Marilyn Friesen

↑ Grab this Headline Animator

Showing posts with label editing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label editing. Show all posts

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Is This a Perfect Day?

Did I have a perfect day? Well, it’s not over yet, but let me see what it has been like so far.
It’s  been raining for hours so it’s getting to the standing water stage but before it was that bad I had decided to check my blood pressure. That’s the little gauge that decides for me whether I should go for a walk or not. Yup, the numbers were creeping up again. Not into the dangerous zone, fortunately, but nevertheless: excuse the old dried out term, prevention is better than cure.
               My daughter graciously offered the use of her umbrella and even though getting a little wet has never bothered me, I accepted. I called my good ole buddy, Kasa. She wasn’t bouncing all over with enthusiasm like the day we went to the park in the city so was more manageable.  Off we went. Wasn’t long before that trusty umbrella was blown inside out and had to be hurriedly put away. Wasn’t long either before my running shoes were letting my socks get soggy, but hey you can’t walk in boots can you? I made it to the intersection and back, wet feet and all. Was it a perfect day, so far?
               It was a mighty fine day to be editing the sequel to Two Mother’s, Twin Daughters. www.marilynshistoricalnovels.com I don’t need to look for any excuse to write but you mean I have to go through the whole manuscript and find all the times I used the word ‘just’ unnecessarily? That is not all, what about, ‘really’ and ‘very’, and countless words that end with ‘fully’? Gulp, or was that a sigh. I thought I was a pretty interesting storyteller but taking out those words is sure tightening up my yarn. Oops, I better go back and take out that ‘pretty’, also. I’m working on it folks, but this old girl has a lot more to do before you can get a peek at the book about Emily and Alice.

               Right now, I’m waiting for hubby to come home. BLT sandwiches is on the menu to celebrate our own tomatoes ripening, but after that, whoopee, we are planning to head into town and buy a beautiful blue Volkswagen Tiguan AWD. 2009. Now you wise guys know we aren’t rolling in the bucks because of me being the author around the place, but, hey, I still think I’m having a perfect day because I have the peace of God in my heart in spite of the ups and downs of life. How about you? 

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

The Reluctant Drummer

Oh, I know, I know it's taking me an 'awful' long time to get this book out. Here's another tidbit to tantalize your taste buds, and maybe, jut maybe I'll hit send today, yet.  

This is based on a true story that happened in 1549. The wife's name was Hadewijk, but I don't know what the drummer's name was. It happened in Leeuwarden. Do you have any idea where that was?  It is supposed that the martyr was a man by the name of Sikke Sneijder.

“Fabian, please, just do as you’re told,” Hadewijk pleaded worriedly. “You cannot let them know that you are an Anabaptist supporter. Please, for my sake and the children’s don’t make a fuss about it.”

Fabian slammed his fist against the thick wooden table, making the dishes rattle. Anna and Daniel looked up from where they were playing beside the fireplace to see what all the noise was about.
  “Lower your voice,” Hadewijk whispered as she cleared the table.
Fabian scraped back his chair and stretched his legs. Then he tucked them in again and folded his arms across his brawny chest. He scowled.
 Hadewijk carefully stepped around the contented children to retrieve the cauldron of hot water hanging from a hook over the fireplace and prepared her dishwater.
“I’ve known Sikke all my life,” Fabian said when his wife’s long dress brushed against his leg. “Ever since he’s gone and got rebaptized he’s been more likable than ever.”

 He sunk lower into the chair.
 “Shh,” his wife cautioned, “The children are listening.”
He sighed, ignoring her comment. “Now that we are working in the same shop, it gives us plenty of opportunities to discuss what it truly means to be a Christian.
 “Fabian! That’s not safe!”
 “Will you quit worrying all the time? There are more important things than being ‘safe’! There’s a deep hunger in my soul that longs to be satisfied. I want to be sure me, you, and the children make it to Heaven, you know!”
Hadewijk didn’t answer.
“Well, he’s been found out. Someone tattled on him, and he was apprehended.”
Hadewijk groaned, “So he’s in prison now?”
 “Worse than that”—this time he did lower his voice—“he will be executed.”
 “Oh, no! What about Mary... and the little ones? Aren’t they expecting their second baby in a few months?”
Fabian nodded glumly. Daniel leaped up and placed his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Are you talking about ‘Uncle’ Sikke, Papa? Is he going to be killed?”

Fabian turned and hoisted the boy onto his lap. He brushed a lock of white blond hair off his forehead. Anna also stood watching them.

“Not only that but the authorities are insisting that I play the drum to drown out whatever the ‘martyrs”—for that’s what they are!!—have to say.

“Oh, Fabian, surely you didn’t object!”

“I knew better than to object vehemently, but I sure they know how I feel.”

He got up and reached for a bottle of homemade brew in the rough-hewn cupboard by the door. Maybe if I let myself get just a little bit intoxicated it won’t bother me so much.

Hadewijk cast him a stony glare. She never did like it when he drank too much, but this time, he promised he wouldn’t. 

Hadewijk sent the children off to bed. Fabian got the chickens in for the night then went for a long walk beneath the starlit sky. It did little to soothe his agitated spirit.

 “Keep the children off the streets,” Fabian warned the next day and was soon milling with the crowds in the filthy, congested marketplace.
He grimaced when he saw the crowd of soldiers forming a barricade around the prisoner, knowing  full well there were other sympathizers besides him that felt like an injustice was being done  that day. The leaders wanted to avoid a protest.  

He was feeling more than a little tipsy from that last mug of beer gulped down rather convulsively just before dragging himself out of the house. He dared not be late. 

“Ah, here comes the drummer! Now we can start.”

Sikke Sneijder met Fabian’s eye as they bound him, and Fabian dropped his gaze first. There was a light, nay a radiance resting on Sikke’s calm features. It seemed such a shame that a kindly, peace-loving gentleman’s life was to be cut short. “Start drumming, boy,” the magistrate bellowed. “We’re waiting.”

Fabian started drumming all right, and he did it more loudly and vigorously than the occasion required. “Hear ye, hear ye!” he shouted, “A good man is going to be put to death.” His slightly intoxicated tongue wanted to slur the words, but he tried even harder and pounded louder on the large skin-covered drum. 

“Take a look at good Sikke Sneijder; he was a peace-loving neighbor with a kindly heart. Look out for your pocketbooks, my friends, thieves are milling around waiting to rob you while this fine Christian is being offered up!”
 Someone snickered, and others elbowed each other in the ribs.
 “Yes, sir, folks, the world is being turned upside down, today. Mr. Sneijder is bound with chains while even our clergy gets away with wickedness.”
“Is he ever drunk!” someone hooted. “Yeah, crazy as a coot,” another man slapped his thigh then nudged in closer to get a better look at the prisoner who was trying to say something.

But it was Fabian's voice that carried the best. “Whores are stealing your husbands, women, while the upright are being butchered.

“Bang, bang, bangety bang. The wicked are free to roam the streets of our fine city. Bang, bang bangety bang-bang. And our leaders allow it!”

Some of the audience looked at each other then looked down.
“He speaks the truth” one woman whispered to her sister, who nodded her head in agreement.
Soon it was all over. Not one blasphemous utterance spewed forth from the benign saint’s lips, nor even a word of protest did Sikke utter.
 He was ready to go, many observed, and has no fear of Hell or even purgatory.
Fabian looked at his friend one last time, and then his eyes locked with someone else’s. The bailiff: and that man was furious.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

The Big Boo-Boo

The Big Boo- Boo!
I wrote this article at home the other day with the intent of posting it while at the library. Problem is I forgot to reread it, and there is a glaring flaw. I’ll fix it now, but it’s pretty awkward having a mistake like that in an article about writing! 
Hint: I missed the author’s name. Did anyone catch it?

Dare to Dream
                Are dreams worth pursuing?  Can they be pursued? One of my favorite poems as a teenager had the line “Don’t be distracted by less worthy deeds.”
                Okay, maybe you’ve guessed by now that I love to write. Writing to me is like painting was to someone like Norman Rockwell. It gives the mundane, the obscure a new shot of life. Writing can and should give new insight and vitality to commonly held conceptions.
                And so I write. Problem is there is a whole tidal wave of other aspiring writers struggling to the top, seeking to be noticed. We have challenges that weren’t faced back in the 1950’s. When To Kill A Mocking Bird was written the editor ended up having more faith in ---Harper Lee’s book  than she had herself. Apparently in frustration she threw the manuscript out the open window, but the editor encouraged her to gather up those papers and try, try again.
Who helps us? Self-Publishing has gotten a bad rap from people, ya, like me, who read their manuscripts a ‘thousand’ times and become blind to the ‘million’ little typos that glare at them after the book is off the press. UHH! Who wants to read that? Not even me.
BUT. We put a tremendous amount of work into it. BUT we are sure are ideas are great: if the reader can see past those awful typos: if there was a way to struggle against the human tide of other writers who are also flooding the market. Ever feel that way? Unless you are smugly holding the key to success that I haven’t found yet, of course you do.
And so fellow writers what are we going to do?  I know for a fact I will continue to write because I love to, and those earlier disgraces haven’t thrown me into despair. Fact is I redid Mary’s Diary, Jesus through His Mother’s Eyes because I believed in it, and now the present copy is far better than the first.
I’m doing the same with Two Mothers and Twin Daughters.  I can’t believe how enriching an experience it is to rewrite a favorite story after the earlier (humiliating) publication several years ago.
Okay, I admit I’ll just a little old oyster polishing, polishing that pearl inside me, but maybe someday you and I can, like Anna Pavlova, the famous dancer, learn the true meaning of success. Do you know what she said? Here is my paraphrase:

Success is having people loving what you do.

Just so you don’t forget my name, I’ll sign it. : )

Marilyn Friesen

Monday, November 10, 2014

Feeding the Little Folk

Listen, I won't even pretend to have a corner on the history of Jesus as a child. This is pure imagination.

The life of Jesus through His Mother's eyes,

Dear Diary,
  H'm. It's pretty quiet around here. I wonder what the boys are up to. I finished making the soup for dinner, checked to see if baby Lydia was still asleep then wandered outdoors. James was close by. He called to me and I duly admired what he was building in the sand pile with scraps of lumber from the carpenter's shop.
"Where's Yeshua, (Jesus), "I soon asked.
"He went to yonder woods to feed the little folk, " James solemnly replied as he stuck a row of sticks in the ground.What a perfect day to be out of doors. I walked eagerly down the path to 'yonder' woods. Since no one was around I