Take it with a Grain of Salt

Here’s the thing, I’ve been doing some research for a current WIP that involves salt and pepper shakers. That’s right. I won’t tell you too much right now, except that it’s funny. I thought it would be fun to share some of my findings with you. First a little history:
Before the 1940s when someone figured out how to make salt free-flowing, salt came to the table in a chunk and you had to scrape it onto your food. Pepper, not so much in a chunk but still not in a shaker or a cellar until then. This was when ceramics came into play and for one reason or another manufactures began manufacturing salt and pepper shakers in a variety of colors, shapes and sizes. I mean wouldn’t you love to have heard that conversation. “Hey Harley, let’s make a salt shaker shaped like a goose—ha, ha.” Who decided this? And human nature being what it is, folks started to collect them. It is actually a pretty popular hobby all over the world with millions of shakers out there to collect. Think I’m kidding? Did you know there is a Salt and Pepper Shaker museum in Gatlinburg, TN. That’s right. A whole museum with a website and everything. The owner says she has over 20,000 shakers and boasts that she owns the world’s smallest and the world’s largest salt shaker. Clubs have even sprung up across the country where collectors can do whatever it is salt and pepper shaker enthusiasts do. “Oh, look at that one, Norma, it’s shaped like a unicorn, the salt flaws from its horn like fairy dust.” Or, “I’ll trade you my Popeye shakers for your Pumpkins.” I’m told you need to be on the look-out for hidden repairs. Apparently, even the salt and pepper collecting world is not without its charlatans. I for one am glad we have shakers. It’s so much easier to control the condiments and who isn’t thankful for well-controlled condiments. Did you know that almost 50 million tons of salt are produced each year in the United States. That’s a lot of salt. But anyhoo, here’s some pictures you might enjoy. But please, just take it all with a grain of salt.



The cat's meow. Quite a catlection in the catelog on the cat category.



Elvis is in the house. Thank you very much.



These are called Longboys. As long as you're shaking, why not. Kind of cute actually.



And of course, what collection would be complete without salt and pepper earrings with salt and pepper inside. Now that's just aching for a MAcGyver episode. "With just the right amount of seasoning we can melt through these bars and escape." "Oh, MacGyver, I'm so glad I wore my salt and pepper earrings."

To Chuck or Not to Chuck. You Decide

Here’s the thing, I haven’t blogged about it yet because it took a few days to settle into my brain. And I reckon most of you already know, but The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow has been named a finalist for the prestigious ACFW Carol Award in the contemporary long division. I’m thrilled and maybe a bit stunned. I was never very good at accepting compliments and this, my loyal listeners is a huge one. I cried. Okay, there I said it. I cried when I saw my name. Well, actually I stared at the screen for a bout five minutes without blinking. Then I called my editor. She was in the car and couldn’t double check for me. But she did later and confirmed what I thought I was seeing was what I really saw. I am so honored. I am in such amazing, talented company. Congratulations to all the finalists. Bravo!!!
And I am going to the ACFW conference this September where I will attend the awards banquet. And this my friends, brings up an important questions and your chance to vote. Yes or no. Do I wear my trademark Chuck Taylor All Stars to the awards banquet?
Yes or No?
Oh, and someone out there offered to Bedazzle my Chuck Taylors All Stars. Whoever you are? Is the offer still good?

The Top Five Reasons to Attend a Writing Intensive

Here's the thing, this is such an incredible opportunity for anyone who wants to write a novel. A couple of years ago I would have driven three hours or more t attend. It's not often that a new writer or even a seasoned author gets to spend the entire day with an actively acquiring editor. And believe me, it doesn't get better than Barbara Scott. So here is a re-post of her post about why you should attend this workshop. If you live anywhere near the Philadelphia area you need to come--Lancaster, Baltimore even, Bucks County, Montgomery County, Susquehanna, etc. This opportunity will not come to the area for a while. Don't miss it. Barbara really has a heart for new writers and finding fresh voices. She found mine and it's been a great ride, great friendship.
Her Post:

A sign used to hang in my mother-in-law Betty's kitchen that read, "Life is short. Eat dessert first." The older I grow, the more I understand this axiom. Rather than worrying about things that might never happen and wasting our lives cleaning the refrigerator more than once a year, we should spend more of our time living our lives for God.

Has God called you to be a writer? What are you doing about it? Do you attend a conference once a year, get fired up, and then put writing at the bottom of your "to do" list when you arrive back home? If writing is God's calling, shouldn't it be near the top of your list of priorities? To help you in your quest, here are my top 5 reasons to attend a day-long writing intensive workshop with me:

1) You deserve to spend time working on your craft with people who share your passion and can help you grow as a writer.

2) As an editor, I can rend the veil between writing as a hobby and succeeding in the Christian publishing business. It's a chance to ask me every question that's ever plagued you about how to break in.

3) We'll spend time working on your individual project so that you have a solid writing plan when you leave.

4) I'll teach you what kills an editor's interest in the first paragraph of your sample chapters, and how to write a proposal that sparks my interest.

5) I'll help you discover your unique voice, refresh your knowledge of the basics of fiction writing, teach you how to self-edit your work, and hopefully, make writing fun again for you.

Sound like a plan? Then join me at my first day-long writing intensive workshop from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. Saturday, August 21, at the Springton Lake Presbyterian Church in Newtown Square, PA (near Philadelphia). Award-winning Abingdon debut author Joyce Magnin will be in attendance to tell how she caught my attention, and how her book The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow was named as one of the top 5 Christian books of 2009 by Library Journal. Cost is $159 for the intensive workshop and includes a light lunch. Dress is casual. To register, please contact Joyce at jmagnin56@gmail.com.

SPECIAL OFFER: Because I want every writer in the greater Philadelphia area to have a chance to attend, I'm giving away one free registration to the writing intensive workshop. Just tell me in 100 words or less why you want to attend this event and how the free registration would make that possible. Send your entries to nashvillescotts@comcast.net by midnight CST Sunday, August 1. (Abingdon authors may attend my workshops free of charge at any time, so they are not eligible to win the free registration.)

If you are interested in setting up one of my day-long workshops in your area, please contact me at the email address above.

It Doesn't Get Better Than This

Here's the thing, my fabulous editor Barbara Scott and I will be conducting a one-day writing intensive on August 21 at my church in New town Square, Pennsylvania. Seriously folks, if you want to write a novel--adult or youth, then don't pass up this opportunity to workshop with one of the most respected editors in the biz. Barbara is acquiring novels for Abingdon Press. She is looking for fresh, new voices! This doesn't come along too often. So, think about and then get in touch with me and we'll let you in on the details. The cost: Just $159 for the entire day. Like I said, it doesn't get better than this.

Doing Good Pie

Here's the thing, if you've read the bright's Pond Books you know that pie plays a significant role in the stories. Pie to me is the ultimate comfort treat. It comes in so many varieties and can be eaten so many ways--with ice cream, cheese, whipped cream, goodness Pie rocks. My favorite is apple, deep dish with the apples baked exactly correctly with just the right amount of sweet and tart. Nothing like it. Although I would never turn away a good berry pie. Flossie, my mother was the ultimate pie baker. We still talk about the cherry pie of 1982. It was perfect in every way,
But right now, I am looking for three or four pie recipes to include in my next newsletter or to offer as prizes to folks who order Charlotte FiggTakes Over Paradise. Charlotte is the ultimate pie baker in the book.
So, if you have a recipe or two, please send it to me. If I try it and like it, I will send you a copy of Charlotte when it releases and your recipe will be featured on my website and my newsletter. Pretty sweet. You'll be famous!
So send me those recipes. Please. Oh, they should be pretty much original.

A Short History of the Comma

Here’s the thing, I’ve been thinking about commas this morning. I know, weird, but there you go. Anyhoo, did you ever wonder who was the very first person to actually insert a comma into a portion of text? I have. I often wonder about strange things like, who was the first person to eat a lobster? Or who said the words, “back in the day” the first time. But I digress, today’s topic is of course the comma and the history there of. An amazing little invention the comma, merely a squiggle but one that can wreck havoc in the minds of authors everywhere and spur hours of debate among editors. (See my editor’s blog The Roving Editor for proof).
Seems to me I remember being told at one point that I should insert a comma wherever I take a breath or a natural pause. Sounds simple enough but woefully inaccurate as breathing can be something of a subjective, personal preference.
Although that being said the comma did have its origins in breathing—so to speak. You see, back in the day, stories and such were not written down or bound into books because most people could not read. So story was an oral tradition and readers or actors would naturally insert a comma or breath or pause as they recited reams of memorized text. Hence the birth of the comma. According to my research the actual mark, the squiggle or half a squiggle, you can’t really say that a comma is a full squiggle can you, was invented by Aristophanes of Bysantium in 200 B.C. That’s Before Christ not Before Commas. It seems Aristophanes devised a three-part system of dramatic notation that told actors when and where to breathe as they said their lines.
Here’s a nifty quote: Some dude named Richard Mulcaster (obviously an anal retentive) said the comma is a “small crooked point, which in writing followeth some small branch of sentence, and in reading, warneth us to rest there and help our breath a little.”
Uhm, seems to me that could be where the whole put a comma in where you breathe thing got started. He said that way back in 1582.
But further research uncovered that the comma also has its beginnings in Christianity. Of course, we love rules. But apparently St. Augustine was miffed and totally chagrined at the thought that Bible passages could be read incorrectly, and insisted that the placement of commas in Bible text must be in accordance with church doctrine so things would not be misinterpreted.
So there you have it, a short history of the comma. I don’t know about you but I still have trouble with them. I tend to insert commas wherever the heck I please and that my friends in not a good thing. Ask my editor.

Magnin Family Encyclopedia of Quirkdom

Here's the thing,
• My mother was present at the birth of the world’s most incredible toy—The Slinky. (thanks loree lough for the memory)
• My mother once acted in a radio soap opera.
• My mother sang a duet with Frank Sinatra.
• My mother was fired from a job for giving away sensitive war secrets during WWII. Something about Shrimp Boats.
• My mother paid to have a baby robin’s leg amputated and then the bird lived with us.
• We owned a Flying Squirrel named Johnny Rocket
• My father once fished a trout out of a toilet.
• My father once accidentally walled-up a kitty cat behind a customer’s bathtub and had to rescue it at 2:00 in the morning.
• My brother stepped on our pet parakeet—yuck!
• One of my favorite toys was a pheasant foot.
• My sister was a singing waitress at a summer Bible Conference camp.
• I once worked as a dog-groomer—for one day! It wasn’t pretty.
• My father once flew to Paris, France after an argument with my mother because he needed some fresh air.
• My sister’s dog-in-law once appeared on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show as Napoleon The Talking Dog.
• My father saved the Upper Darby bus terminal from certain disaster by using his body to block sewage from flowing into a bunch of electrical thingamabobs.
• My mother made me show my impressive appendix scar to some of the church ladies during a Church Potluck. I was 16—it doesn’t get any more mortifying than that as church memories go.
• A tree surgeon died in my front yard (I was 12 years old) after cutting through high voltage wires. Which is weird considering my life now.
• I won a Chicken Man costume contest when I was 14. My mother made a head and beak from a Clorox bottle. Odd but painfully true.
• My dog, Polly rode the mail truck with our letter carrier and helped deliver the mail. They were good friends.

How about you--what's in your family closet?

Exciting Announcement

Here's the thing, I love my blog but it occurred to me that you folks are only getting part of the story. There's so much more going on that I decided to start an E-Newsletter and E-Promotion thingamabob. I sent my first E-Newsletter, I call it Joyce to the World, out yesterday and it was pretty cool. Truthfully I didn't put everything I wanted into it because I am still exploring those details. But if you would like to start receiving these thingamabobs then please, sign-up using the nifty little form on the right and I'll start sending you stuff. Newsletter, contest alerts, pertinent information concerning my novels, information of some issues I'm passionate about. All the good stuff. And if you're lucky, some pictures of my son and grandsons. They are so cute.

Now, here's the exciting part, not that the above stuff isn't wonderful, but I am going to be giving some of you aspiring and even already aspired-to writers out there an opportunity to get published in my newsletter. Hey, it's a great way to get read and start some landings, you know. I will be accepting short (very short--600 words) stories--fiction or non, poetry, recipes, good clean jokes--like this one. How come cannibals never eat clowns? Because they taste funny!. HA. Listen a lot of people read my blog so dust off those jokes, come up with a funny or sweet or charming anecdotal story, a recipe, maybe a book review and send it to me. Of course there will be no payment, just glory, fame, your kids will be so proud and that's payment enuf.

Also, here's some other news. The Greater Philadelphia Christian Writers Conference is less than a month away. have you signed-up. NO? Then go and do that. I will be leading my popular novel writer's clinic again. So if you want to spend a weekend honing your draft and your craft, yakking about writing and meeting my secret guest star, then you better sign-up. Space is limited so if you're even part way through your novel, this clinic is for you. And listen, if you sign-up as a result of my blog and you bring me a hot mocha from Starbucks or a regular Dunkin Donuts coffee with just cream to the first clinic--you get a free copy of my second Bright's Pond novel. Pretty sweet, the deal, not the coffee. And hey, the coffee is just a suggestion. But go now to the conference website and sign-up. Even if you're not ready for my clinic, sign-up for the other fabulous workshops, for heaven's sake, Susan Meisner, Wanda Dyson, among others. Go Now!

Fractures, Mean Girls, and Squiggly Straws

Here’s the thing, when I was five years old I fell from the Monkey Bars, crashed to the ground and broke both my arms. That’s right, I busted both arms at the same time. I always was an over-achiever. Anyhoo, the most I remember of the incident is that I was conscious long enough to tell my sister to go get Mommy. She did. That’s all I know until I woke up surrounded by bright lights. Yep, thought I died. But then I heard my mother’s voice in the distance like it was coming from someplace far far away, another universe perhaps, which if you knew Flossie, would make sense. But no, she was in the room calling me, “Joycie, Joycie, wake-up.” I did, only to discover I couldn’t move. My arms were encased in ten pounds of plaster. Yikes.
But I did come around—eventually. Later that day I awoke in a room with four other children who for some reason I took an immediate dislike too. Especially this one, snooty girl in the bed next to me. I have no idea what her problem was, but she was one mean child. I was in the hospital or Alcatraz, lying in a bed with bars—a huge prison crib with bars! I hated it and wanted out. But my mother said I had to stay there because they were afraid I might fall out. Geeze, fall from one Monkey bar and you’re branded for life.
Mom stayed with me for as long as she could. She helped me eat my dinner because, well, my arms were broken! This was back in the days when Moms and Dad were not encouraged to stay with their ailing children. Yeah, what sense would that make. “Um, o sorry, Mom, you daughter is in deep distress but you have to leave.” Guess it made us stronger.
Except when she left the mean girl started to poke fun at me. She laughed that I had both arms in huge casts, I mean it, they were the size of gun turrets. Maybe not, but that’s how I remember it. But then the night grew even more bizarre. A child came in wearing a nurses uniform. It was white. She wore a white cap. She was three feet tall with little tiny arms. I felt frightened but I figured they had kid nurses for kid patients. Nah, she was a Little Person. Geeze, they could warn a patient. She made me drink Milk of Magnesia so I would . . . you know. Apparently they didn’t want me straining anything inside. Mean girl laughed. I wouldn’t doubt it if she grew up to be some terrible prison guard.
The next day Mean Girl went home. She actually stood there with her hands on her hips and said, “Neener neener I get to go home and you don’t.” If I could have, I would have thrown a bed pan at her.
Finally, I was released. I went home where I was relegated to the living room couch. I got to control the television. Holy Smokes that was neat. I watched the TV show Combat. Loved that show.
That evening my Pop came home from work with a special “For Achievement in Broken Bones” prize. A sack of straws. Don’t laugh. It was sweet. My arms were useless. It was hard to eat. I had to be fed. But Pop brought me several fun straws. There were short ones, long ones, striped ones, and squiggly ones with curly cues.
But no good deed goes unpunished as they say. Pop brought me a tall glass of chocolate milk. He unwrapped straw number one, the curly cue and dropped it into my frosty milk. At which point my mother came running into the living room waving a dish towel. “What are you doing. She’s not supposed to suck.”
Um, never figured that one out, but a few days later I got the straws back and Pop and I watched a ball game together while Flossie baked pie. And this my friends is why I write quirk.

Block Party!

Here’s the thing, we had a block party Saturday in my neighborhood. Interesting phenomenon the Block Party. For those of you who don’t know this concept, a block party is an event in which a street is barricaded from traffic and people take over. It’s like the animals at the zoo being set free to roam and party. Every child on the street comes out to play. I counted forty-five children—twelve from one family, nah, just kidding, Doreen only has five. But still. Barbecues are lined up along the curb, tables and tents assembled, lawn furniture comes off the lawns and decks and onto the street, music blares from speakers, and a lot of beer gets drunk, drank? drinked? Ours was terrific. Neighbors who otherwise only wave or say a few words throughout the year get an opportunity to sit and catch up, new neighbors come out and meet the old neighbors and get the lowdown on the community. I think the block party is a great invention. As near as I can research the block party has its origin in New York during WWI when streets were blocked from traffic and people assembled to play patriotic music and sing patriotic songs to honor members of the community going off to war. The block party has changed since then. Heck, we’ll throw a block party for any reason, graduations are big, milestone birthdays, even wedding receptions have taken the form of a block party. Why rent a hall when you can block off an entire street?
I had a great time, my son had a great time running around, chasing the other boys, shooting Nerf guns, water balloons were tossed. He won the Jello eating contest.

The new Bright's Pong book, Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise, has a huge block party at the Paradise Trailer Park. Of course things go a little awry but, well, you need to read the book. And please do. It's available for pre-sale.

So, it got me thinking. I was wondering if I could throw a Bright’s Pond Block Party. If I figure out how to do it, will you come?

In Pursuit of the Dreaded Synopsis

Here’s the thing, writing a synopsis is like pulling you eye teeth out through your ears. Flannery O’Connor said that if you can condense your novel into such few words, then why write the whole thing. Although I tend to agree with this (perhaps it’s because I hate writing them) I do understand the need. So, that’s where I’m at right now with a certain project. It’s easier to do after the whole novel has been written but when you still have 90,000 words to go it get’s a little weird. But alas and alack, I am bending my brain in all directions trying to write the thing.

Well, it got me to thinking. What if I was asked to give a synopsis of my entire life (up until now, I am not dead yet). Where would I start, what highlights and lowlights would I spotlight? What if I only had ten minutes to tell my story or say, face some unspeakable torture. These are the game s I play. Write the synopsis or be subjected to seventeen hours of Neil Diamond. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s not working.

Then of course I could try rewards. If you write this synopsis you can got to Ritas and get a gelato. Still not working. The best advise I ever got about the process came from my dear friend Lisa Samson who said I should imagine that I am sitting around a campfire with my friends and I have fifteen minutes to tell the story. How would I do it? That works, usually. But not today. I think this story has so many, shall we say, stops along the way that I’m finding it very difficult to sum it up.

But I procrastinate. Hence the blog on how hard it is. But as they say, most things in life that are worth doing come with a little pain. Like babies and root canal. So I will go now and make attempt number seventy-three at writing a synopsis for Harriet Beamer Takes the Bus. Intrigued?

The picture? Oh, that's Karen Kingsbury waving to me. Just for fun. I wonder how she writes a synopsis. She probably doesn't have to anymore. Oh, to be there.