Kindles for Kids & Anedra and the Fish Prince Fairy Tale

KINDLES FOR KIDS is asking for fairy tales to load onto kindles so hospitalized children will have something to read. I've wanted to contribute, but... well... who isn't busy? (Click here for more info on this worthy cause.)
I don't know if I'll make the deadline, but I thought I'd start a fairy tale here and see where it goes.
Ahem.
ANEDRA AND THE FISH PRINCE
Not so very long ago, a middle aged fisherman and his wife and daughter lived by a stream that tumbled into the sea. The fisherman was mild-mannered and steady in his work, his wife was diligent in keeping house and caring for her family, and the teenage daughter was remarkably beautiful and quite lazy. With her head of dark curls and blouse of scarlet, she'd usually leave her room in a mess and skip down the stairs to coax her mother for money so she could go to town and socialize and buy sweets.
Her mother, looking upon her only child's bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and endearing smile, would say, "Anedra, I cannot refuse you, but I do wish you would help me around the house."
"Later," Anedra said, her hand outstretched, her smile sparkling. "Thank you, Mama." She kissed her mother on the cheek and bounced out the door, giving her father an enthusiastic wave on her way to town.
Then one day, with her father out fishing as usual, Anedra came bouncing down the stairs. When she saw her mother's face, she stopped. The way the light came in through the small window showed lines on her mother's skin that Anedra hadn't noticed before. Shadows sat beneath her mother's eyes, and her mouth was drawn down until she looked 100 years old.
"Mama, are you all right?" Anedra asked, moving to her side.
Her mother looked up and tried to smile. "I don't feel well today, dear. That's all."
Anedra felt a wave of concern crash over her heart. For the first time, she thought about how her mother might feel. "What can I do to help you?" Anedra asked.
Her mother stared at her with concern in her eyes. She placed a hand on Anedra's forehead. "My daughter, are you well?"
Anedra laughed at her mother's expression. "I am doing better than you. Come over here and put your feet up. Let me make you something soothing to drink. Shall I wash the dishes for you? I think I can figure it out."
Although she walked like she was in a dream, Anedra's mother followed her daughter's instruction to sit on a chair and put her feet up. Then she watched her daughter bustle about the kitchen, wiping up spills, cleaning dishes, sweeping the floor. What had come over her daughter?
To Be Continued Next Week...

Chicken Troubles

It's enough to drive you to drink, or... well, whatever your vice may be.
THE SAD CHICKEN STORY:
Once upon a time we got some chickens. (Last year, twelve of them.) When they were teenagers in chicken years, we sent them outside to get a job. They lived in a lovely apartment with food, water, and roosting spots on a wooden castle. (Really.)
Then, two of them gave in to temptation and got TOO CLOSE TO THE FENCE, allowing some short, dark, and handsome predator to pull them through the fence. Trouble was, they didn't fit. They went out in pieces.
The next morning, the tragedy was discovered, along with one surviving chicken dubbed "Wingless," because, well, she got too close to the line of temptation and lost a wing, but her life was saved.
Wingless and her surviving sisters began earning their keep by producing lovely brown eggs. They enjoyed leaving their apartment to scratch in the yard and sunbathe their russet feathers and yellow beaks beneath the sun's warm rays.
Then tragedy struck again when a Strange Dog entered the yard through an open gate and carried a chicken home to meet its family. We never saw that chicken again.
Nine sisters remained. The gate was reinforced and closed every day. But who would have thought that the chain link fence would give way to a burrowing dog with his cold eyes fixed on Wingless? It turns out that she only got two lives, because she's a chicken, not a cat.
Eight chickens left. Fewer eggs in the fridge. And the neighbor up the street has never lost a single chicken, to dogs or raccoons or speeding cars or space aliens or anything.
Time to readdress the situation. Spiky chicken collars, anyone?
This sad but true tale provides a good model for story writing. A goal (chickens) fraught with various troubles (separate predator attacks) and finishing with a solution. (Ninja chickens. They look cute in their little black belts.)
Now go write a story. It's good for you.
(See "What Brothers Do" at shirleybahlmann.blogspot by clicking here!)

Passage on the Titanic - trailer for Anita Stansfield's new book!

My sister won a Kindle... I'm hoping her magic assimilates to me by related DNA, because I'm posting this trailer so I have a chance to win!

The Kindness of Jeffrey Scott Savage

Jeffrey Scott Savage, who just signed with Harper Collins after beginning with little Utah based Covenant publishers, is a kind man. He spent time talking to me at LTUE ("Life, the Universe, and Everything" held at Utah Valley University.) His kindness was greatly appreciated, especially since he's a busy guy.
I've actually heard stories of other big name authors who leave book signings early because they are too tired or annoyed with the lines of people, or who ignore other writers as being beneath them. I know a few authors who've made it big and I've seen an aloofness in some of them. Perhaps rightly so, as they may get more attention than they want. But Jeff has managed to find that rare balance of professionalism and kindness.
As I was getting ready to leave the conference the next day, that very same Jeff Savage passed me in the hall without acknowledging me. But I didn't mind. Of course he didn't see me. He was deep in conversation with another conference attendee, a man whose face was set with determination as he conversed with Jeff aabout his writing dreams.
I couldn't help smiling as I turned away.

Lost and Not Found



I seem to have a habit of losing things. For example, I must clip my keys to some large object, preferably one I carry with me, in order to severely cut the risk of losing them. (I once found my keys in a garbage can!) I recently lost a shirt that I was determined to keep track of. (No, it wasn't the one I was wearing. It's not even mine! Someone else lost it!) Now I've lost some Very Important Papers that I saw only yesterday. Where, oh, where could they be? They are not in the vicinity of where I last saw them. They are not where they are supposed to be. (I sometimes subconsciously put things away. Good for me.)
This losing-stuff business is the very reason I carry paper with me everywhere, even having some handy at my bedside. I must capture writing ideas before they are lost. Which makes me wonder all over again...where do things go when they are lost?

Life in a Tent

 It wasn't originally for sleeping in. It was for crawling inside to draw cool pictures on the fabric with a light pen. But when your bed is by the window, and it's cold outside, and your tent is ON your bed, and you crawl inside to draw and fall asleep and are warm for the first time without a mountain of blankets smooshing down your lungs, then you get the idea that sleeping in tents is not just a summertime activity. It puts me in mind of those "accidents" that ended up being great discoveries... the Ivory soap that was whipped too long in the mixing bowl, but the worker didn't want to get in trouble so processed it anyway, causing a flurry of homemakers demanding the "soap that floats," the inventor who worked diligently toward making a new, improved rubber product for the efforts of World War II and ended up cavorting around the lab with his fellow researchers and their blobs of Silly Putty. What happy accidental inventions do you know about, or which ones have you made?  

No Such Thing as Writer's Block

     I've heard the term "Writer's Block" since I was a kid (well, I'm still a kid, just a bigger one) and I've come to discover that there is no such thing. Instead, what a writer suffers from is an abundance of ideas, so many roads to choose from without knowing which one to take. You may consider that the same thing as Writer's Block, but think about this: if you tell yourself you're blocked, how is your sub-conscience going to take it? Probably by lying down and giving up. Yet if you view the situation as having so many ideas that you don't know which one to choose, then what? Your sub-conscience is going to believe in infinite possibilities. Much nicer.

     Now that we know what it is when we don't know where to go with our story, how do we deal with it? Simple. By writing. Even if you don't know exactly what to write, if you're writing, the very act will generate ideas. If you have an idea of where you want your story to go, then as you write you will uncover the thread you were searching for and continue on your merry way. The fastest path I've found to getting to the other side of clogged ideas is to be nonsensical while writing through the clog. Have the dog dance the Hokey Pokey on the table top. Have Mom jump out the laundry room window and catch a tree limb to swing herself up among the stars. Have Dad be the game show host of "Famous Garbage" where he interviews celebrities about their trash. The point is, the more ridiculous and free-thinking you are when you "write through the clog," the sooner you'll find that thread you were looking for and get going with your real story. It's great fun, and the "delete" button will clear things up nicely.

     Now get out there and write. What other excuses could you possibly have?