilapidated citadel, its gates now firmly closed against the truth. Criminals roam the roads, undaunted and nearly always unchecked by the police, who have their hands so full they are helpless. Danger lurks around every corner. No one is safe.
This is the home of Connor Adams, a 17-year-old student whose family scraps by through his dad's auto tinkerings, his mom's gas station job and singing gig at the local bar, and his job of washing vehicles at a used car shop. The book opens as he's bouncing down a wide, unpaved street veining through the residential area of the town, counting the old houses as he passes. He pulls into one and his secret girlfriend Amelia Williams hops into the passenger seat. As they drive, he meets one of his friends, and, on Amelia's prompting, they begin to race. Unfortunately for them, tucked into the shadows is the car of Sheriff Blunt, the head of the Desperado police force. She snags them on her radar, and, with lights whirling in the dark atmosphere, gives chase. Connor's friend quickly darts into an alleyway, but him and Amelia are forced to the side of the road, where he tries to shove her into the driver's seat, saying he doesn't have his license. Walking to the window, the Sheriff demands to see it, and when she finds he has nothing to give her, makes a thorough inspection of the car. Upon her return, she asks Connor if this is his automobile, and when he replies in the positive, handcuffs both of them on the charges of illegal driving and car robbery.
However, while sleeping behind the bars of confinement, he sees a conglomeration of shades shaped like wicked beasts crowding around the city and speaking of its demise. His eyes are opened, and a shaft of Light streams in upon the deeds practiced by him and his friends. A voice from above tells him that he is chosen to bring Desperado to her knees...but he only has five days to do it before the staying hand of God loosens the demons, and all that he's ever known is utterly destroyed.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Character Enhancements
Note- This paper was given to me as an assignment for the academic writing course I am taking. Being instructed to listen to a lecture and take notes and then turn those notes into a couple paragraphs following a specified structure, I naturally chose to listen to a speech given on the very subject I never seem to learn enough of- writing. All ideas presented here are either adapted from or extrapolated on the concepts taught by James Scott Bell at the Christian Writer's Guild Writing for the Soul Conference. To learn more about the Christian Writer's Guild, please visit www.christianwritersguild.com (I highly recommend their courses to any beginning writer. Each lesson is designed to build the knowledge of the craft as well as fuel the fire Christian writers need to feed a hungry world with the feast, love, and hope experienced by true believers. In addition- and to give you some accountability- a professional writer/teacher guides you along the way.). For a more extensive look into Bell's concepts, please check-out his marvelous book Plot & Structure (another must-have), which is sold at bookstores everywhere. For now, enjoy my very first lecture paper on one of my favorite topics- writing!
Characters are colorful beings, shaded by their pasts and brought to light by their present. Woven and spun by their backgrounds, beliefs, and region of living, they are a tapestry of complex threads- nigh on incomprehensive to all but their creator. How do writers manage it? How do they shape beings enriched with varying traits and put them in a story of cohesion? Well, in order to answer this question, I ask you to close your eyes for a moment. Imagine yourself in a room where there are lots people, all chattering amiably about the courses of life. Being with your best friend, he begins to introduce you to all of his acquaintances. During these introductions, you meet one man who particularly catches your eye- your main character. Now, the first question is, what is his dominant impression? What’s his noun of vocation and his adjective of manner? In order to distinguish clear meaning from ambiguity, let’s say that your character is a farmer. That’s what he does- his noun of vocation. What would you picture? Likely enough, it would be some combination of bib overalls, muddied boots, and straw hats. However, the impression of a farmer can be dual. Unless I told you that he is a tidy farmer, would you have any idea that he is clean-shaven and well-mannered with his shirt nicely tucked in? Maybe or maybe not. That’s just the way he is- that’s his adjective of manner. Therefore, although characters are colored by a great many different things, the very first thing we notice about them should be the very first thing the reader does- their dominant impression and adjective of manner.
Layering his noun of vocation and adjective of manner is his background. To begin, let’s start with the very basics. Where is he from? If you’re left scratching your head, allow your character to speak a bit. Interview him and write down what he says using his own voice. Carefully consider your results and examine it thoroughly for any ticks and tocks that illuminate his both his past and present. Do you hear a distinct accent- Southern or perhaps even Midwestern? Does his grammar reflect an education of repute, or do malapropisms and slang words slight his tongue? Once you have that down, delve deeper into his past to flesh out the meat and bones of his composition. Why does he act the way he does? Many individuals and ideas influenced who he is today. Which contained the most potency? Secrets are priceless bits of information to uncover at this stage. Though they are traumatic and terrible to your character, they bring punch and power to the most poignant of tales- and, when they do, they leave the audience with a huge craving for the rest of your story. Therefore, penning the tale of his past deepens this individual you wish to portray, explaining how he became who he is and flavoring him with the spices of life.
Probably most importantly, you must determine your character’s drive and yearning. What does he want (or think he wants)? Yearning shoves drive from complacency into action, so this is essential knowledge that will eventually end up affecting the course of your plot and maybe even the mood of your novel. When yearning clothes itself in the garments of a home, a family, or a job- or any other basic need- you have storyline with the potential for a book readers will pick up and not put down. You’ve begun to play upon their emotions by using a tile in the game of life that we can all relate to. Or your yearning might be something less tangible, such as safety, freedom, or even a peace of mind. Situations such as these tend to extract some of the most memorable inward battles ever to be put to pen. After you excavate yearning, drive is not much harder to discover, since now all you must ask yourself is why your character wants something. However, the two accompany each other, which produces a noisy, clashing conflict. Conflict creates problems. Without conflict, there is no plot, shading and silhouetting yearning and drive in its important shadow.
Although conflict crowns a tale with a golden shimmer, it is her cousin, inner conflict, that spotlights background in the theater of the imagination. Largely comprised of fears, it consists of a battle fought inside the soul. Using whatever the character has gleaned from his past, you must challenge the kernel of truth (which it may or may not turn out to be) he holds onto, possibly wielding what he most desires as a venerable weapon. These endless bouts of self-turmoil give the character a ready and enlivened purpose to lie upon the page, but all the while they can do much more than that. In a slow, unfolding fashion, they allow him to shake and spread his fledgling wings. They let him soar. Thus, by wrenching your character’s wants and beliefs, you weld a sword able to slice your scenes with his innermost soul.
Being the inertia that carries your character from one scene to the next, momentum must not be lacking. Let’s just face it outright- people read to escape. To enter a world free from the cares of their own into the eyes and ears of another whose life is (hopefully) much more interesting. If you’re character spends his time rotting in front of the TV or sobbing hysterically about her condition, however, it’s time for you to stop and think. Is that really interesting? Do you think people care to know another couch potato or, much less, a victim? Though there are certain exceptions, such as when one such character should be forced into a situation they wouldn’t voluntarily be in, readers almost always demand a human being able to scramble to her feet, stare down her fears, and stamp her statement into place. The world wants to see someone who is willing to stand up, make a shout, cause a commotion, and perhaps shake the way they see things. Fervently maintaining an ardor, he or she must remain in character. In order to ensure that this ardor carries through the whole story, pause and contemplate each scene. In every situation they encounter, what would be the most outrageous thing that they could do? Then take it a step further. Expound upon the outrageousness. It sounds unrealistic, right? Well, since it most likely is, try to bring back the emotion 25%. Keep doing this until you reach an intensity level that feels right and realistic for your novel without breaching your character’s personality. In this way, and all the ways listed above, you may enhance your character to the maximum peak, and thus making them more colorful and benefitting your book.
Characters are colorful beings, shaded by their pasts and brought to light by their present. Woven and spun by their backgrounds, beliefs, and region of living, they are a tapestry of complex threads- nigh on incomprehensive to all but their creator. How do writers manage it? How do they shape beings enriched with varying traits and put them in a story of cohesion? Well, in order to answer this question, I ask you to close your eyes for a moment. Imagine yourself in a room where there are lots people, all chattering amiably about the courses of life. Being with your best friend, he begins to introduce you to all of his acquaintances. During these introductions, you meet one man who particularly catches your eye- your main character. Now, the first question is, what is his dominant impression? What’s his noun of vocation and his adjective of manner? In order to distinguish clear meaning from ambiguity, let’s say that your character is a farmer. That’s what he does- his noun of vocation. What would you picture? Likely enough, it would be some combination of bib overalls, muddied boots, and straw hats. However, the impression of a farmer can be dual. Unless I told you that he is a tidy farmer, would you have any idea that he is clean-shaven and well-mannered with his shirt nicely tucked in? Maybe or maybe not. That’s just the way he is- that’s his adjective of manner. Therefore, although characters are colored by a great many different things, the very first thing we notice about them should be the very first thing the reader does- their dominant impression and adjective of manner.
Layering his noun of vocation and adjective of manner is his background. To begin, let’s start with the very basics. Where is he from? If you’re left scratching your head, allow your character to speak a bit. Interview him and write down what he says using his own voice. Carefully consider your results and examine it thoroughly for any ticks and tocks that illuminate his both his past and present. Do you hear a distinct accent- Southern or perhaps even Midwestern? Does his grammar reflect an education of repute, or do malapropisms and slang words slight his tongue? Once you have that down, delve deeper into his past to flesh out the meat and bones of his composition. Why does he act the way he does? Many individuals and ideas influenced who he is today. Which contained the most potency? Secrets are priceless bits of information to uncover at this stage. Though they are traumatic and terrible to your character, they bring punch and power to the most poignant of tales- and, when they do, they leave the audience with a huge craving for the rest of your story. Therefore, penning the tale of his past deepens this individual you wish to portray, explaining how he became who he is and flavoring him with the spices of life.
Probably most importantly, you must determine your character’s drive and yearning. What does he want (or think he wants)? Yearning shoves drive from complacency into action, so this is essential knowledge that will eventually end up affecting the course of your plot and maybe even the mood of your novel. When yearning clothes itself in the garments of a home, a family, or a job- or any other basic need- you have storyline with the potential for a book readers will pick up and not put down. You’ve begun to play upon their emotions by using a tile in the game of life that we can all relate to. Or your yearning might be something less tangible, such as safety, freedom, or even a peace of mind. Situations such as these tend to extract some of the most memorable inward battles ever to be put to pen. After you excavate yearning, drive is not much harder to discover, since now all you must ask yourself is why your character wants something. However, the two accompany each other, which produces a noisy, clashing conflict. Conflict creates problems. Without conflict, there is no plot, shading and silhouetting yearning and drive in its important shadow.
Although conflict crowns a tale with a golden shimmer, it is her cousin, inner conflict, that spotlights background in the theater of the imagination. Largely comprised of fears, it consists of a battle fought inside the soul. Using whatever the character has gleaned from his past, you must challenge the kernel of truth (which it may or may not turn out to be) he holds onto, possibly wielding what he most desires as a venerable weapon. These endless bouts of self-turmoil give the character a ready and enlivened purpose to lie upon the page, but all the while they can do much more than that. In a slow, unfolding fashion, they allow him to shake and spread his fledgling wings. They let him soar. Thus, by wrenching your character’s wants and beliefs, you weld a sword able to slice your scenes with his innermost soul.
Being the inertia that carries your character from one scene to the next, momentum must not be lacking. Let’s just face it outright- people read to escape. To enter a world free from the cares of their own into the eyes and ears of another whose life is (hopefully) much more interesting. If you’re character spends his time rotting in front of the TV or sobbing hysterically about her condition, however, it’s time for you to stop and think. Is that really interesting? Do you think people care to know another couch potato or, much less, a victim? Though there are certain exceptions, such as when one such character should be forced into a situation they wouldn’t voluntarily be in, readers almost always demand a human being able to scramble to her feet, stare down her fears, and stamp her statement into place. The world wants to see someone who is willing to stand up, make a shout, cause a commotion, and perhaps shake the way they see things. Fervently maintaining an ardor, he or she must remain in character. In order to ensure that this ardor carries through the whole story, pause and contemplate each scene. In every situation they encounter, what would be the most outrageous thing that they could do? Then take it a step further. Expound upon the outrageousness. It sounds unrealistic, right? Well, since it most likely is, try to bring back the emotion 25%. Keep doing this until you reach an intensity level that feels right and realistic for your novel without breaching your character’s personality. In this way, and all the ways listed above, you may enhance your character to the maximum peak, and thus making them more colorful and benefitting your book.
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