Books or Movies

A few months ago I was standing in the book section of Sams when I overheard the couple next to me discussing a title that had recently been made into a film. The female asked her male counterpart if she should read the book before watching the film, to which he replied that she would be less disappointed with the film if she waited and read the book afterwards.I found his response very interesting as I had just watched the final installment of The Hobbit and was again disappointed in its inaccuracy.

My husband and I have commented time and again about how books make the best movies.  Of course that is when the director sticks to the book. But unfortunately they most often do not. And I wonder why, if the book was popular enough to be made into a movie, do the directors not just leave the story alone.

There seems to be a consensus in Hollywood that moviegoers will not pay to see a film unless it is full of violence or romance or sex or all three. Consider The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien published this book in 1937 and it has been incredibly popular ever since. So why change it? Why make a single book into a three-part movie? Why add story lines that never existed in the original writing?

I can only come back again to the notion that movie makers are under the delusion that we won’t watch something that we thoroughly enjoyed in print, unless it appeals in some way to our carnal natures. In this case there was the added violence between Thorin Oakenshield and an Orc that never existed. I can’t help but wonder at how disappointed Tolkien would be to see what was done to his story.

And that also makes me wonder what living authors like Lois Lowry and Jeanne DuPrau think about the movie counterparts to their books. Were they as frustrated as I was with film versions of The Giver and The City of Ember?

So I think the young man in Sams had it right. If you don’t want to be disappointed while watching the movie, don’t read the book first.

Waiting for Albert- A short story

“Excuse me sir, could you please tell me the time?” Charlotte asked politely. The man with the small mustache and round bowler hat did not so much as incline his head toward the sound of her voice. They always do that, thought Charlotte, when had people become so lacking in common manners. She rested against the back of the wooden bench and watched the passing crowds. Nannies with their small charges in hand walked them quickly home from a day of play in the park. Men with folded newspapers under their arms and briefcases in their hands, hailed cabs to take them home to their families or off to one of the local gentlemen’s clubs.

Charlotte turned her attention to the town clock again. There must be something wrong with it, she thought, for the hands never appeared to move. It seemed always to be four- fifty. She rubbed her gloved hands nervously as she again surveyed the crowd looking intently for him. He had promised to meet her at five o’clock. Calming herself with the belief that he would keep his word she pulled from her satchel an ivory boar’s hair brush and contentedly groomed her thick black tresses.

Mother and Father simply didn’t understand what a good man Albert was. They didn’t know him like she did. And they were much too old to remember what it was like to be truly in love. Yes, Albert gambled a bit too much and drank a bit too much, but that would all change once they were married. He only needed the love of a good woman to help him change his ways and if only her parents could see that, she could have a proper marriage and wouldn’t have to run away with him in secret.

Charlotte returned the brush to her satchel and pulled out the letter she had written to her parents explaining everything. She would post it when she and Albert arrived in Franklin. It was there he had promised to make a respectable woman of her… and of course he would. He wasn’t anything if not honest, having only once committed the smallest indiscretion with that barmaid. But he assured her that he had had too much to drink and didn’t know what he was doing and that it would never happen again. Charlotte rubbed her hands more intensely with the thought.

Again she turned her attention to the town clock looming over the square. Charlotte felt it looking disapprovingly at her and averted her eyes. Watching the women walk by she noticed their dress, such uncommonly straight skirts and large brimmed hats. Charlotte felt rather old fashioned in her hoop skirt and bonnet. And the men weren’t wearing the top hats that father wore when going out. Odd, she thought. An elderly gentleman came meandering slowly toward her. She could see his watch chain bouncing against his protruding stomach as he walked. Surely he was not in such a rush that he could not be bothered to answer her question. “Excuse me sir, but could you tell me the time? I think the town clock has stopped.”

He halted his steps and pulled the gold watch from his pocket checking the time on the towering wooden timepiece and being assured that the two were in accord he nodded his head in approval and walked away.

He must not have heard me, she thought, but surely now I know that the time is correct. Only ten minutes before Albert would arrive. She had never been so happy. To have such a handsome and charming man turn all his attention to her was more than she had hoped for. Mother and Father had tried to convince her to marry that dreary Charles. How could a mere bank clerk compare with such an exciting man as Albert? She would have done anything for him… and did. But that would all be rectified when they were married. Again that burning sensation in her hands. She rubbed them furiously and the pain subsided a bit.

Time seemed to stand still. Only the people and buildings showed any signs of change. Charlotte pulled the brush from her bag, groomed her long hair, returned it and pulled forth the letter. She requested the time from men and women only to be ignored; and always the burning feeling of her gloved hands. Her mind would wander into imaginations of Albert and the barmaid, she would see him in her arms and with all of Charlotte’s will she would push the nightmarish picture from her mind and replace it with the happy thoughts of her wedding day.

The shiny glass-walled buildings reflected the sun’s rays down on Charlotte but she felt none of the heat. As though she sat in a shadow she was chilled to the bone and wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders. What funny clothes the people wore, spiky heeled shoes and such short skirts. Mother would never have allowed her to show so much of her legs in public. And the men, not even wearing a tie or jacket. No one turned an eye toward her or answered her pleas for the correct time. Albert had to be here soon, he simply had to. She had many times thought to rise and search for him but could not summon the energy to move. Charlotte reached for her brush but the burning in her hands became too much for her and she removed her white lace gloves to examine what the cause might be. Turning her hands over she saw that her palms were stained a dark violent red. Charlotte’s mind reeled as she saw it all again. Albert and the barmaid embracing with such passion as he promised he had only for her! The smile on her wicked red lips as he kissed her neck! There on the counter lay a knife the tool that would end this nightmare and send it back to Hell. Charlotte’s vision was blurred with red, the red of Albert’s blood. It was all she could see, it was all there was until there was the bench.

“Excuse me sir, could you please tell me the time?”

Hello Lucy, Goodbye New Mexico

A Merry Band of Travelers

Two weeks ago, on Valentine’s Day, I was lying in a hospital bed surrounded by my husband, a nurse, and a midwife being encouraged to breath through the pain and push. After about fifteen minutes of this Lucy Valentina left my womb and entered the world! She then proceeded to turn that world upside down.
If you happen to be keeping count that now puts us at seven people living in a 35′ trailer. Chaotic? Yes. But joyful!

Lucy

And here she is. The only one of us to be born outside of Indiana.

We spent six months in New Mexico waiting for Lucy to come and once she did we were all itching to move on. Our plan was to leave at the end of March, but when snow was predicted and I just happened to mention that maybe we should spend the rest of the winter in southern Arizona…

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Fifty Shades of Grey and St. Valentine

Let me begin by saying that I have not read the book, Fifty Shades of Grey, nor do I intend to. Neither will I be seeing the movie. But who, with internet access, doesn’t know about the controversy that surrounds this book? The problem is not the lack of information, but the abundance and which direction to take with a critique.

When looking at the content of what can only be called the abuse and demoralizing of a woman by a depraved man I am struck by the irony of releasing such a movie on St. Valentine’s Day.

The day, which has over the years taken on a somewhat silly, sentimental perception, has a noble history that puts the sadistic idea of sex portrayed in this book to shame.

Whereas Christian Grey seeks to satisfy his vulgar desires at the expense of another person with no real love or commitment, the history of St. Valentine’s Day is the very opposite.

At the time of Emperor Claudius marriage for young people was outlawed, with the idea that an unmarried soldier would fight better than his married counterpart. St. Valentine took his life into his own hands by secretly marrying those couples that came to him. To the couples and to the priest the commitment of marriage was worth dying for. And for Valentine that is exactly where it ended, in his execution.

When compared to the self-serving acts of Christian Grey and the pathetic submissive behavior of Anastasia we can see the sickening contradiction of releasing a movie that describes the most intimate act of love in such a warped way on a day that glories in the noble, self-sacrificing truth of real love.

saint valentine

Is The Camper Getting Smaller?

A Merry Band of Travelers

alice

Or am I just getting bigger? I’m afraid it’s the latter. I feel like Alice after eating the cakes, growing and growing until she is stuck in Rabbit’s house. Of course I can’t blame it all on cake; I think being thirty-six weeks pregnant has a little more to do with it. Yes, just four weeks to go and we will have a new little traveler.

It hasn’t been exactly easy being pregnant in a shared thirty-five feet. The already small shower feels like a shoebox and my ‘camper queen’ bed (which relates to a full-size in the real world) has the feeling of a toddler bed with a super cheap mattress. But I’m not complaining (or am I) it will be worth all of the adversity when little Lucy finally makes her appearance. I’m just not sure where we’re going to put her. ; )

In all honesty I…

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Interview with Author J.F. Jenkins

J.F. Jenkins

J.F. Jenkins lives in Minneapolis Minnesota with her husband, son, and two cats. She graduated from Bethel University in 2006 with a degree in Media Communication with minors in both writing and film. When she is not busy writing, she spends her free time playing games, reading, and spending time with her family.

Interview with fellow Dystopian Author, J.F. Jenkins

1. Why did you choose to write a dystopian novel?

It just sort of happened. I hadn’t been planning on it taking on a dystopian nature. Originally, it was supposed to be straight up Science Fiction. Then it started warping into this genre, and I ran with it to stay organic to the story

2. Do you have any favorite dystopian literature? Authors?

The Stand is a little dystopian, as is The Dark Tower series, by Stephen King. I’m a huge fan of those stories, but they’re not what I would call traditional dystopian. I generally stumble upon the genre on accident. There’s a taste of it in a lot of stories that one might normally overlook. If we’re going on traditional types, I enjoyed the Hunger Games, and Divergent. I’m currently reading Matched by Ally Condie.

3. Do you foresee any part of your book becoming reality? If so explain.

I can see some of the crime and punishment system becoming reality. Once people start getting fed up with our justice system, they’ll start calling for harsher punishments for those who deserve it, and Utopia for those who have earned it, which will eventually lead the separation of class. Lack of forgiveness will keep people trapped.

 4. When writing your book, did you seek to only tell a good story or to get across a specific message?

To only tell a good story. Messages come across all the same, but they are subconscious in the writing process for me.

5. What was the inspiration for your book?

I had a weird dream, and a real life event that I tied together into the story. The whole opening set up is based on something I experienced (working in the mall, celebrity visits, etc.) and the dream warped it into the story it is now.

6. What other genres do you read?

I’ll read anything! YA, Adult, contemporary, sci fi, fantasy. I try not to limit myself.

7. Have you or would you like to write in another genre? Which one?

I’ve written in just about every genre there is. I can’t say I’ve published all these adventures, but I’ve at least made an attempt!

8. Are you particularly fond of any one of you characters?

In this particular book, I have a soft spot for Timber. He’s my favorite. A lot of people love Wicken the most, and he’s definitely up there on the list, but I always have a thing for the nice guy. It’s a bit of a secret agenda of mine to get girls to start swooning for them again, kidding!

9. Is there one book, in any genre, that has had a lasting impact on your life? Title. How did it affect you?

I still think back to The Stand. That book was powerful and fascinating. I also just read a book called The Night Circus and that book is one that is hard to forget. Definitely recommend both.

Displaced

Chevelle Donahue thought going into work would be just like any other boring day at the mall. Sure, there was her annoying co-worker Wicken Sanders, and a promotional visit from teen heartthrob Timber Hudson, to watch and keep her entertained. But who was she kidding? Working retail was lame no matter what happened. A terrorist attack changes everything – an attack from aliens of all things. The patrons are given two options: comply or else. Complying means giving in to a new set of rules and changing her entire life. “Or else” means she has no chance of going home again. She must figure out the truth behind why the aliens are holding everyone hostage. In doing so, she risks her chance at freedom – but by the time she learns what’s really happening, she might not want it.

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The Singing the Navajo

A Merry Band of Travelers

wigwam hotel

About a month ago we visited the Grand Canyon. To make the most of our three day trip we stopped at several places on the way there and back. One side trip we simply couldn’t pass up was the iconic Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, AZ.

While adding to our copious volume of travel photos we were approached by David Daniel Toby; a Navajo man. How do I know he was Navajo? Because he told us several times, even going so far as to show us his I.D. After introducing himself he asked for money (for food, of course) and we gave our standard answer that we don’t carry cash. But the girls made him a sandwich; just in case he really was feeling a bit peckish. And in return for this small donation he offered us a song. By his definition it is comparable to “Hit the Road Jack”.

Below…

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Do We Expect Too Much From Christmas?

fezziwig

Picture Christmas at Fezziwig’s. Everyone dressed in their best, a fiddler propped up on ‘the lofty desk’, and everyone dancing and singing and eating. No football, no television, no opening the gifts and rushing home! Just music and games and joy. This has always been the Christmas of my dreams. Has it ever come true? No. But it’s there in the back of my mind and plagues me every year.

But maybe I and we all want too much from Christmas. For what other holiday do we have such high expectations? Not Easter? Not Independence Day? Not even Thanksgiving?

Take the songs that play between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day. They suggest that we should some how end world hunger, that we should find romance, and that everyone will wish us ‘good cheer’. And don’t forget the parties and mistletoe.

The movies are no less optimistic. Think of It’s a Wonderful Life or Miracle on 34th Street or even my favorite A Christmas Carol. They tell us that Christmas isn’t just one holiday out of many but is a once-a-year life-changing event. That’s a lot of pressure for one day.

Why do we demand so much from this holiday? Why do we expect it to fulfill all of our dreams?  Could it be that we don’t understand it? Or maybe we do understand in some primitive way, but we can’t get beyond the worldly expectations. ‘This is the year that I will make the perfect meal, buy the perfect gift, meet that perfect someone…’

I say let’s give Christmas a break. As a one-day-out-of-the-year holiday it can’t fulfill all of our wishes and with that kind of hope it can only leave us depressed and disappointed.

Let’s let Christmas be Christmas. Not a day set aside for us but a day set aside for Him.

A Short, Short Story

I wrote this story with the intent of entering it in The Writer’s Digest Short, Short Story Contest. The stories could be no longer than 1500 words. I wrote a few others and decided not to enter this one. So here it is for your reading pleasure… I hope.

The Lamplight Stranger

Every evening he was there. Standing in the lamplight and staring up at her kitchen window. And every night he departed in the same way, entering a yellow cab that drove him off into the darkness. The first time she saw him standing there leering up at her apartment Margaret was terrified. It was enough to make her want to pack her bags and head back to the small Midwestern town she had been raised in. But there was nothing and no one to go back to; not since Albert had died. She was completely and utterly alone. So she did what any woman in her position would do and called the police.

She kept a close eye on the stranger until she heard the wailing of an approaching siren. The man never flinched or turned away, but kept his vigil until a cab arrived and took him away. The officers were less than sympathetic when they learned they’d been called out to investigate a man waiting for his ride home. Margaret was mortified. As the chuckling officers exited her home she vowed never to call them again. Though she resented their nonchalant attitudes she also hoped they were right about the stranger.

But night after night he was there, never varying from his routine. In time Margaret was not only not afraid of him any longer, but now looked forward to his presence. When his time came she would go to her kitchen window and push back the lace curtains and there he would be… watching. Once she had even thought to invite him in for coffee. She waved her small bony hand in his direction and though his eyes never shifted from their fixed gaze he gave no impression that he had even seen her.

Time passed and Margaret continued to subsist in her little apartment. Like a lonely ghost she was but a faded effigy of the woman she once was. She clung to the nightly visits of her lamplight friend, until one night when she pushed back the yellowing lace from her window pane and he wasn’t there. Margaret strained her stiff arthritic neck this way and that searching the street, but he was nowhere to be seen. Finally, surrendering to the truth of the empty street, she went to her favorite chair and slumped down into the seat feeling the heavy, black blanket of loneliness threating to smother the life from her.

As she closed her eyes, giving in to the dark demon, her doorbell rang. Startled from her depression she jumped from her seat in the hope that her stranger would be there.  Opening the door she was both shocked and disappointed as her old eyes fell on the person of a postman.

“Mrs. Margaret Wilson?” he asked

“Yes,” she answered.

“This is for you.” He presented her with an envelope. She reached out her shaking hand and snatched it away. Before she could ask him why he was out so late or where the letter had come from he was gone having disappeared into the encroaching fog.

Margaret closed and locked the door.  She held the envelope at arm’s length analyzing it. Nothing marred it’s whiteness but the black ink of her name. No return address, not even a stamp. With trembling fingers she pulled open the flap and removed the letter inside.

Enter the cab when it comes for you.

That was all. No salutation. No signature. Nothing but a command to enter a strange cab. Whoever wrote this must be out of their minds to think that she would do such a dangerous thing. What if this person wanted to kidnap her or worse kill her? But then again did it really matter she thought as she remembered the suffocating loneliness that threatened to swallow her alive. No, it didn’t matter, at least it was something. She would enter the taxi when it came for her.

Minutes later the yellow cab pulled to a stop in front of Margaret’s apartment. Giving her little home one last look she walked out into the night, not even bothering to lock the door behind her. In the cold air she felt more alive than she had in years and she boldly took her seat in the back of the strange cab. The driver slowly pulled away from the curb but did not turn to look at his passenger. Margaret’s courage began to wane after several minutes with her silent companion. In a timid voice she asked “Where are you taking me?”

“It’s time to go home, Margaret.” Her driver turned to look into her eyes and in that moment she recognized her lamplight stranger as her dear husband Albert. The cab was suddenly lit from within by an unearthly glow. She watched with wonder as the years fell from her like leaves falling from a tree. Albert took her hand, young and firm as it was when they first married. No longer in the back seat of a dingy cab the two stood  together in a blaze of light that drove out all fear, all loneliness, all depression.

“We’re home,” he said.