Open Letter to Any Friends Who Find This Site:

It's Memorial Day and I'm typing instead of BBQing...partly because I am a
bad BBQer, but partly because I'm fretting...

Last week I talked to Lynn, the Editing Diva at Standard Publishing who is working on “Scared Silly.” You may not remember—assuming you have a life—I wrote a book last year, which has taken nearly another year to finish and print.

As I type this, we (“we” meaning the Editing, Proofreading, Correcting, and Typesetting team at Standard…and me when 1) they need to get approval for all of their changes; 2) something needs footnoting; or 3) some section is deemed so hideous that I must rewrite it) are in the final stages of correcting, proofreading, more correcting, layout, more proofreading and correcting before sending to the printer. Target release date is September 1^st.

During the aforementioned conversation with Lynn, the Editing Diva at Standard I began to sense that, although Standard Publishing publishes a lot of books, they don’t really market them much. They mainly offer them in their catalog or on their website or sell them to Amazon.com or other regional/local booksellers…and that’s all.

So when it became apparent that I might have to be my own publicist, I immediately thought of you and your ability to pray. OK…That’s not completely true. My first panicky thought was how badly I suddenly had to go to the bathroom (typical in my struggle against Panic Disorder), then I thought about needing a Diet Coke (at least!), and THEN I thought about how badly I needed prayer, which brought me directly to you.

Here’s the deal: Being my own publicist is about as horrifying a thought as I can imagine for a multitude of reasons that I won’t bore you with—not the least of which I would have to PERSUADE PEOPLE TO LET ME TRAVEL TO PUBLIC PLACES—maybe even ON AN AIRPLANE, DO SOMETHING PUBLIC, possibly NOT NEAR A BATHROOM (like book signings or interviews) and GET PEOPLE TO LIKE ME.

However, I REALLY want “Scared Silly” to get into the hands of people who need it…which can’t be done if I don’t get it into the hands of people who can let other people know about it. (Boy, I could use a Diet Coke!)

In August Standard can provide me with an electronic photo of the cover and a sample chapter. Lynn the Editing Diva at Standard suggested I email it to people (or post it on their websites, if they let me), to taste test. This is one possible advertising ploy that wouldn’t require me flying OR showering. Which is good. But probably not good enough. Kev suggested I make a radio spot and see if we can get it on some Christian stations. So I now have two showerless ideas…but I can tell something bigger is needed. And that something includes you.

PLEASE PRAY that God will provide a network that can help make this book widely available. Pray that it can get into strategic hands like buyers at Wal-mart or Waldenbooks…or that radio host Delilah will read it, love it, and play the non-showered radio spot…or that Oprah would receive it and want to bring her crew to KY for a visit (OK…I’d go to Chicago for Oprah…).

You know me…Beyond asking for prayer and ideas…I pretty much suck at “pimping” myself. So there you go.

I understand that God gave me the assignment to write this book…so I believe he’ll help get it out to where ever he wants it to go…but I want to be faithful and adventuresome in the process as well. Even if it means traveling, speaking, and pitching myself.

Thanks for letting my panic before you. The good news: I’m not curled up in a fetal position…yet.

OK, now I really need another diet coke.

If you have any ideas, feel free to let me know. I appreciate them mucho.

More than anything thanks for your prayers. I really, really, really, REALLY need them.

And I probably need another diet coke, at least at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Come Make Me

Potential Wise Saying of the Day: "The nice part about being a pessimist is that you are constantly being either proven right or pleasantly surprised." ~George F. Will

What the @#*($*# Were You Thinking?

Potential Wise Saying for the Day: "It's far easier to forgive an enemy after you've got even with him." ~Olin Miller

In an effort of being a good mom and possibly winning one of these someday, I ventured into another state to take my daughter to a locally performed version of a Broadway hit musical. In the process almost hit some people with my car. OK, I didn't actually almost hit them perse' , I almost hit their minivan--while I was going almost 20 miles per hour. Because it was peeing down rain. Because I was about to take an erroneous exit. Because the Indiana highway system stinks.

One would think that, after spending 10 years in the midst of Houston traffic, navigating my way around with 4 million people -- 80% of whom are what a more prejudiced person might call "foreigners"-- that I would have experienced and overcome all possible Interstate Exit Scenarios. But no, Indiana wins the award for Most Confusing Use Of Concrete.

Keep in mind that Indiana is known for stunningly non-viable ideas. For example, New Harmony was a combo failure--started by a group who believed, in 1814, that the return of Jesus Christ was imminent--so they bought land on which to live simply and perfectly until the Big Day. After 10 years of waiting, they moved back to Pennsylvania apparently to be closer to this and these as oppose to these, some of which--I kid you not--are named after major drug companies.

And speaking of bad ideas, during the first two decades of the 2oth century, Indiana was the Manufacturing Center for the largest variety of failed vehicles in the history of mankind. Just four of the 200 names you have never heard of, unless you are a total car geek or my husband, according to my daughter's textbook on U.S. States are: Duesenburg, Auburn, Stutz, and Maxwell.

Most recently Indiana has become the most famous home of the totally uncool Indianapolis 500, according to Al "I'll Be Famous for Something" Gore.

Indiana has also taken the same intrepid approach to their interstate exits, branching several off at once, not really telling you where you are headed until you find yourself lost among the innards of their not-quite-revived downtown region which apparently consists of the entire state.

So it was, that at one of these double/triple peel off exits, I realized I was about to be ejected into the vast labyrinth of streets located on the wrong side of the highway with little or no hope to cross until we had missed the start of the the next millenium. Oh, and did I mention that it was torrentially raining?

As I tried to ease myself back into the next peel off exit lane, a Hunter Green Minivan comes up behind me and HONKS the entire time it passes me. In reality, I might have been in line to hit it, but I was ahead of her, with my blinker on to move over. On, and did I mention I was AHEAD OF HER?

Well, I took the proper peel off exit, even though it was poorly marked (So there! Indiana DOT!) and followed the now Angry Hunter Green Minivan to the Derby Dinner Playhouse to see the ex-Broadway musical presently performed by talented Indianians. We pulled in right behind them. I thought about parking next to them but thought better of it. Which was probably good.

The crowd of youthful, and apparently fashionable young people in the form of students were already entering the theater. For some strange, fateful reason the members of the Angry Hunter Green Minivan filed up to the line about the same time as we. I know they were members of said van because they all, from the 70-year-old grandma with bottle-bottom glasses, and the 40-something-year-old female driver with bottle-bottom glasses--and even their eyeglass-less 8-year-old boy stared angrily at me as they marched in front of Meghan and I through the door. They continued to propel the Evil Eye back through their skulls as they waited in front of us to purchase tickets. As I stepped up to do my little theater business, the bottle-bottomed eyeglass-wearing driver-mom stood just to my right with her newly gathered posse, openly and angrily gesturing in my direction.

If I had been a bigger person, I would have marched right up to her and apologized. Or I might have offered to buy them lunch. Or stopped them in the parking lot as we left and said something redemptive. But I didn't.

And as I left, I noticed she had a Christian "fish" sticker on her Angry Hunter Green Minivan. I, on the other hand, have a leftist "Life is good" on mine.

I might have gotten more grace had I cut in front of a pagan saab.

Beepbeep at marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

It's My Birthday and I'll....if I Want to...

"There is still no cure for the common birthday." ~John Glenn

Today is my birthday.

My husband is on the beach in California.

My daughter is spending the night at a friend's house.

I had planned to sit on my lazy patoosh with a nice glass of wine, some expensive chocolate, and a bag of Fritos, watching Nacho Libre or the behind the scenes of the original King Kong.

But instead I force fed my cat. Surprisingly, this activity was not born out of a sadistic desire but of necessity...she has stopped eating. Apparently cats will do that and then they can't start up again. So, to save her life we take something that smells and looks disturbingly like liver pate and a syringe and squirt several plunger's full down her unhappy throat. The whole process has gotten easier, which I'm not sure is a good thing. She doesn't fight much, nor does she throw up any more...but she just sits there and takes it. Not even when I retrieve her from under the bed...she just sits, resigned to her fate, as though even thinking about the struggle is too much effort. I wish she'd struggle just a little for that is one of the hallmarks of a cat--they are loners, walking to their own beat, or at least purposefully not walking to yours. They do what they need to do ONLY when they're good and ready to do it. And they pity the fool who tries to force them...their little razor claws and lightning fast reflexes can shred skin faster than, well, lightning. Our little Peanut was once the best and the quickest and possibly one of the largest of her breed. While prowling out of doors, she would bring home little ex-chipmunks, voles, birds, and mice just to show she could... In the house, however, she became simply The Stalker. I have caught her staring intensely at the oven as though she was trying to will it to turn on. Perhaps she was trying to conjure up her x-ray vision so as to see through the appliance, or attempting to focus all of the ESP energy from her self and all of her cat sisters to lift the giant scrap of metal out of the way of her quarry. Over the past 3 years, she has caught only two mice in the house: one was proudly placed under the coffee table in time for my surprise birthday party last year (And let me tell you, nothing says "Happy Birthday" like a dead mouse in the middle of a house full of people!) and the other we eventually found under the pedestal of our dining room table in "full-ripe" condition, if you get my, sniff, drift.

But trying to make my cat live isn't the only thing I did to celebrate the beginning of my 46th year on Planet Earth.

I also tried to download software from the internet to my computer. I know what you're thinking; you're thinking, "You idiot! Not on your birthday! It's emotional suicide!" Well, I just have one thing to say to you doubters of my technical prowess: Sebastian The Tech-Type Help Guy from Bombay (now called Mumbai) and I are now BFFs--we've even exchanged passwords and interesting data (Did you know that the population of city Bombay (now called Mumbai) and the entire population of Australia are roughly the same? OK Bombay/Mumbai is larger, but only just.) 3 hours, 20 minutes of my birthday were spent trying to protect my computer from viruses and infections. Halfway through I wanted to buy it a condom and say, "Just say 'no' to everyone."

But God brought to my house a lovely 50ish-degree day, blustery and spring-like after several weeks of biting cold while Kevin is in L.A. in the cold rain, proof that, even with everything (big or little) else, I must be his favorite

, I'm going for a walk in my polar bear pj bottoms because no one is here to tell me I can't; I'm having a diet coke and a handful of M&M's with peanuts and a handful of Cheetos too, in order to properly celebrate the me-ness that is.

birthday warning #3

"The best way to remember your wife's birthday is to forget it once."
E. Joseph Cossman

Birthday hour: three days 18 hours and thirty minutes...and counting.

Continuing the list of "joy-full-ness" includes:

*Trying to save my daughter's cat who is dead-set on starving to death;

*My husband is going to the Pacific Ocean for my birthday which also includes 6 other days while I freeze my middle-aging patoosh off amidst the frozen (but sadly snowless) bluegrass;

*It remains cold and snowless which is about as wonderful as being married and sexless or poor and homeless.

*This uplifting announcement concerning the state in which I live (by "state in which I live" I mean "Kentucky" as opposed to, say "confusion" or "panic" or "boring drivel") by the medical world. Thank you, citizens of Kentucky for making my heart healthy future a virtual impossibility.

hand over those freetos at marcyjoybryan@gmail.com

Let's Get This Party Started

Potential wise saying of the day: "I ran three miles today. Finally I said, 'Lady take your purse.'" Emo Philips

It's February 1st - the beginning of my 46th year on Planet Earth.

So far in 2007:

I've got to go get checked out for Glaucoma.

My daughter's spine is twisting like a corkscrew.

Spent the equivalent of 15 bottles of medium-priced wine on matching my hair with my eyebrows.

Yesterday my Louis Vitton purse (it was a gift from a friend, obviously) was stolen.

The good news, some kind lady found my wallet minutes after some godless punk, I mean poor, misguided soul, tossed it out onto the middle of the street. We were all amazed at the fact that my credit cards, checkbook, bank card were there. Of course my cash, what precious little there was was gone along with my even more precious Starbucks gift cards - those pagans! And strangely enough my driver's license is also missing. Oh and did I mention that my new Louis Vitton purse is also gone.

Over and over we've thanked God that they only stole those few things. We were grateful in this manner because we are fashion morons. If we personally had known the value of the purse versus what the actual value of all of the cards in my wallet, we would have torn our clothes, screaming and writhing in rage. Had I understood what I was dragging around, kicking under bleachers, tossing it un-gently in the floorboard of my not-so-cleaned truck I would have, at the very least, chained the purse to my wrist the minute I unwrapped it. Or, more likely, stapled the thing to my thigh with a staple gun. Or perhaps, knowing my fashion moronicness, I would have simply put it into the closet in its little flannel bag and let it rot.

But no, I had to actually use the darn thing, blissfully ignorant that this flap of a cow's butt is worth more than my I make in 9 months as a radio personality...Ok so that's not saying so much about my salary...but still, you can gather that it's a boatload of cash.

But it's gone. Taken by someone who understood better than I the price a new Louis Vitton would bring on the street. I, to my credit, am wiser, albeit Vitton-less, person.

Happy Birthday to me.

Where I want to go for my next Vacation

Camp Dismal Hollow.

It's found in Virgina. Apparently, it's so bad no one takes pictures.

You'll have to scroll down about half way and look for P-66.

I am not making this up.

Great Artists vs. Christianity: The Ultimate Dichotomy?

Potential Thought of the Day: "I find it impossible to talk about what makes human beings human without recognizing that our most quintessential human quality is, paradoxically, that we contain--regardless of one's faith tradition--some spark or echo of the divine. For many, this is both manifest in and the source of our creativity...God left the earth unfinished so humankind could work its skill upon it. God left the electricity still in the cloud, the oil still in the earth. God left the rivers unbridged and the forests unfelled and the cities unbuilt. God gave humankind the challenge of raw materials--not the ease of finished things. God left the pictures unpainted and the music unsung and the problems unsolved, that human beings might know the joys and glories of creation."
Dr. Beryl Levinger

When you look down through history, it used to be that during a certain period of history the best of the best artists, thinkers, musicians, writers, scientists, or whatever were believers? Handel? Michaelangelo? Milton? Da Vinci? These guys changed their world through the use of their gifts for the glory of their God.

What happened?

When?

Why?

Hmmmmmm....

The Birthday, It is A-Comin'

Potential Wise Thought for the Day: "Well, birthdays are merely symbolic of how another years has gone by and how little we've grown. No matter how desperate we are that someday a better self will emerge, with each flicker of the candles on the cake, we know it's not to be, that for the rest of our sad, wretched pathetic lives, this is who we are to the bitter end. Inevitably, irrevocably; happy birthday? No such thing."
Jerry Seinfeld

6 weeks, 3 hours and 32 minutes until "45."

Why can't "Heroes" just be a bunch of stinkin' sandwiches

Possible Wise Saying of the Day: "Television: A medium. So called because it's neither rare or well done." Ernie Kovacs

I just watched show #7 of the first season of "Heroes" as research for a Super Secret Upcoming Project.

It sucks.

"Heroes," not the Super Secret Upcoming Project.

I'm fine that these "yobbos" have super powers. I'm especially glad that the cute little Japanese guy does, and the smexy little nurse man, and to my own surprise, the cheerleader. I wish I had the cheerleader's powers. No, actually I think all parents wish their kids had the Cheerleader's Powers. It would offer them better sleep at night.

So I'm OK with the premise. I like several of the characters. The writing is intriguing and the way they cut up the various "acts" for each show as well as the "Acts" of the actual story is very cool.

It's just not funny enough. I know what you're thinking, but I don't care. I think there should be just a tad more humor; a touch more joy or even happiness....or even a kiss of sunshine. Instead it's getting darker and sadder with less and less "sunshine or something, for heaven's sake.

I'm not asking for much: Out of a 40 minute show I think that 7 minutes at least should be uplifing, or sort of encouraged. But no. I feel angry to the point of violence.

My review of the series: As the little German in "Laugh In" once said, "Very interesting. But Stupid. Just in case you're wondering.

BTW: This underlining is cheezing me off but I can't figure out how to disable it.

Home Again, Home Again...at least for a week or so

Possible Wise Saying of the Day: "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be." Douglas Adams

I haven't written in a long time because we've been traveling for over a month. Being gone so long is a big deal to most families: there's a lot of disruption that comes with abandoning one's dwelling. In our lives we not only have a school-aged daughter, but a largish, brainless, dog, a cat and several plants in various stages of death.

My daughter has logged 12,000 miles since summer and will put in another thousand over Christmas.

This is not remarkable for her; she's very easy-going, unlike her mother, and will "tag along" on most adventures if there is a Starbuck's to be had.

I, however, have been a different story. It's been a long process of healing and overcoming that allowed me to be away from my safe place...and my toilet.

Today isn't the day for that story.

But we are home for a few days and we're glad for it.

Strange namings

Potential Wise Saying of the Day: "Everybody in 15^th Century Spain was wrong about where China was, and as a result Columbus discovered Caribbean vacations."

P. J. O’Rourke

When I first heard that a global positioning satellite company had taken their name from Ferdinand Magellan, my immediate response was, "Now this is a genius in Marketing...name your navigation company after a guy who couldn't navigate out of a wet paper bag."

But then I did some research and realized I was wrong. The navigationally-challenged explorer I had been thinking of was Columbus. Magellan had a good idea on what he wanted to do... he simply sucked at picking his friends. As a result he got himself killed teaming up with one tribe who was aggressively invading another on the teeny Philippine Island of Mactan.

Granted, he had made it 3/4 of the way around the globe, much of it through the featureless ocean...so I'll tip my hat to him for that. But it must be noted that for much of his trip he was traveling on hunches and guesses; for instance he simply hoped that there was a navigable pathway hugging the tip of South America even though all other known attempts had proven disastrously wrong. Basically, the success of most of Magellan's trips is based solidly on luck.

So I'm not sure what the GPS company of the same name is really telling us. Perhaps it's one of these three possibilities:
1) Trust Magellan. We'll get you there alive, probably.
2) Travel with Magellan. We'll get you there, with a little luck and a lot of "gee let's see what's around this corner" but at least we'll do it in a calming, yet almost sensual voice.
or
3) We at Magellan think most of America are morons who don't know history worth a pile of beetle dung, so we'll just pick a cool name from the past...and since most of the famous explorers spent nearly all of their time lost, we'll pick Magellan since his name has not been used as much as Columbus and Vespucci doesn't have the same ring to it and besides Magellan doesn't a lot of copyrights clinging to it.

I don't know about you, is that all this makes me feel safe on the road with the thousands of others following a mostly confused, often lost, dead guy.

Liquid Plumber Made Me Do It

Potential Wise Saying for Today: "An honest confession is good for the soul, but bad for the reputation." Thomas Dewar

I lied today.

OK. I not only lied, but I lied fully conscious that I was lying and as the words came out of my mouth I was stunned at how happily they tripped over the tongue with the full awarenessthat there was no way I could substantiate the damnable phrases.

It started with Baking Soda.

My husband was gone and my sink was smelly. Fixing said smelly sink, technically, falls under "domestic goddess duties," a.k.a. me, although I would valiantly debate that a smelly sink isn't really how a sink should be, ergo the sink is not working properly, thus rendering the same sink broken. Fixing broken household objects falls squarely under Knight in Shining Armor status therefore the weight of odor-removal would rest upon Kevin the Video Husband's shoulders.

It probably would have been better if that argument (oops! discussion) would have taken place, because then at least I wouldn't have lied.

Instead, I stuffed the sink full of baking soda. The bicarbonate molecules became so pressed together that they formed a solid, airtight mass down the length of the 12-inch pipe (this happens to be the measurement of the pipe's length. Bugger the diameter...typical sink drain diameter, it was, I'm sure).

Pouring vinegar onto the top of the wad provided much satisfying bubbling, but not the expected loss of liquid down the previously trustworthy hole. Hot water didn't do anything but add more fluid. Stabbing the soda-mass with a bamboo skewer did absolutely nothing.

A plunger! Plungers always make things move! Fortunately, I recently had extensive (read: nasty) experience with one of these little beauties while on a retreat several weeks prior. Our plunger--a nice, new light gray and white model at that--was located deep in the bowls of the house behind the basement john. Before it could be used to its full potential, it first had to be used to kill the largest spider I had ever seen. This thing was size of my thumb! Ugh. Thank goodness for my Plunger of Death! Unfortunately the typical plunging action didn't do the job this time...I had to...never mind...You had no idea how versitile this little tool is, did you!

Well, desperation is the mother of invention...or something like that.

Plunging the sink ultimately became a three-stooge experience embodied in one little me. My left hand was Moe working that thing to get the best suction possible. The other hand was Curly trying to keep the stopper in the neighboring sink from being blown through the roof while providing a seal to help force the water through the bicarbonate blockage. And my face was Larry--while the other two heaved and pushed, jets of soda water shot from the overflow tube in a hidden knob of the sink and squirted me in the forehead. Whoop-whoop-whoop! Nyuk! Nyuk!

I finally used an open wire coat hanger as a "snake" to drill through the mass. By this time I've spent an hour and I'm no closer to draining this water than the U.S. is to establishing a solid Western Democracy in a 3,000-year-old nomadic tribal dictatorship. But that didn't stop either of us from trying.

Suddenly I realized what was needed: Liquid Plumber. The ads flashed through my mind with amazing clarity: an old kitchen/bathroom sink pipe is full of thick, nasty hair and sludge...Here comes Liquid Plumber! and Swoosh the clog is swept away! Hooray! (The question of how the camera could see through a solid brass plumbing fixture never entered my mind.)

So off to the bedroom to change clothes! I had a quest and I must see it to the end! The Evil Baking Soda Cork Monster must vanquished! I can do it! I will drive to the store and get the Proper Tool! A quick brush of the hair, just so! A little lotion on the face, just so! Purse! Keys! Other Wal-mart List! A Travel Mug of Tea!

And...

Passing the sink revealed a new horror...the water was gone! Well, at least one side was empty. But, look! The stopper is still in the liquid-filled side. Carefully, take out the plug...Swoosh! Down goes the water. Problem solved.

Or is it?

Wal-mart awaited and I was quest-ready.

So I quested. At Wal-mart. Not for Liquid Plumber...I never even looked for it. But lots of other neat things needed found, including SpongeBob Squarepants' "Halloween" DVD with 5 Spooky Sea Tales PLUS 5 Bubblin' Bonus Episodes!

On the way home, Kevin the Video Husband called to say he and Meghan the Wonder(ful)Kid made it to San Antonio along with the rest of their Film Festival Traveling Team.

"Where are you?" Kevin asked. "It sounds like you're in the car."

"Ha, Ha," I said. "I had to go to Wal-mart ("had" is kind of a strong word, actually). The sink was plugged (true, but it fixed itself). I needed some Liquid Plumber (true, I did need it but not anymore)."

"Will Liquid Plumber hurt those new kind of pipes?"

"Don't worry," I respond. "It'll be fine (true). I clogged the sink with Baking Soda (true). By the time I get home, it'll probably fix itself (yeah, like I was STILL home when it...you know)...that's just my luck. HA. HA. HA."

In the meantime my brain is screaming things like "WHAT ARE YOU SAYING! There's NOTHING wrong with your sink! Why are you saying this stuff? You didn't even BUY ANY LIQUID PLUMBER YOU MORON! NOW WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO!!!"

My mouth continues to say, "Ha, Ha. I got everything I need. Have a good time darlin' and don't worry about the sink...I'm sure it'll be fine."

So there. I've now confessed my indiscretion to you. It was an out-and-out untruth. If I was Catholic I could do a few "Hail Mary's" and feel better about the whole thing.

But I'm not. So, instead, I have to find a way to tell my husband I did a bold-faced for no reason except that my lips apparently went completely insane.

Do you think he'll buy it?

Continued Education from Hollywood

Potential Wise Saying for the Day: "The only 'ism' Hollywood believes in is plagerism." Dorothy Parker

We watched yet another Literary classic this week: Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island as performed by the intrepid Muppets and friends. Hans Zimmer wrote the music for this song-ridden desecration...and he did a snappy job. Those songs stick with you like yesterday's garlic salad: they just keep coming back up atcha.

As an interpretation of a literary classic, Muppet's Treasure Island would be like saying that you understand Harriet Beecher's Stowe immortal, and world-changing classic, Uncle Tom's Cabin from watching the 3 minute cutified version in The King and I--sure, you get a few of their names and that it's something about pirates, treasure, and a kid--or maybe a rat--oh! and adventure, it's about adventure. And grown men wearing dresses, as well, we can't forget that... Or maybe that was something else...

Speaking of Uncle Tom's Cabin: I'm actually reading it for the first time ever. I was somehow spared in school...so now I'm doing it, and get this, of my own volition. Upon first glance of the book, I'm ashamed to say that I exclaimed--right in front of two professional librarians, "Wow! I didn't know it had so many words in it!" Yeah, I is leterary, allright.

The book sat on my nightstand for nearly three weeks before I picked it up out of guilt. "I'll just read the first chapter...I'm sure it'll be slow and boring..." Right. The first page drove me to tears. This woman painfully described the attitude of the Southern whites to such a degree it takes one's breath away. After 50 pages (out of 600) I flipped to the back...I couldn't help it...if I was going to wade through this horror, I needed some hope it would all turn out somehow. The last 50 pages offered a little balm, but not much. Of the few main characters, the ones that ran away lived lives of relative hope. The others were torn apart and destroyed, viciously and graphically.

And, if Stowe is to be believed, the entire book is written from stories told to her by ex-slaves she interviewed and by abolitionist friends who had collected various descriptions of traders, owners, and runaways.

It is a sickening book. And one that everyone should read...

My goal is to get through the middle 500 pages in the next three weeks.

I had hoped Hollywood hadn't gotten it mitts into this one...but of course they did...a quick check on imdb.com shows that Uncle Tom's Cabin has been made into at least 13 different movies from 1910 through 1987. In comparison, Treasure Island has had 62 versions made by the Great Illuminators, if you aren't fussy about having something made in English to count. I guess Hollywood has left Uncle Tom alone, in its own way. God rest its soul.

Big Girl Haircut

Potential Wise Saying of the Day: “You’re only as good as your last haircut.” Fran Lebowitz

My publisher just told me I need to do a “video thing.” That is, I believe, the official title: “video thing.” It’s to be 2-3 minutes so sales people can be inspired to sell my book more than the other dozen or so "just released" options. I’m supposed to share my passion for this work, tell why I wrote it, and inspire people to pitch it, all in 180 seconds. Oh! And make sure the camera is on a tripod.

OK...I’m married to Kevin the Video Husband, a tripod is no problem—staying married while I try to pimp my own baby to strangers in front of the tripod and the husband with the camera running might be. As a footnote: There is a reason why writers write: we don’t do excessively well, or don’t feel uber confident, or able to communicate adequately around people. A Video camera is worse than people. It’s like the ultimate Demanding Perfection Mother of All Time. A video camera allows you to say things over and over and over again using different inflections and facial expressions. And worse than that, you then have to look at yourself saying it over and over and over again, each time wishing you could make that extra chin go away and change your hair color to something perky. With Kevin the Video Husband behind a camera and me in front of it we get the domestic version of Anal-Retentive Godzilla meets Trauma Girl from Planet Fetal Position.

To stave off this potential tragedy I’m doing something pro-active: I’m getting a new haircut, but I’m not telling my hair. Each time my hair realizes it’s about to be cut, it reacts by looking perfect for several days prior. It will even go as far as to look “fluffy” and “lush.” Once, I fell for the ruse and cancelled the appointment thinking that my hair had gone past the booty-ugly “growing out” stage and was finally in the Long and Luscious zone. Within minutes of calling the salon, my tresses realized they had been spared so they immediately deflated into their normal, fine-haired, flat mousy brown selves. Each time, I tell myself, it will be different. This time I’m going to go into that Special Salon with that Girl that Everyone Loves and have her find that Perfect Cut that will totally change my looks—I’ll even do something dramatic—make a “new me” worthy of film and fame. The reality is that my hair does its own thing—the same thing, no matter what I do to it—poofs out in one or two inappropriate places, remaining stubbornly flat everywhere else, attempting to frame my face in a more or less a completely unmemorable way—they know deep in their little protein-based souls that they are not the follicles of Carmen Diaz or Reece Witherspoon—they are writer follicles and they must maintain the Look of a Writer because that is their duty.

So we're off once more, with freshly clipped magazine pictures in hand (with their faces cut out so I can better imagine how the New Do will fit my over 40 face) to try to find the Ultimate Haircut.

But shhhh...it's a secret.

Scared Silly—There really is a reason, Part 2

Potential Wise Saying for the Day: “In the movie business,…we call this the sequel.” Arnold Schwarzenegger

So I never really explained the Righteous Name of this Blog. The short end is that I just finished a book by the same title and it seemed like a convenient tie-in.

The long end is that I just finished a book by the same title and it seemed like a convenient tie-in because Kevin My Video Husband had a Great Thought (which, however, might have been an over-digested Taco-Bell meal, if you get my, errr, drift) and said that I ought to turn the BryanPost into a blog because everyone is doing it and it would be a cool thing to do, and it would let me keep up better with people I love, and besides, I have plenty of time if I really want to do this regardless of the other writing projects, homeschooling and housekeeping, right!?

The bottom end is that he’s right (as usual, but please don’t tell him that, it’ll give him The Big Head) about most of it. I need to give this a try, it is a great tie-in with the book and it would be a better way to say “hey” on a more regular basis to the people I love and care for (loveya, Bren).

So…for now it’s the Scared Silly blog. My publisher doesn’t know I’m doing this and he/she might get a little verklempt over the copyright issues, so we’ll see…

Scared Silly—There’s a Reason, I Promise

Potential Wise Saying for the Day: “If something pops in my mind and it’s easy, I write it.” Wanda Jackson

This blog is an extension of something I’ve been doing for over a decade: making myself naked in public…OK not naked naked, but emotionally naked, trying to express thoughts and feeling as Kevin My Video Husband and I work together in a very strange vocation.
To explain: we are part of a very small group of Christians called Media Missionaries, and although it sounds like we go around trying to convert various electronic items (“look how that man is holding his Sony Camcorder…that poor thing needs Jesus!”), it is not. We actually try to use media to reach out to people…

Fortunately for you, I will not be performing any Media Mission work on this blog…because this blog has its own fairly lofty aim: to be a relatively thought-free zone in which true profundity will only sneak in when my back is turned —kind of like what supposedly happened in C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, hopefully. But don’t hold your breath. C.S. Lewis was British thus giving him extra points for cleverness and profundity in writing.

Back to the reason for this blog: One of the things I do as a Media Missionary is to write to the Kind and Generous People Who Help Fund Us. This is achieved using the time-honored Official Correspondence Tool of All Missionaries: Newsletters. However, because of my media bent…(read: twisted sense of purpose and humor) the newsletters generated by yours truly (called the BryanPost because my last name is Bryan, and I’m just that clever) were full of obnoxious quotes and pithy remarks about life, the universe, and everything. In actual fact, The Post was a blog before its time; stranded in the molasses-movement of snail mail; restricted to the two-dimensional existence of print; biding its time until I finally realized its true place.

Gone, and Some of Us Might Be Sad

Potential Wise Saying for the Day: “This taught me a lesson, but I'm not quite sure what it is.” John McEnroe

As a homeschool instructor, I employ the best educational methods available to draw, engage, and brainwash, enlighten my student so as to develop in her the best income generator for my old age possible person she can be. Amongst my pedagogical tools at hand are many excellent DVDs, which are employed to more fully illustrate the experience of a people struggling to survive in a bygone era.

For example, Monty Python’s Holy Grail can be a superb resource to explore the Middle Ages. I’m not kidding about this…

Using this incredible logic, we not only watched Ken Burns’ most excellent Civil War series, to study the, um…Civil War, but also turned to David O. Selznick’s dramatically lengthy Gone with the Wind starring Vivian Leigh and Clark Gable to add to our body of American History Knowledge. We watched all 288 minutes of it. In one sitting. And I must admit--although this confession will not make me many friends--it felt like we experienced the Civil War in real time. Ken Burns’ 660 minutes-worth of documentary was no match for the extending droning of Scarlett and her boys. After watching the best Hollywood could muster to exemplify what the two generations before them endured, the South deserved to lose, that’s all I’m saying.

Plot-wise, it was, like, watching a Shakespearian tragedy except that no one dies—well OK, a LOT of people died in Gone with the Wind, but not the right people. Well, OK: Not the right feminine-type person, to be more specific-ish. And that spineless Ashley…that’s the kind of powerful example of emotional faithfulness I want for my daughter, I’m telling you!

Technically, this epic—and the word is used here in the absolute literal sense of being “of great length”—was amazing, considering it was done during the painfully lacking Great Depression and without Industrial Light and Magic in Selznick’s back pocket. Even after witnessing how they did the scene of the dead and dying in Atlanta’s streets and the burning of Atlanta as Scarlett escaped in the “behind the scenes,” it was still awesome to see.

On an emotional level, the thing that struck me most…the thought that haunts me over 24-hours later…is not how this film beat out such incredible specimen like Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Goodbye Mr. Chips, Of Mice and Men, Wuthering Heights, and the immortal The Wizard of Oz…for Oscar fame (although this thought stuns me) it's that I saw in myself the image of that selfish, conniving shrew Scarlett O’Hara. She never got it, did she? She didn’t realize, until it was too late, who loved her the most and where she really fit in this world. And deep down, I’m afraid that I’m not getting it…that because I keep looking for something more, something “special” (read: something that can’t possibly exist), something perfect, that I’m missing the love that surrounds me daily. I hope I’m wrong and that I really am grateful and aware, but something tells me that my gut is right.

SIGH.

I can’t think about that now. I’ll think about it tomorrow.

Right now it’s time for Literature Class…and The Delightful Daughter and I must watch Curious George.

significant illness

Potential Wise Saying For the Day: "You can only be young once. But you can always be immature." Dave "the emotional pundant" Barry

While cleaning out the "workroom" in our basement, I'm struck (yet again) with a thought: I want to be significant. Not just a "Hey, she was OK" mentioned kindly in front of my casket..., but a change-the-world kind of infuence that is remembered and recounted. A benchmark impact that other events/people/moments are compared. More of a Steve Irwin-Billy Graham-George Washington-Alfred Hitchcock sort of iconic hugeness than a me-at-my-mid-forties-in-the-midst-of-the-mundane that is my reality.

Kevin My Video Husband might say that I'm not achieving greatness because I don't want it bad enough. Perhaps. I mean I certainly don't have the drive and passion these men had. I also don't have certain masculine parts, but I don't think that the key to this whole matter.

My mother might remind me that even great people have tons of mundaneness to wade through each day-- She's kind of a "everyone puts their pants on one leg at a time" sort of woman. But somehow--at the end of the day, or at least at the end of their live--their mundanity was shaken away to leave something stunning.

It might be argued that great people don't know they're great. That could be true. However, George Washington struggled with the weight of expectation and the understanding that history hung on his every action and decision. So did Abraham Lincoln. Even Steve Irwin urged a reporter to follow him as he went into the bush saying, "If people can see how amazing wildlife is, they might try to save it." He knew he was the Spokesperson for the Unspeaking.

I guess the bottom line is that, perhaps, at this moment, greatness is the foremost desire for me here...With truly great people there is most always another driving force: helping people, saving the nation, reaching the lost, making a better movie, saving wildlife, which offers the vehicle that brings greatness as they do the best they can in the area they are driven, or called, or placed.

Another obvious difficulty is that I'm a Christian. And Christians aren't supposed to want to be significant. My understanding of faith is that by giving myself to Jesus, this means I am to relinquish that desire for greatness housed within me. I am to be motivated by a higher calling, an eternal understanding, a deeper sense of who I am in the body of my Savior.

There are days when I "get it" enough to be OK with that. But other days, like today, as I try to make sense of the boxes of cloth, picture frames, files of stuff drug around for more than 20 years, I wish I could know that this effort will mean something more someday than a checkmark off my never ending list.

So much for being spiritually mature, huh?

Right now

Thought for the Day

“If you don't like my opinion of you, you can always improve.” Ashleigh Brilliant