KRELLFISH

Need U Now Eye in the Sky

Oh boy kids, what we've got here is what you might call a situation. An assistant to the group Alan Parsons Project is claiming Lady Antebellum ripped off Eye in the Sky with their smash crossover hit, Need You Now. 

Watch the video below and be amazed-

 

And to all my fellow WriMos out there, be careful of what you write and publish. The world doesn't need "The Twilight of Harry Potter".

Or do we?

I'm A NaNo Blogger

Once again I'll be trying to win the NaNoWriMo contest come November 1. My last attempt and victory was in 2008, I wrote a non-fiction novel in the style of Capote's In Cold Blood.

NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. Writers all over the world will try to compose 50,000 words in 30 days, beginning November 1. That's about 1666 words per day, but I don't like the 666 thang, so I'll be going for 1700.

Currently I'm working on story arcs and then I'll proceed to the outline. This is permissible by the way, you just can't start the actual writing until November 1. 

The word count doesn't stop for Thanksgiving, grandma's gravy and/or black Friday. 

1700 words every day.

Have you got what it takes?

I'm part of a blog chain to provide NaNo inspiration.

Check it out HERE now, maybe it will encourage you to jump!

Review: Catching Moondrops

This is Jennifer Valent's third book in the trilogy. She won the Christian Writers Guild's Operation First Novel contest in 2007 and I was there to see her win it live. It was such a thrill, because Jennifer is a wonderful writer.

She's done it again with the final book in the trilogy,Catching Moondrops. Every page drips with historical accuracy and engages readers to the point of not being able to put the book down. I loved all the action leading up the climax, but what Jennifer is best at, is gently sowing the power and truth of God into the characters as well as the heart of the reader. Catching Moondrops will stay with you, long after you've read the last word.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour  book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

 

Jennifer Erin Valent

 

and the book:

 

Catching Moondrops

Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (September 20, 2010)

***Special thanks to Maggie Rowe of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Jennifer Erin Valent is the 2007 winner of the Christian Writers Guild's Operation First Novel contest. A lifelong resident of the South, her surroundings help to color the scenes and characters she writes. In fact, the childhood memory of a dilapidated Ku Klux Klan billboard inspired her portrayal of Depression-era racial prejudice in Fireflies in December. She has spent the past 15 years working as a nanny and has dabbled in freelance, writing articles for various Christian women's magazines. She still resides in her hometown of Richmond, Virginia.

Visit the author's website.


Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 384 pages
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (September 20, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1414333277
ISBN-13: 978-1414333274

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

There’s nothing in this whole world like the sight of a man swinging by his neck.

Folks in my parts liked to call it “lynching,” as if by calling it another word they could keep from feeling like murderers. Sometimes when they string a man up, they gather around like vultures looking for the next meal, staring at the cockeyed neck, the sagging limbs, their lips turning up at the corners when they should be turning down. For some people, time has a way of blurring the good and the bad, spitting out that thing called conscience and replacing it with a twisted sort of logic that makes right out of wrong.

Our small town of Calloway, Virginia, had that sort of logic in spades, and after the trouble it had caused my family over the years, I knew that better than most. But the violence had long since faded away, and my best friend Gemma would often tell me that made it okay—her being kept separate from white folks. “Long as my bein’ with your family don’t bring danger down on your heads, I’ll keep my peace and be thankful,” she’d say.

But I didn’t feel so calm about it all as Gemma did. Part of that was my stubborn temperament, but most of it was my intuition. I’d been eyeball to eyeball with pure hate more than once in my eighteen years, and I could smell it, like rotting flesh. Hate is a type of blindness that divides a man from his good sense. I’d seen it in the eyes of a Klansman the day he tried to choke the life out of me and in the eyes of the men who hunted down a dear friend who’d been wrongly accused of murder.

And, at times, I’d caught glimpses of it in my own heart.

The passage of time had done nothing to lessen its stench. And despite the relative peace, I knew full well that hearts poisoned by hateful thinking can only simmer for so long before boiling over.

In May of that year, 1938, that pot started bubbling.

I was on the front porch shucking corn when I saw three colored men turn up our walk, all linked up in a row like the Three Musketeers. I stood up, let the corn silk slip from my apron, and called over my shoulder. “Gemma! Come on out here.”

She must have been nearby because the screen door squealed open almost two seconds after my last words drifted in through the screen. “What is it?”

“Company. Only don’t look too good.” I walked to the top of the steps and shielded my eyes from the sun. “Malachi Jarvis! You got yourself into trouble again?”

The man in the middle, propped up like a scarecrow, lifted his chin wearily but managed to flash a smile that revealed bloodied teeth. “Depends on how you define trouble.”

Gemma gasped at the sight of him and flew down the steps, letting the door slam so loud the porch boards shook. “What in the name of all goodness have you been up to? You got some sort of death wish?”

A man I’d never seen before had his arm wound tightly beneath Malachi’s arms, blood smeared across his shirt front. Malachi’s younger brother, Noah, was on his other side, struggling against the weight, and Gemma came in between them to help.

“He ain’t got the good sense to keep his mouth shut, is all,” Noah said breathlessly.

I went inside to grab Momma’s first aid box, and by the time I got back out, Gemma had Malachi seated in the rocker.

Gemma gave him the once-over and shook her head so hard I thought it might fly off. “I swear, if you ain’t a one to push a body into an early grave. Your poor momma’s gonna lose her ever-lovin’ mind.”

Along with his younger brother and sister, Malachi lived down by the tracks with his widowed momma—as the man of the house, so to speak. He’d taken up being friends with Luke Talley some two years back when they’d both worked for the tobacco plant, and they’d remained close even though Luke had struck out on his own building furniture. Malachi was never one to keep his peace, a fact Gemma had no patience for, and she made it good and clear many a time. Today would be no exception.

“Goin’ around stirrin’ up trouble every which way,” she murmured as she pulled fixings out of the first aid box. “It’s one thing to pick fights with your own kind. Can’t say as though you wouldn’t benefit by a poundin’ or two every now and again. But this foolin’ around with white folks’ll get you into more’n you’re bargainin’ for.”

The man who’d helped Noah shoulder the burden of Malachi reached out to take the gauze from Gemma. “Why don’t you let me get that?”

Gemma didn’t much like being told what to do, and she glared at him. “I can clean up cuts and scrapes. I worked for a doctor past two years.”

Malachi nodded towards the man. “This here man is a doctor.”

I was putting iodine on a piece of cotton, and I near about dropped it on the floor when I heard that. Never in all my born days had I seen a colored man claiming to be a doctor. Neither had Gemma by the looks of her.

“A doctor?” she murmured. “You sure?”

He laughed and extended his hand to her. “Last I checked. Tal Pritchett. Just got into town yesterday. Gonna set up shop down by the tracks.”

Gemma handed the gauze over to him, still dumbfounded.

“What d’you think about that?” Malachi grinned and then grimaced the minute his split lip made its presence known. “A colored doc in Calloway. Shoo-whee. There’s gonna be talkin’ about this!”

The doctor went to work cleaning up Malachi’s wounds. “I ain’t here to start no revolution. I’m just aimin’ to help the colored folks get the help they deserve.”

“Well, you’re goin’ to start a revolution whether you want to or not.” Malachi shut his eyes and gritted his teeth the minute the iodine set to burning. “Folks in these parts don’t much like colored folk settin’ themselves up as smart or nothin’.”

Gemma watched Tal Pritchett like she was analyzing his every move, finding out for herself if he was a doctor or not. I stood by and let her assist him as she’d been accustomed to doing for Doc Mabley until he passed on two months ago. After he’d bandaged up Malachi’s right hand, she seemed satisfied that he was who he said.

Noah slumped down into the other rocker and watched. “It’s one thing to get yourself an education and stand for your right to make somethin’ of yourself. It’s another to go stirrin’ up trouble for the sake of stirrin’ up trouble.”

“I ain’t doin’ it for the sake of stirrin’ up trouble. I done told you that!” Malachi flexed his left hand to test how well his swollen fingers moved. Ain’t no colored man ever goin’ to be free in this here county . . . in this here state . . . in this here world unless somebody starts fightin’ for freedom.”

“Slaves was freed decades ago,” Noah said sharply. “We ain’t in shackles no more.”

“But we ain’t free to live our lives as we choose, neither. You think colored people are ever gonna be more’n house help and field help so long as we let ourselves be treated like less than white people? No sir. We’re less than human to them white folks. They don’t think nothin’ about killin’ so long as who they’re killin’ is colored.”

“Don’t you go bunchin’ all white people together, Malachi Jarvis,” I argued. “Ain’t all white folk got bad feelin’s about coloreds.”

Malachi waved me off in exasperation. “You know I ain’t talkin’ about you, Jessilyn.”

Noah had his hands tightly knotted in his lap and was staring at them like they held all the answers to the world’s problems. “All’s you’re doin’ is gettin’ yourself kicked around.” He looked up at me pleadingly. “This here’s the second time in a week he’s come home banged up.”

I put a hand on Noah’s shoulder and set my eyes on Malachi. “Who did it?”

He put his bandaged right hand into the air, palm up. “Who knows? Some white boys. You get surrounded by enough of ‘em, they all just blend in together like a vanilla milkshake.”

“How’s it you didn’t see them? They jump you or somethin’?”

“Don’t ask me, Jessie. I was just mindin’ my own business in town and then on my way home, they start hasslin’ me.”

“What he was doin’,” Noah corrected, “was tryin’ to get into the whites-only bar.”

Gemma sniffed in disgust. “Shouldn’t have been in no bar in the first place. There’s your first mistake.”

“Whites-only, too.” Noah kicked his foot against the porch rail and then looked up at me quickly. “Sorry.”

I smiled at him and turned my attention back to Malachi. “It’s a good thing Luke ain’t here to see this. He don’t like you drinkin’ and you know it.”

His eyeballs rolled between swollen lids. “I don’t know why he gets his trousers in a knot over it anyhow. Ain’t like there’s prohibition no more. And he’s been known to take a swig or two himself.”

“Luke says you’re a nasty drunk.”

“He is.” Noah knotted his hands back in his lap. “And he’s been at the bottle more often than not of late.”

“Quit tellin’ tales!” his brother barked.

“I ain’t tellin’ tales; I’m tellin’ truth. They can ask anybody at home how late you come in, and how you come in all topsy turvy. He comes home in the middle of the mornin’ and sleeps in till all hours the next day.”

“What about your job at the plant?” Gemma asked.

Malachi closed his eyes and waved her off, but his brother provided the answer for him. “Lost it!” He loosened his grip on his hands and snapped his fingers. “Like that. There’s goes his income.”

“I said I’ll get another job.”

“Oh, like there’s jobs aplenty around these parts for colored folk. And anyways, if you find one, how you gonna’ keep that one?”

Gemma had her hands on her hips, and I knew what that meant. I leaned back against the house and waited for the lecture to commence.

“You talk a fine talk about colored folks needin’ to stand up for equality, but you ain’t doin’ it in any way that’s right and good. You’re goin’ about town gettin’ people’s goat, and tryin’ to get in where you ain’t wanted, and gettin’ yourself all liquored up and useless. Now your family ain’t got the money they depend on you for, and why? Because you walk around livin’ like you ain’t got to do nothin’ for nobody but yourself.”

“I’m standin’ up for the rights of colored folks everywhere.” Malachi was angry now, pink patches spreading on his busted-up cheeks. “You see anyone else in this town willin’ to go toe to toe with the white boys in this county?”

“Don’t put a noble face on bein’ an upstart.”

Malachi pushed Tal’s hand away and sat up tall. “You call standin’ up to white folks bein’ an upstart?”

Doc Pritchett tried to dress the wound on Malachi’s temple, but Malachi pushed his hand away again. That was when the doctor had enough, and he smacked his hands on his thighs and stood up tall and determined in front of Malachi. “I ain’t Abraham Lincoln. I’m just Doc Pritchett tryin’ to fix up an ornery patient, and I ain’t got all day to do it. So I’m goin’ to settle this argument once and for all.” He pointed at Gemma. “She’s right. There ain’t no fightin’ nonsense with more nonsense, and all’s you’re doin’ by gettin’ in the faces of white folks with your smart attitude is bein’ as bad as they’re bein’.” Then he pointed at Malachi. “And he’s right, too. There ain’t never a change brought about that should be brought about without people standin’ up for such change. And sometimes that means bein’ willin’ to fight for what’s right.”

Gemma swallowed hard and didn’t even try to argue. My eyes must have bugged out of my head at the sight of her being tamed so easily.

“Now, I’m all for civil uprisin’,” Tal continued. “I don’t see nothin’ wrong with colored folk sayin’ they won’t be walked on no more. I don’t see nothin’ wrong with wantin’ to use the same bathroom as white folks or sit in the same chairs as white folks. Way I see it, none of that’s goin’ to change unless someone says it has to.” He squatted down in front of Malachi again and stared him down nose to nose. “But all this hot-shottin’ and show-boatin’ ain’t goin’ to do nothin’ but get your rear end kicked. Or worse. You aim to stand tall for somethin’? Fine. Stand tall for it. But don’t you go around thinkin’ these battle scars say somethin’ for you. You ain’t got them by bein’ noble; you got them by bein’ stupid. All’s these scars say is you’re an idiot.”

It was one of the best speeches I’d heard from anyone outside my daddy, and if I’d ever thought for two seconds put together to see a colored man run for governor, I figured Tal Pritchett would be the man for the job. As it was, I knew he was the best man for the job he had now. Sure enough, being a colored doc in Calloway would be a challenge. But I figured he was up for it.

Regardless, he shut Malachi up, and for the next five minutes we all watched him finish his job with skill and finesse. When he’d fixed the last of Malachi’s face, he stood up and clapped his hands. “Suppose that should do it. Don’t see need for any stitchin’ up today. Let’s hope there’s no cause for it in future.” Then he looked at me. “You got someplace out here where I can wash up?”

I held my hand out toward the front door. “Bathroom’s upstairs.”

He hesitated. “I’d just as soon wash up out here.”

I caught the reason for his hesitation but didn’t know what to say. As usual, Gemma did.

“I done lived in this here house for six years now, and I’m just as brown as you. You can feel free to go on up to the bathroom, you hear?”

He looked from Gemma to me, then back to Gemma before nodding. “Yes’m.” And then he disappeared inside.

“Ma’am,” Gemma muttered under her breath. “Ain’t old enough to be called ma’am, least of all by a man no more’n a few years older’n me.”

“You know what happens once you start gettin’ them crows feet . . .”

Gemma whirled about and gave Malachi the evil eye. “Don’t go thinkin’ I won’t hurt you just because you’re all bandaged up.”

Noah got up and paced the porch until Tal came back outside. “Doc, you have any problem gettin’ your schoolin’?”

Tal shrugged and leaned against the porch rail. “No more’n most, I guess. There’s a lot to learn. Why? You thinkin’ about goin’ to college?”

You could have heard a pin drop on that front porch. Never, and I mean never, in all the days Calloway had been on the map, had there ever been a single person, white or black, to step foot at a college. The very idea of that mark being made by a colored boy was a surefire way to start war.

And Noah knew it.

He looked at his feet and kicked the heel of one shoe against the toe of another. “Ain’t possible. I was just wonderin’ aloud, is all.”

“What do you mean it ain’t possible? All’s you’ve got to do is work hard. You can get scholarships and things.”

But Noah took a look at his brother, whose face was hard and tight-lipped, and nodded off toward the road. “Nah, there ain’t no use talkin’ over it. We’d best get home anyhow.”

Tal didn’t push the subject. He just picked his hat up off the porch swing and plopped it on his head. “Miss Jessie. Miss Gemma. It was a fine pleasure to meet you, and a kindness for you to give us a hand.”

“You should stop by sometime and meet my parents,” I said. “They’re off visitin’, but I’m sure they’d be right happy to know you.”

“I’m sure I’d be right happy to know them, too.” He turned his attention to Gemma. “You said you worked for a doctor?”

“I worked for Doc Mabley. He was a white doctor. Died some two months ago.”

“He let you assist?”

“Only with the colored patients. Doc Mabley was kind enough to help some of them out when they needed it. Otherwise I kept his records, kept up his stock.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Miss Gemma, I could sure use some help if you’d be obliged. An assistant would be a good set of extra hands, and I could use someone known around here to make my introductions.”

Gemma eyed him up before slowly nodding her head. “Reckon I could.”

“Wouldn’t be much pay, now, you know. Ain’t likely to get much in the way of fees from the patients I’ll be treatin’.”

“Don’t matter so long as I have good work to put my hands to.”

“That it would be. My office is right across the street from the Jarvis house.”

Malachi snorted. “Shack’s more like it.”

“Room enough for me,” Tal said. Then to Gemma, “You think you could stop in sometime this week to talk it over?”

“I can come day after tomorrow if that suits.”

“Nine o’clock too early?”

“No, sir! I’ve kept farm hours all my life.”

He grinned at her. “Nine o’clock then?”

“Nine o’clock.”

Malachi watched the two of them with his swollen eyes, a look of disgust growing more evident on his face. He’d made no secret over the past year about his admiration for Gemma, and the unmistakable attraction that was growing between her and Tal was clearly turning his stomach.

“Mind if we go home?” he muttered. “Before I fall down dead or somethin’?”

Gemma tore her eyes away from Tal to roll them at Malachi. “Would serve you right if you did.”

“And on that cheery note . . .” Malachi groaned on his way down the steps. “I’ll bid you ladies a fine evenin’.”

I gave Noah a playful whack to the head, but he ducked so it only clipped the top. “Luke will be back home tomorrow evenin’. He’ll be itchin’ to see you, I’m sure.”

“I’m itchin’ to see him.” He took the steps in one leap, tossing dust up when he landed. “You tell him to come on by and see us real soon.”

“And tell him to bring his cards,” Malachi added. “He owes me a poker rematch.”

I squinted at him suspiciously. “Only if you play for beans.”

“I hate beans.”

Malachi leaned on Tal for support and Noah scurried to catch up and help. I watched them go, but I wasn’t thinking much about them. I was thinking about Luke. It had been two months since he’d left to collect customers for his furniture-making business, and every day had seemed like an eternity.

The very thought of him got my stomach butterflies to fluttering, but one look at Gemma told me it was another man who had stolen her attention. “That

Doc Pritchett’s a fine man.” I looked at her sideways with a smirk. “Looks about twenty-five or so.”

“So?”

“Good marryin’ age.”

She crossed her arms defiantly. “Jessilyn Lassiter, what’s that got to do with anythin’?”

“Only what I said. I’m only statin’ fact.”

“Mm-hm. I hear ya. You’d be better off keepin’ your facts to yourself.”

She grabbed the first aid box and headed inside, but the sound of that door slamming told me I’d got to her.

It told me Tal Pritchett had got to her, too.

 

Save Blue Like Jazz

I can point to several authors who influenced my Christian faith: CS Lewis, NT Wright, Henri Nouwen and Walter Wangerin Jr., to name a few. There are fewer authors that influenced me as a writer. But I can only think of two authors who influenced me as a writer of faith: Anne Lamott and Donald Miller; specifically, Traveling Mercies and Blue Like Jazz.

By 2004, my spiritual and professional life had hit the skids. The only job I could get was working at a church office. (God sure has a sense of humor). It wasn¹t a bad job, actually. My bosses were cool, and my pastor let me come into his office at lunchtime and vent my frustrations and doubt. He¹d nod and say, ³Yeah, I know what you mean.² He loaned me several books that encouraged my faith. Not happy titles, mind you: Dark Night Of the Soul by St John of the Cross, Shattered Dreams by Larry Crabb, and A Grace Disguised by Jerry Sittser. The latter title sounds positive, but it¹s written by a man whose wife, mother and daughter were killed by a drunk driver. The book is great. Read it.

But it wasn¹t my pastor who told me about Blue Like Jazz. It was this random artsy guy who stopped in to visit the seminary intern working at the office. You know these young, artsy guys. They dabble in creative pursuits. They have their whole lives ahead of them and think the answers to all their questions will be Yes and Amen. ³Get back to me in ten years,² I want to tell them. So this artsy guy was sitting across from my desk, raving about some über hip writer who had defined faith for his generation. ³Blue Like Jazz,² he said and tapped on my desk. That¹s all he said: ³Blue Like Jazz. Read it.² And then he and the seminary intern went off to smoke cigars.

Two weeks later our pastor brought in an entire box of Blue Like Jazz and gave me a copy. It was like he was daring me to read it. I took it home, ready to pick it apart with my cynical, artistically mature eye. I didn¹t want some young hipster dilettante telling me what my life was like. Then I read the intro. I had to admit his analogy was creative: God was like jazz because neither resolved. He had a way with words. I read the first couple of chapters and had to admit he made some great points. When he said that going to a big church ³was like going to church at the Gap² I laughed out loud. When he wrote about the confessional booth, I cried. Blue Like Jazz was better than Random Artsy Guy had said. It was terrific, and Don Miller became my hero.

When I sat down to write my own book, I thought of Blue Like Jazz and Traveling Mercies. Those books gave me permission to write honestly, and provided a yardstick with which to measure my own work. Six years have passed. I¹ve had the privilege to meet Don and get to know him. He's not some über hip artsy dilettante. He's a funny, talented, generous guy. I got to tour with him last fall. (God really has a sense of humor).

For the past two years, Don and Steve Taylor have been trying to make a movie based on the book. I read the screenplay, and it¹s great. But they¹ve run into problems with financing. And after two years they have finally given up. So, how come this insanely popular book can¹t get made into a low budget movie? Money. Basically, the guys who have the money to make the movie aren¹t from the same generation as those who¹ll go see the movie. The money guys probably like going to church at the Gap. They don¹t cuss or smoke (at least, not in public). The movie has a little cussing and smoking, and the Money Guys can¹t get around that. Now in Hollywood, old guys fund young-guy films all the time. Who do you think funded Superbad? Not Michael Cera¹s friends. But in faith-based filmmaking, they can¹t bridge the gap.

On September 16, Don announced on his blog that the movie was being shelved. In Hollywood they say it ³went away,² because no one likes to say ³over.² But the film was over. Or was it? Two crazy young guys got an idea: get the kids who love the book to come up with the $125,000 still needed to make the movie. It was like Michael Cera¹s friends decided to pass the hat. Here¹s their video. Save Blue Like Jazz from Save Blue Like Jazz

Maybe you're thinking: ³Why should I donate? I¹m an old white guy. I like wearing Dockers to church.² Or, "I'm a young white guy and the movie will ruin the book for me." Or, "I'm poor, I don't have a buck to spare." Well I¹m an old white chick. I go to an old musty church with incense and choir robes. But if we are going to show how Jesus matters to another generation, we need to speak that generation¹s language. Young twenty-something hipsters won¹t respond to the things I respond to. But they¹re going to respond to the way Jesus and faith are presented in this movie, because it¹s written for them. Do you have a child or a friend who doesn't "get" your faith? If you could make Jesus come alive to him or her, would you spend ten bucks to do it? Then do it. I¹m that random artsy guy tapping on your desk. "Blue Like Jazz. Fund it."

Check out the Save Blue Like Jazz website.

This post is written by Susan Isaacs and is used with permission. Follow her on twitter @SusanIsaacs, check out her blog SusanIsaacs.blogspot.com and go to her website at SusanIsaacs.net.

Office Dress for Success

I'm a big believer in dressing for success while working from home. If you sit around in your pajamas, you will produce sleepy, sloppy, lackadaisical work. I'm often quoted in this area, the latest was last week HERE, in Carol Roth's 95 Strategies for Work/Life Balance When You Work from Home. I'm under number 88.

Then this great article by Kevin Whipps got me thinking even more. 

If I worked in a traditional office building, I would never keep my office in the atrocious state it lives in. 

Five years ago we put in wood floors, a big cherry desk, ample shelves,some with glass doors, two phone lines, a shredder and fax, and I'm even rocking the double monitors. 

You'll also find loose pictures of our sons, stacks of books, a can of dusting spray with a rag to go along with the dust, various half burned candles, magazines, empty bags of Pirates Booty, old Starbucks cups, stacks of bills, contracts, school supplies and even one of my oldest son's t-shirts.

I can proudly say though, I have filed every rejection letter. Even I can't stand to look at those.

So along with getting out of my pajamas to work, how about if I made the work area quite a bit cleaner?

It would do wonders for productivity. 

The key though, is to not spend days cleaning up the office in lieu of actual writing. That isn't allowed in a traditional office setting either. 

So let's all clean up our act a little bit and let me know if it makes a difference in your work day.

Cecil Murphey Interview

 I'm thrilled to have interviewed Cecil Murphey about his latest book When A Man You Love Was Abused. 

You discuss how one in every six males has experienced unwanted or abusive sexual experiences before the age of sixteen. With those kinds of numbers, even if a woman doesn't intimately know someone who has been abused, we are encountering survivors on a daily basis. What advice do you have for us when we interact with survivors such as grocery clerks, authority figures, friends, and co-workers?

Cecil: This answer probably sounds negative but it's important. 

1. Don't take the initiative even if you know the man was abused.
2. Let him open up and speak about his abuse. If he opens up to you, it's like a big risk for him. Don't let him regret it.
3. Encourage him, but don't give him answers—even if you're convinced you know exactly what he needs to hear.
4. Please don't use phrases such as, "You're special," or "I love you." We heard those words from the adults who stole our childhood.
5. Don't touch him unless you're certain it's all right. Some men freeze when touched. Honor that confiding trust and don't tell his story to anyone—anyone—without his permission.

You reference the masks that men who've been abused wear, as well as the masks we all wear in public. In the past few years, "masks" have been associated with presenting our "false selves" to the world. I like what you believe though, that all the masks are glimpses of the "real" person. Please tell us more about this. 

The masks abused men wear show a glimpse of who we are. Another way to say it is that the masks often show you who we'd like to be.

Before I dealt with my abuse, others referred to me as a happy person. That was true—sometimes. I wanted to be happy and to enjoy my life.

The masks aren't intentional deception. In fact, the masks aren't about relating to or impressing others. Think of them as protection. We weren't aware of not being our true selves as much as it was our way to retreat from our pain. 

I'm married to an amazing man and have the privilege of knowing, loving, and raising three boys. I'm passionate about intentionally respecting all the men in my life. In your book you discuss survivors becoming victims a second time by the inner abuse they subject themselves to. How can we as women make sure we aren't subjecting our men to a third round of victimization?  

Be sensitive to him and his mood.   

Don't pry.  When we know we're loved for who we are and not for the good things we do, we can and will open up. We want to open up, even though it scares some men so badly they can't do it.

I lived in silence about my abuse for 40 years. My wife didn't suspect, and she did the one thing I needed: She loved me without any conditions. That's a cliché, but I don't think most men feel that depth of love. It took me years of marriage before I was convinced Shirley loved me just for who I was.

We all have roles within the family structure. As the fifth of seven children, I was the good boy. I did good things for people and got along well. On an unconscious level, I felt that as long as I was good people would like me. I needed someone who would love me at my worst as well as my best. Shirley was that person.

My best friend, David, was as firm in his irrefutable love as Shirley. Encourage him to open up to other men. Too many women carry the emotional issues for men, but they need other men. There are things about our abuse that are easier to discuss with another male than with a female.

Cecil, Thank you for your time and especially for sharing your thoughts on a very difficult subject. 

For more information visit: Men Shattering the Silence.

Book Stuff I Like

 Run, don't walk to get this one friends. Jonathan Acuff's Stuff Christians Like is laugh out loud funny. It takes a lot to get me ROTF laughing, but this book did it. Sometimes I would have to stop reading because I was tired from laughing! A huge thanks to Zondervan for providing me with a review copy.

Sometimes, we fall in love on mission trips even though we know we’ll break up when we get back. Sometimes, you have to shot block a friend’s prayer because she’s asking God to bless an obviously bad dating relationship. Sometimes, you think, “I wish I had a t-shirt that said ‘I direct deposit my tithe’ so people wouldn’t judge me.”

Sometimes, the stuff that comes with faith is funny.

This is that stuff.

Jonathan Acuff’s Stuff Christians Like is your field guide to all things Christian. In it you’ll learn the culinary magic of the crock-pot. Think you’ve got a Metro worship leader-Use Acuff’s checklist. Want to avoid a prayer handholding faux pas? Acuff has you covered.

Like a satirical grenade, Acuff brings us the humor and honesty that galvanized more than a million online readers from more than 200 countries in a new portable version. Welcome to the funny side of faith.

Being convicted has never been so much fun.

Here is an interview with Jonathan on writing:

How did you get involved in writing?
A teacher in the third grade laminated some poems I wrote and I fell in love with it then.

What was the most difficult aspect of the writing process?
Finishing a piece. Starting is so much easier.

What did you enjoy most about the writing process?
The brainstorming part. 

How do you find time to write?
I get up at 5AM before anyone in my family is up.

What would you say to someone who wants to become a published author?

Pick a time to write and then do it. Don’t debate whether you will write each day, just write. 

Click the cover to purchase Jonathan's book at Amazon.

Cecil Murphey Appreciation

June has been declared Cecil Murphey appreciation month. He has written or coauthored more than 100 books including the New York Times best- seller 90 Minutes in Heaven. 

I love his books but appreciate his teaching most of all. I'm in an online Writer's Group where Cec is a moderator. In the interest of keeping my inbox clean, I delete hundreds of emails per month from that loop. But not the ones from Cecil Murphey. I keep those carefully stored and read them at least once a week. 

You see, he took the time on several occasions to respond to my writing personally. I have been most encouraged in my career, by him. He speaks about allowing God to hold his hands and pour into him, and as the Father of Writing, Cec turns around and freely pours himself into hundreds of writers. 

You know that question people love to ask, "If you could meet anyone who would it be?" My dream is to meet and take a class from Cecil Murphey. (Number two is to meet and sing with Phil Vassar, but I digress.)

I'm so honored because in July, Cecil will be writing a guest post here at Krellfish. I will also be reviewing his latest book, When A Man You Love Was Abused.

Thank you for everything Cec, you are deeply appreciated.

 

Some Conference Highlights

This past weekend was the 10th Anniversary of the Christian Writer's Guild Writing for the Soul Conference. It was tremendous.

A couple of highlights:

Max Lucado was the keynote one evening. He reminded me that I will never write better than I live. I want to be a good writer. I better live well.

Phil Vischer surprised me with his powerful story. He created VeggieTales in 1990 and has a new company called Jellyfish Labs. The real story however, is in the way God moved in his life. Reaching a place of utter brokenness, Phil is now able to integrate faith in a fresh and authentic way, through his new company. I encourage you to check out his story, you'll be glad you did.

And a classic Audra moment:

At dinner one evening I sat next to a Neurologist, who was accompanying his writer wife. I let 30 minutes go by before asking if I could get his opinion on a medical question. He welcomed my question and I launched into Landon's story of his severe head injury. I threw out all my big terms: post traumatic memory loss, post concussive syndrome, etc. I wrapped up with, "So in your opinion is it normal for him to have these headaches for so long?"

"I really couldn't say, that's out of my area of expertise," he said.

"But you're a Neurologist."

"I'm a Urologist."

I died a thousand deaths.

"Well, you'll be happy to know my son's urine is a pale yellow, he seems really hydrated. . ."

Wordless Wednesday

Three generations and still going strong. This beautiful Colorado country inspires me deeply, my mind never stops writing endless stories........

Head over to 5 Minutes for Mom for more Wordless Wednesday Pictures.