A Classic ZippityZern: ALLEGEDLY

Some time ago, I watched an Elvis impersonator dude get arrested, interrogated, searched, accused, and observed with a jaundiced eye for possibly whipping up a batch of Ricin in his kitchen. It made me wonder. What would our neighbors say about us on cable TV if we were hauled off for cooking up crazy crap in a crock-pot?

Allegedly.

See something. Say something.

I’ve been trying to imagine what the neighbors are “seeing” at our place when they peek over our wire field fence, realizing if I said something every time I saw something at my neighbor’s house, I’d have the See-Something-Say-Something folks on speed dial.

I mean how weird does it have to be to qualify as something?

It’s not hard to imagine one of those breathless, throaty cable reporters stuffing a microphone in my next-door neighbor’s face and asking, “So, is it true that the Zern family had some unusual weekend rituals? Allegedly?”

“Rituals, no, but they seemed to be overly found of circling.”

Reporter nods and asks, “Satanic symbols? Hex signs? Crop circles?”

“No. Nothing like that, but when they sit outside in their crappy lawn chairs they always wind up in a circle. But it migrates.”

“What does?” The reporter will look perplexed but intrigued.

“The yard circle. In the summer they circle under that big maple tree, but in the winter they land on the septic tank.” At this point our neighbor gets tired of pointing and drops his hand.

“And did you see that as an indication that they were cooking up crazy crap in a crock-pot.”

Hesitating, my neighbor will scratch his head. “No. But those grandkids are constantly peeing on stuff.”

There it is. Public urination and yard circles. Our family would be good for at least one charge of felony mischief.

But that’s not as bad as what goes on at our next-door neighbor’s house. Allegedly.

Our neighbor’s eight-year old son informed my daughter that on Sundays his family likes to practice “knifing.”

She asked, “What’s knifing?”

“You know,” he said, “when you make a target and practice throwing knives at it.”

I’m a little embarrassed to admit that our family is way behind on its knifing practice. Don’t tell.

Linda (Don’t Look. Don’t Tell.) Zern

I OBJECT

I'll have everyone know that the picture at the top of the page is the real me.  I look like this every single day, rain or shine, early or late, wet or dry.  The picture underneath is not me, no matter what my grandchildren claim. 

Glitter Up Nuts

My husband Sherwood travels everywhere, all the time. It’s not as cool as it sounds. Mostly it means getting ‘felt up’ by airport officials on every continent.

Our overseas communication policy is to talk twice a day, every day by cell phone. This allows us to make sure that neither one of us has been kidnapped by near sighted sex slavers. It also allows us to handle family business long distance. Examples of family business include: I’m sad because raccoons got in the garbage again; where’s the barn broom; or why didn’t you buy rabbit food? That kind of stuff.

However, since Homeland Security has been under the gun . . . oops . . . no, no not gun . . . I mean G for glitter, U for up, and N for nuts . . . since they’ve been under the Glitter Up Nuts for collecting overseas and domestic calls and making notes, we’ve decided to come up with a code word system for our private telephone business.

Think Enigma Code for Dummies.

Please don’t spread it around. This is just between us: you and me and some pimply computer wonk at Homeland Security.

Here’s the breakdown.

When I say, “Come home and drill something!”

It’s code. It means, come home and trap the raccoons trying to turn our garbage cans into apartments for their furry little jerk selves.

If I claim, “The roosters are howling.”

It means that the Muslim neighbors have been firing off enough ammunition at tin can targets to make our dogs refuse to go outside to relieve themselves, and I’m worried they’ll explode from urine retention.

When I declare, “Ugh! The dolts are in the house.”

That’s political commentary meaning that there are actual dolts in the actual big house on the actual hill acting like loonies, or how the heck did Alan Grayson become our representative? Doesn’t he live in Orlando?

It’s a sign of the times. The words only mean what I mean them to mean; get what I mean? Or I’m thinking of buying a Glitter Up Nut.

We also have a code word should either one of us be kidnapped by near sighted sex slavers, but Sherwood is always forgetting what the code word is, which makes me testy when I quiz him. He can remember a thousand weird computer acronyms for when Uganda calls, but he can’t remember our sex slaver kidnapper code word. What’s up with that?

See why I need a Glitter Up Nut?

Linda (Enigma Elf) Zern

*READ*WRITE*DISCUSS*

REVIEWS FOR MOONCALF!!!

THANKS TO MAGGIE C. FOR HER FOUR STAR AMAZON REVIEW OF MOONCALF:

 "I think Mooncalf is a moving story about how the world should be. We should all love like Olympia and Leah do. While they saw their differences, they appreciated the beauty in all of their characteristics, no matter how different they are."

Read the full review:  COPY AND PASTE or click on the link in the links box!

http://www.amazon.com/Mooncalf-Linda-L-Zern/dp/0975309862/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1393029690&sr=8-1&keywords=mooncalf

Coach-of-All-Sports

In honor of the Winter Olympics, a re-posting for my husband . . .



“He needs to get his blade on the ice.”

Looking over at my husband, I tried to decide if he had one or two chocolate donuts in his mouth.

“Get your blade on the ice,” he yelled through chocolate glaze and donut dust.

I squinted over my glasses at the Olympic speed skaters gliding around and around in a frenzy of bad posture and arm swinging.

“Babe, you’ve never speed skated in your entire life.”

He ignored this fundamental reality.

“Dig, dig, dig!” he yelled. “He’s going to loose if he doesn’t dig.” He punctuated his coaching acumen by pushing a half empty bag of chocolate covered donuts back under the bedspread. It’s possible he thought they would cook better under there.

Later, as skiers flew down an icy mountainside he offered up this tip.

“She’s going to be way off the mark if she keeps coming out of her tuck that way.” He was snacking on Swiss Cake Rolls and Pepsi by this time.

I drew a line when he started to coach the curlers on the most advantageous amount of bend to have in their knees to properly push the big-frozen-boulder-thingy down the shuffleboard court made of ice.

“Stop. You do not know the first thing about speed skating, alpine skiing, or curling, which, I happen to know, you do not even consider a real sport.”

“What?” He look offended and a little hurt.

“You! You become the coach-of-all-sports when the Olympics come on.”

He pulled a bag of Doritos from underneath his pillow, shrugged, and said, “You and I ice skated that time in Ottawa, and the kid and I went skiing that time in West Virginia.”

“In West Virginia, where you pointed, hooted, and laughed your butt off on the ski lift when you saw some poor kid crash, burn, and roll down the mountain like a bag of spilled marbles,” I reminded him.

“So?”

“That kid was your kid, our kid. That’s it. That’s the sum total of your winter sports expertise.”

Music swelled as they played one of those montages where lithe, athletic young men and women raced, spun, and sailed across the screen into glory and history. I reached for my husband’s grease smeared hand as our National Anthem played.

“It is inspiring.” I blinked hard to hold back sentimental tears.

“You’re right,” Sherwood said, thoughtfully. “So, you know what, I’m thinking that from now on, when I eat Swiss cake rolls I’m only going to drink water.”

I patted his hand.

“Way to go, Coach.”

Week Wrap Up + Book Mash Up + Currently Reading = BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS!

Thanks to Bekah  for her review of MOONCALF (# 4 in the list on the video). She talks young adult novels and graciously included MOONCALF for review.  Five stars out of five. 

beawesomebeabooknut.blogspot.com 

Friction and Gravity

I have been in search of a writers’ group, full of people of like mind, similar writing goals, happy to talk plot, reluctant to talk mental illnesses (their own or mine), and willing to provide printed copies of their latest efforts so that I can follow along with my finger as they read their great American novels. My search has taken me to a college with ivy on the walls, master classes with the rich and famous, the Space Coast Writers’ Guild, and the Saint Cloud public library.

Everywhere I wind up, I learn a little something . . .

At my college, I learned that smoking the Mary Jane is more legal in some spots than in others. Early on, as I walked across campus with a school administrator, I caught an unmistakable whiff of the recreational . . . stuff. The school administrator seemed oblivious. I acted oblivious. I wondered if I should invest in an oxygen mask for strolls across campus, knowing that I would be tested for illegal drugs in order to become a volunteer member of the Osceola County mounted posse.

Apparently, riding a horse while stoned in the county of Osceola is frowned upon—not so much in Winter Park.

Master classes are just that, classes taught by masters in their art. The art, in this case, would be writing. What I’ve learned from the masters: good writers are not necessarily good talkers; a lot of writers talk trash about capitalism; a lot of writers never sell their books for less than list price; some masters are meek, self deprecating, and kind, but then they can afford to be. They’re stupid rich. Or as one of my teachers declared, “If you aren’t writing for money. You’re an idiot.”

I dig it.

Being a member of the Space Coast Writers’ Guild has given me the heads up. The space coast is a happening place for writers and their concerns: contests, book fairs, book signings, conferences, seminars, library spotlights . . . I’ve also realized that for every three new techniques I master to promote my books, there are seventy-two other high tech tricks waiting to be learned. The whole thing makes me want to be Emily Dickinson, wearing lovely gowns of lace and organza, alone in my isolated attic room, writing strange and convoluted poems about . . . whatever I want, whenever I want—for cash and prizes.

I’m an idiot.

And then there’s the writers’ group at the Saint Cloud library, headed up by a lovely man who declared his deep and fervent desire to break into the genre of mystery writing. Presently, he ghostwrites erotica, and it’s become something of a drag. Or as he declared, “Let’s face it, there are only so many ways you can ‘do it.’” Can’t argue with that.

I got to thinking about this lovely writer’s dilemma. Maybe, he could write space erotica. You know, people in space on their way to Mars, who have to figure out how to ‘do it’ in zero gravity. But then I remembered my lessons from high school biology.

“If it wasn’t for friction, there’d be no babies.”

And there it is—friction and gravity. The physical laws of the physical world—it’s just tough to argue with the law.

Riding a horse while stoned is stupid. Writing for money can pay the rent. Emily Dickenson is dead; it’s time to learn to tweet. Erotica may pay the rent, but mystery writing won’t run you up against the laws of friction and gravity. The sky’s the limit.

The search continues as I seek others of my kind. I learn a little here. I learn a little there. And it’s all good. And fun. And educational. And grist for the writing-mill that is my literary journey.

Linda (Grinding it Out) Zern

BOOK SIGNING AND BRUNCH for MOONCALF

Thanks Thousander [Book] Club for the fun brunch and book signing. Talking books with book lovers is part of the good stuff!

Linda L. Zern signing one of her earlier works:  The Long-Promised Day

What's a book signing without a game of trivia and the prize, a ten dollar gift card.

A young fan . . .

C is for Chump

I married my high school sweetheart. My husband married his high school sweetheart. Which means that we married each other. It also means that we went to high school together. He followed me around for all of my sophomore year. I had no idea. Back then it was called ‘kind of cute.’ Today it’s called stalking.

After the stalking phase, we actually took a class together—some kind of writing class, I can’t remember what it was called—Word Mongering, Essays Anyone Can Understand, How to BS Your Way Through the Rest of your Life, something.

The first thing our public school teacher told us was that no one in that class, not one of us, was college material.

I believed her.

I’m not sure if Sherwood cared enough to believe her. I think he was still mildly stalking me at this point.

The second thing our public school teacher said left most of us shocked and shaken.

“I can smell plagiarism. And I mean smell it, not to mention recognize it when I see it,” she said, fixing her plagiarism-detecting eyes on us as she looked down her plagiarism-sniffing nose at us. She repeated her plagiarism spotting abilities, many times. We trembled.

Okay, I trembled. Sherwood was checking out my Sweet Honesty t-shirt.

I went home and sweated over our first writing assignment, two pages of ‘something that interests you,’ every word mine, every thought from me, every sentence coming out of my head. What was my paper about? I have no idea. But I know one thing, IT WAS MY ORIGINAL WORK.

Sherwood went home cracked open the Funk and Wagnall’s Encyclopedia and copied one of the articles—WORD FOR WORD—straight out of the book. I remember what his TOTALLY FAKE essay was about—The Boston Freaking Marathon.

We handed in our papers to the fake paper-sniffing teacher.

Okay, let’s recap. I wrote a totally original essay. Sherwood cheated like a guy selling fake Gucci’s in New York City.

Sherwood the Cheater made . . . wait for it . . . an A, with “Very Interesting!” written across the top of that fake paper like a going out of business banner.

My paper? I made . . . wait for it . . . a C . . . for chump.

Later, he had the effrontery—how’s that word for a C for chump writer—to claim that he didn’t copy the article word for word. He left out words like written by and see reference.

I admit; it was a little discouraging, but I got over it and had the effrontery to finally go to college and keep right on writing. I also married the boy, but I encouraged him to pursue a career in computers rather than wordsmithing.

Linda (Tattle Tale) Zern

The Brave New Book Marketing World!

It's the fun new way of meeting and greeting and reaching out to the readers. It's so high tech it makes me a little bit dizzy. :)  Actually, it's a lot of fun to come into the 21st century and embrace the latest and greatest resources for getting connected.   

POPPY LOVE

My husband and I are halfway to a hundred. Or as I informed my college editing class, “I’ve lived half of a hundred years, and I have a lot to say.” And then I said some crazy crap about needing to take the grammar class so that I could say what I want to say more clearly. Then I failed my first grammar test.

Here’s what I’ve learned so far in Editing Essentials. Human beings can take the fun out of just about anything. Just. About. Anything.

“Hey there, Grog, I sure like those spear chuckers’ spears you’ve painted on that cave wall. Spear chuckers’, plural possessive, right?”

Not my husband, he’s a man who knows the value of simple pleasures and simple fun. He knows that grandchildren would rather play “Monster” with Poppy in a dark yard, than join a league of any kind, ever.

Monster is a simple game. The children run screaming in terror while Poppy sneaks up on them, leaps out at them, or hunts them down like a spear chucker stalking baby bison. The game is considered successful when one or more of the younger children are booger crying from fright, and the older children are so sweaty from running around they smell like baby mammoths.

It’s a little known fact that a romping good game of Monster can cripple Poppy up for two, even three days. But still he answers the call of “Play Monster, Poppy. Play Monster.”

And that’s why when our ten grandchildren walk in the front door they take one look at me and then ask, “Where’s Poppy?” Because he’s fun, that’s why. No quizzes. No tests. No note cards. No stupid, endless rules. Just fun. Just screaming, adrenalin pumping, heart stopping fun. And what’s wrong with that? Not a single thing.

Linda (Chopped Liver) Zern

Wow! Just Wow!

"All of my children love this book, but my daughter Phoenix was more drawn to it then the other two. She has a condition called PDD, Pervasive Developmental Disorder, it is on the Autism Spectrum.

I can't tell you why, many professionals we came across said it may be the simplicity, the fact that it wasn't so busy, because it was black and white, we don't know and maybe even the beautiful story of how it is told.

Nonetheless, Phoenix loves this book and as her mother that's all that matters, it was one of the first books she was able to describe what was happening, this book helped spark her love of reading and for that I will be forever grateful. Thank you Linda." (Paulette Reese Hart)

MOONCALF - AN INTERVIEW

MY FIRST INTERVIEW: VERY EXCITED TO TALK BOOKS WITH MYTHICAL BOOKS * Here's how it shook out. And a big, big thank you for taking the time to read and wonder.  

Mythical Books’ Interview Questions for

Mooncalf by Linda L Zern

 1.      A reviewer said: “There are several moments in the book that hit me as a reader like a punch to the chest and subsequently ripped my heart out.” Having in view that the book is for middle school readers, did you felt the need/wish to leave room for hope? Why so?

2.      The most of Amazon reviewers (if not all of them) are adults and they enjoyed the book. How different is to write a book for young / middle grade readers and to send them a deeper message?

3.      My personal opinion is that many authors of our day forget to use figures of speech. What do you think about these? Are they obsolete, do the contemporary stories still need them?

4.      What do you think about young adult literature trend in our day?

5.      Do you have a message for parents?

English is not my native language so I was “amused” about the “Mooncalf” word because it can be translated differently: from dreamer, monster to idiot. If you think useful for readers, I would want to ask you “What is the significance of the title?”



Cremona


Dear Cremona c/o Kathy,

First, thank you for taking the time to read and comment on Mooncalf. I can’t thank you enough.

1. Your observation about  the “heart ripping”  aspect of the story is actually my observation. Often, my first question to reader’s is, “Is it too sad?” And I’ve been surprised by their focus on the love between the main characters, rather than the tragedy of it all.  Several readers of that age group have said to me, “But they loved each other.” That surprised me, but that seems to be what they are taking away from the book, for the most part. However, one of my readers did comment, “I liked them so much I just wanted them to go off and make a baby sitter's club or something.”  Alas, it’s not that kind of story, but more importantly, it wasn’t that kind of time in our history.  

2. It’s a little book about big hard issues. As for the deeper themes and messages, I was hoping to tell a story that could be read on several levels--crazy I know. My granddaughter (4th grade) sees a story about bullying, on the school bus, at school, etc. Older children seem to be able to bring more to the table as they read, focusing on the dynamic between the adults and the children, because, grownups sometimes get it wrong, the little calf encapsulating that hard fact. And adults tend to key in on the societal aspects of passing racism on to the next generation through the metaphors of the orange grove and grafting.

3. I agree with you about modern literature. I was raised on The Yearling, Where the Red Fern Grows, and Sounder. Books that left me shocked and shaken and changed. These were stories that touched my soul, and I have never forgotten them. I would like to believe that our children are still capable of being taught the power of symbol and metaphor. I would like to believe that  our children still need books that touch their souls, rather than just entertain for a time. But let’s face it. Literature has become a hard sell.

4. A lot of young adult literature is fun, and I love escapism as well as the next reader, but I hope that society isn’t ready to completely abandon little books about big hard issues.

5. Yes, I have a message for parents:  read with them, not at them; read with them and then discuss. Buy two copies or more, so that everyone has their own book. Start a family book club and make it a tradition.

6. I love words.  Mooncalf is a word that brings so much to the table. Once upon a time, mooncalf was a term used by farmers and ranchers to describe malformed or stillborn animals. Over time, the word morphed to mean someone who is overly trusting, even ridiculous. Who has not been a mooncalf at one time or another?

Again my sincere thanks,
Linda L. Zern          
    

Flash Card Daffy

Exceptional-ism. I’m for it.

Everyone can do something better than a lot of other people. No! Really. One of my granddaughters can correctly identify sixty-four flashcards of citrus tree diseases while wearing fox ears on her head. She’s flat out amazing.

The problem with modern day exceptional-ism is making it look like everyday brilliance, so folks won’t feel sad when they can’t name sixty-four different kinds of citrus tree diseases while wearing fox ears.

I get that, because I’m exceptional . . . well not sixty-four flash card memorizing exceptional but I think I can hold my own around a subject and a predicate.

“I’m exceptional, you know,” I inform my children, quite frequently.

They say, “Can I borrow six hundred bucks?”

I say, “I’ve written books, you know. One almost won a prize.”

They say, “Oh wow, that’s almost wow but not quite. Now about that six hundred bucks.”

Sigh.

It’s hard to be the exceptional when nobody notices. Or it could be the number of times I’ve done unexceptional stuff while they were hanging around.

“Hi, Mrs. Zern, are you here for your semi-annual teeth cleaning?”

“And floating,” I chirped as I winked and laughed.  (Floating is what you call what the vet does to old horses so their oats don’t fall out of their old, yellow teeth. And that’s why that’s funny.)

Absolutely no one gets the joke about floating. I laugh my exceptional laugh alone.

“Well, Mrs. Zern, there’s a bit of a problem.”

“Did I get the appointment wrong? It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, your appointment is Thursday—six months from now.”

Then there’s the whole losing your car in the parking lot, in the rain, while wearing a white shirt/skirt/caftan with socks and high heels. I’m an artist. I don’t have to dress normal, or have to know that the black Nissan Titan I was trying to break into wasn’t MY black Nissan Titan. It’s a kind of exceptional-ism—really exceptional daffiness.

It’s genetic. Once in a dash for the SHOTGUN seat in our white van, our four daffy children pushed, shoved, and argued their way across the parking lot at Sea World. They jumped into a white van. It wasn’t ours. My husband and I started up OUR white van and pretended to drive away.

Which proves how completely not brilliant it’s possible to be. We only pretended to abandon them. We had our chance and blew it.

No one is great at everything. Being great at everything isn’t exceptional it’s just annoying.

Linda (Flash Card Daffy) Zern

 



 

 




  



  

CELEBRATE LOVE with a copy of MOONCALF