The Sheepish Scribe

Rejoice in the day as we celebrate God's love for us, that He sent His only Son to pay the price for our salvation. Praise God! The Babe in a manger, our Savior, Jesus Christ the Lord!

Our family enjoys Christmas. The birth of our Savior is a time for rejoicing! It's a time for family, friends and traditions.

We enjoy playing the songs of the season and favorite old movies. Cutting our Christmas tree is a special event that we look forward to, laughing among the snow laden pines while we work to discover "the tree" for the year.

Christmas Eve service is our favorite part of the holiday. We love to participate in the music.

Time spent with the extended family includes playing board games, laughing and eating too much while savoring every bite.

Sometimes we do silly things, just for fun, like putting antlers on the Border Collie. Why? Because it's Christmas!

Mingle jumped as the heavy, sliding door rumbled shut behind her. She pushed her way behind Nip's ample backside and peered around the older ewe. Nip gave a snort, pulling her head out of the hay feeder and giving the youngster a cross look.

"Why did she shut the door?" Mingle asked.

"There's a storm coming." Nip mumbled around a mouthful of hay.

"She's never closed the door before when it stormed."

"You haven't seen this kind of storm before." Nip tipped her nose towards the door. "That little bit of snow on the ground is nothing compared to what's coming."

"How do you know?"

"When you've been around as long as I have, you just know." Nip reached back into the feeder for more hay.

"But how do you know?" Mingle nudged Nip for more attention.

Nip sighed, frosty breath making a cloud around her head. "There is a difference in the air. It's hard to explain but you feel it."

Mingle tipped her head to the side and thought about how the air felt. "It seems... lighter?"

Nip nodded and asked, "What do you smell?"

Mingle crinkled her nose and blew a few wuffling breaths. "Hay mostly."

"Come over here." Nip lead the way to the now closed door. "Try again."

Mingle gave the older ewe a dubious look but tried again. Her eyes popped open and she took a few more sniffs, pressing her nose to the door's edge. "It does smell different. Fresher, kind of."

Nip nodded and walked back towards her breakfast. "Remember both the feel and the smell and you'll know when a storm is coming next time."

"What's the big deal about a little more snow?" Mingle asked, following behind.

"Youngling, you ain't seen nothing yet!"

I've been following Chip MacGregor's blog for awhile now. It's always good reading, but today, he almost cost me a couple of ribs.

He wrote about a book that "won" the title of worst self-published book on the market. The title is "How to Good-bye Depression" with the catchy subtitle of "If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Everyday. Malarkey? or Effective Way?" He didn't make this up! The book is on Amazon.com.

With a title like that, I had to go look at it. Once there, I got sucked into reading the comments left by people who actually spent money on this book. I can't remember when I laughed so hard! If you need a good laugh, by all means, check out these reviews on Amazon. Just wait until you're in a room by yourself because, really, you don't want to have to explain this to anyone else!

Do you want to stop all conversation going on around you? Do you want all eyes in the room focused on you? Do you want people to take a step back and give you some space? This is easily accomplished by uttering a simple little sentence, "I need to get home and cut up a deer."

Our son brought home a nice sized spike buck last Tuesday. Being the thoughtful young man that he is, he hung it up in the garage before beating a hasty retreat back to college. The usual collection of friends and neighbors stopped by that first night to "ooh" and "aah" over this particular example of nature's bounty. The next night, however, there was nobody in sight. It was time to start cutting and wrapping.

Perhaps people are too squeamish these days to lend a hand cutting up a carcass. Or perhaps they are leery of a wild-haired, empty nesting, menopausal woman wielding a large knife. It's hard to say.

In the murky, purple-gray before dawn, he felt his way into the thicket. Every move was precise, every step calculated to make as little noise as possible. Wispy fog draped the brush that grew thick along the swamp's edge to his right. Ahead loomed the dark ridge where a tangled nest of brush and branches awaited him. He climbed to that higher ground and reached his deer blind.

Turning to the east, he saw the first streaks of angry orange moving up the horizon over the lake. He filled his lungs with the damp, chilled air. His hand ran along the length of his rifle, absently noting the safety was on. He lowered himself to the rickety, wooden chair he hoped would last another season and blew out a soft breath when it didn't creak beneath his weight. Flipping the covers off his scope, he drew the rifle up and squeezed one eye closed as he looked out over the swamp. It was too dark yet.

A light breeze toying with dried cattails murmured in the background. He waited. Angry orange gave way to pinkish light that danced off the dissipating fog. Behind him a bird called out its first greeting of the day. In front and to his left a small, black squirrel poked its head out from around a young, leafless oak tree. The day came to life around him. Sitting still, rifle relaxed but ready in his hands, his eyes roved the landscape. He watched and waited.

He heard a noise off to his right, just a rustle in the dry leaves that carpeted the ridge. The muscles along his back tightened. He breathed shallowly, ears straining to catch another sound. There was movement. His eyes could make out a vague shape through the thick forest brush, but nothing more. He waited. He listened. He hoped.

This is something of a hot topic among writers now. Changes in the industry combined with our sagging economy have caused traditional publishing houses to cut back on the number of books they publish per year. Naturally, that mean fewer writers are getting their books accepted for publication.

Many are opting to self publish. This means that they take complete control of their book. They write, edit, design and print, owning the entire process themselves. It's an intriguing notion for several reasons.
1. You don't have to make changes to please an editor.
2. You have full control of the final product.
3. You make more money on each book sold.
4. You decide how many copies to print and when.

The down side of self publishing is what is keeping me from jumping on this band wagon. In short, you're on your own. In some respects that sounds good, but on the other hand...
1. You have no editor to review and help polish your manuscript.
2. You have no publishing house to help with distribution.
3. You have no marketing department to help with promotion.
4. You have no "name brand" to add credibility to your book.
5. You pay all the costs, everything, with no money coming 'up front' to help.

I can see self publishing working in some genres better than others and I can see it working for people who don't have a "day job" or two. But I don't see it working for me, not at this time, not as it is happening now. It will be interesting to see what changes are coming down the pike with e-books and such. For now... I just need to write!

Mingle picked up her hooves in a delicate, mincing step over the crispy, frosted grass. "I'm cold and my breakfast is too."

"It's going to get a lot colder soon." Holly shook her head, her white ears tinged a pale blue from the cold.

Mingle shivered. "Why did the shepherd take our wool away if it's going to get colder?" Her short, black fleece shone in the weak, early morning light.

Holly closed her eyes half way and looked across to the barn. "It's like this every fall. My momma told me it's because the shepherd needs our wool more than we do in the winter months."

"Why does she need it?"

"She grows no wool of her own. She needs ours to keep her warm in the winter."

Mingle looked towards the farm house and thought about that for a moment. She pictured the shepherd covered with long, curly black fleece. "She'll look funny in my wool."

Holly snorted and gave a sheepy grin to the younger ewe. "She doesn't cover herself with wool, exactly. She does something to it to make it into those things she pulls over her body. The bulky things that cover her arms too."

Mingle stamped a foot on the frosty ground and stalked back towards the barn. "I wish she would have left my wool alone!"

"Don't be silly." Holly said, following her young friend. "You wouldn't enjoy all that heavy fleece coming lambing time."

"Lambing time?" Mingle stopped short and Holly almost walked into the back of her. "What's lambing time?"

Holly shook her head. "You'll find out."

This week was sheep shearing at Twin Willows Farm. Here is a Youtube video that shows the process well. The sheep being shorn in the video is a Border Leicester, the same breed I raise.

I shear my sheep twice a year because Border Leicesters grow 10" to 12" of wool in a year. My wool customers prefer the fleece length between 4.5" and 5.5". That's the optimum length for many types of preparation before spinning.

Enjoy the video of this nice gentleman shearing. I do my shearing solo with no photographer in sight. It's just me, the sheep and my bottle of Aleve.

Today the podiatrist took an x-ray of my gimpy foot and discovered that I have an extra bone. Running along the outer tarsal bone is a wimpy, little, tarsal-bone-wanna-be. I was born with it, but for 47 years it lay dormant, waiting to pounce at just the right moment. That moment came last June.

I like to give Mother Nature a good shake at healing without interference, but after 4 months, it was time to get this pain checked out. It seems the tarsal-bone-wanna-be is now irritating a rather major nerve in my foot. (In point of fact, it's irritating the rest of me as well!) Dr. Z. gave me a shot of cortisone and the, "We'll see you in two weeks," pep talk. Then he sent me lumbering back to work on a numb foot. Aside from my Frankenstein-ish gate, I was feeling pretty good. However, if the cortisone doesn't do the trick, that bone is going to have to come out.

The writing process can be equated with this whole situation. A writer struggles to get his/her story down in whatever format; scribbling or typing in a mad rush to get all their thoughts down in black and white. Then comes the editing. Reading back through the pages and pages (or screens and screens) the writer finds all sorts of "extra bones."

These may not be bad bits of writing. They may, in fact, be very good bits of writing. For whatever reason, in the context of the story, they are only wanna-be bits contributing nothing vital to the actual story itself. The more the writer reads over these "extra bones" the more they begin to irritate. They don't fit. They aren't needed. They may slow down the pace or muddy up the story. What's a writer to do?

Before doing major surgery to remove these "extra bones" the writer should see if a little shot of "literary cortisone" can salvage them into workable scenes. Only, of course, if they are worthy to be salvaged. If they are not or if they cannot be, if they add no intrinsic value to the whole or part of the story, if they become a Frankenstein in your Amish romance... "Scalpel please!"

Writing is an amazing craft, the more I learn about it, the more I want to improve what I do. I want my story to sparkle and shine, polished as a pearl. Then, and only then, will I send it out into the cold, cruel, literary world. That world is literally papered with rejection slips. Very few book proposals are accepted when first pitched to an editor. Rejection slips are part and parcel of a writer's life. How will I handle these inevitable rejections? Someone asked that question at ChristianWriters.com this weekend. I hope I'll be able to look at the rejection slip, shrug it off, and get back down to work. It's either that or stuff myself with chocolate. Hershey may appreciate my rejections slips.

This week has been filled with more reading than writing. I've spent an inordinate amount of time at storyfix.com. There is a wealth of information there about how to structure a story for the best "story telling" effect. If you are writing or planning to write, I highly recommend visiting there for a week or so. I know I'll be back to see what else I can learn from Larry Brooks. I appreciate his humor and interesting examples that keep the articles fun, not dry and boring.

What started me on my reading venture was a book I read last weekend. It is written by a well known author and it sold very well. However, in all honestly, I didn't think it was all that well "written." Despite the fact that the writing wasn't anything exceptional, the story was compelling and well told. This confirmed what I've often thought about good books. Readers will ignore or forgive mediocre writing as long as the story is gripping and is told in an engaging way.

This isn't to say that lazy writing, poor grammar or weak sentences should be acceptable. I still want to do my best, writing a tight, well worked story, but now I feel better prepared to tell that story in a way that readers will enjoy. I want my readers to set the book down with a sigh of satisfaction. That, I think, is a wonderful goal to have.

Relocating family and farm, we moved 225 miles in late fall of 2000. The month was November and winter knocked at our door. A vast, sprawling barn that once housed dairy cattle needed immediate attention. One exterior wall had to be rebuilt and space converted to suitable shelter for the horse, sheep and farm dogs. Snow swirled overhead as the last board was nailed in place. With everything safely out of the elements, we settled into a new routine and put the remaining necessary repairs on hold until spring.

Two enormous willow trees flanked the tri-level house, inspiring the name Twin Willows Farm. The same trees caused considerable damage to the roof shingles. With each snowfall pieces of shingle would slide off into the deep drifts below. Roof repair hit the top of our home improvement project list. We prayed it would stay sound enough until spring. It did. The roofing crew arrived on the first weather permitting day. They stripped and shingled the entire roof, all three levels, in one day. Mission accomplished!

Spring brought not only rain, but layers of melting snow. The driveway, we discovered, lacked gravel. It lacked gravel so much that our little car sank halfway to it's axles during one particularly heavy downpour. Home improvement project #2 presented itself. The paving crew arrived shortly after the roofing crew left.

The sound of metal ringing against metal filled our weekends for the next month. Metal posts driven into the rocky, uncooperative ground as the base for new fence to be stretched. Horse fence consisted of three strands of electrified wire and went up quickly. Sheep need more protection from coyotes and roaming dogs. Woven wire requires more posts and must be stretched and clamped to each one. Electric wires, both above and close to the ground inside the woven wire, are also needed to keep coyotes from going over or digging under the fence. During the summer our pastures took shape.

In the following years our little farm has continued to improve. One project at a time, it's becoming the place we want it to be. From killing thistles to patching barn roof holes to fixing gates, it's a never ending job. We keep a dozen or so Border Leicester sheep, a dozen or so Silver Fox rabbits, three horses, three dogs, a couple of cats and one geriatric duck named Herb. Life is good.

The gals over at AuthorCulture shared this video today and I about split my sides laughing. Oh... if I ever get to the point of having a book to sign... I surely hope I do NOT do something like this!

Wow... it seems incredible that my dear husband turns 50 today. Where have the years gone? We've been married 27 years and that's hard for me to believe. Like the twinkling of an eye, the days are here and then gone. How can so many years go by but so few things change? Other than hair color and skin texture... he's still the same ol' sweetie I married!

I've often heard it said that one should, "write what you know." This makes sense, especially for my first attempt at a novel. So it's no surprise that my story involves some rural living. Tonight I was banging out more of my story when I mentioned a pair of African Geese named Abner and Abby. Well that's great, I know about African Geese... sort of. How tall are they? Dang!

The Internet is a great research tool. Research is vital to creating a good story. Just because I don't know how tall an African Goose is, I can't assume that my readers won't know. So tonight I Googled away, cross referencing in a couple of different places, and I learned more about African Geese than I will ever use in my story.

The downside to this is that I found them quite intriguing fowl. We've never had geese on the farm. Yet. "Michael, honey..."

Years ago I took an oil painting class. Oil paints dry very, very slowly. This allows the artist to fiddle and fidget with her work over a period of time, making changes here and there until the painting is “just right”' Or until she drop-kicks it in the dumpster and finds another canvas... whichever comes first.

Now I'm writing and I've found that, like oil painting, authors can fiddle and fidget with their work endlessly. Computers make this both easier and more difficult. Easier because cut and paste are wonderful inventions, wasting neither paper nor ink. More difficult because it's hard to set the brake and say, “it is finished.”

How many ways can you say the same thing? More than I'd dreamed possible! Take something as easy as a character entering a room:

Donna turned the knob slowly, nudging the door open enough to peer inside. Finding the room empty, she walked in.

With a sharp kick of her high heeled pump, Donna burst into the room expecting to find her family. What met her was an empty room.

Donna knocked twice before juggling both grocery bags to one arm and fishing her house key out of her coat pocket. She pushed open the door and yelled for help, only to discover nobody was home.

Is it any wonder writing a novel takes so long? So many choices, so much to fiddle and fidget with until it's “just right” or until it meets the delete key... whichever comes first.

The most important thing I took away from the Maranatha Writer's Conference is that Christian writers are genuinely nice people. There was a sense of camaraderie and an almost tangible willingness to help. I expected to be "taught" by experts and instead I came away feeling like I'd been mentored by colleagues.

One quote from Ten Kluck particularly sticks in my mind, "As a freelance writer you eat what you kill." My family is full of hunters so maybe that's why this stuck with me. This isn't an industry or a time in history when people are going to pay you for producing an 'okay' piece of writing. The competition is fierce and the publishing opportunities are shrinking.

So why bother? I have a story to tell.

Last week was amazing. I had no idea what to expect at my first writer's conference. I chose Maranatha's conference for two reasons. It's Christian based and it's close to home. Close is relative, but a six hour drive isn't too bad. I met people from as far away as Ethiopia and as close as Lansing, Michigan.

Every morning began with praise songs and a Bible study. Every evening was a devotional for writers. In between was enough information and advice to sink a Great Lakes Freighter. We began at 8:00am and wrapped up about 9:00pm. We heard from some of the "big dogs" in the industry; authors, publishers, editors, agents and those who wore many hats.

While not part of my original plan, I did meet with an editor who expressed interest in my book idea. He gave me his business card and invited me to contact him when I have the manuscript written. You could have knocked me over with a feather. That was beyond my wildest expectation. While it's no commitment of any kind, I've heard receiving this type of invitation called "the golden arrow" in the industry. I'm excited, scared and more than a little determined.

The week ended with another high note as my personal essay, "Wool: The Dirty Little Secret" was chosen first place it's division of the writing contest. The judge for this contest was the editor of The Saturday Evening Post. Talk about an ego boost! But at the same time, it was a very humbling moment. This was the first writing contest I've ever entered and so... where do I go from here? This gives me a lot to live up to and, hopefully, will sustain me when the rejection slips crowd my mailbox.

I'm sitting under the awning of our camper listening to wet leaves slap against each other above me. The rain has moved out but everything is soggy and foggy. Birds are calling back and forth to each other, none of the pretty songbirds, only those more raucous voiced. It's an interesting start to an important day.

After years of "thinking" about writing fiction, today I'm taking my first serious step to accomplish it. I'm attending the Christian Writer's Conference in Muskegon, Michigan. While I've written and published many nonfiction, technical articles, I've always wanted to do something in the realm of fiction. Lots of things held me back, those normal things that we get caught up in; family, job, farm, etc. Last year we cut the sheep flock in half due to the collapse of the market for lambs. This year Jeff went off to college. The garden is nearly done and winter is approaching. Those things that held me back are moving aside.

I wish I could say, "The Lord is leading me to write." I wish I knew that. I seem to see His hand working only in hindsight. But He has paved the way. The fact that I got this week off work is amazing. Smack between two of our Memory Walks is not a week I imagined my boss would let me take off. But she didn't blink an eye over it. Conferences are costly and I knew paying for room and board wasn't possible, but a State Park is only three miles south of the conference center. This spring Michael kept saying he wanted to take a full week in the fall to go camping and golfing. He was able to get this week off as well. So here we are. Just for icing on the cake, I wrote for and received a partial scholarship to attend. Okay, Lord, I'm getting the picture.

Without doubt the most difficult step was telling people what I am doing. Why? Because I might fail. I might fall flat on my face with a boatload of witnesses. That's a scary place for me to be. That's what makes this a real step of faith for me. I guess that makes my favorite of the "Seven Deadlies"... pride. And maybe that's why I'm here today. To face that and get past it, if for nothing else.

Tomorrow is the 17th Annual Memory Walk for Alzheimer's in Alpena. I'll be there, walking in memory of Grandma Lewis, Great Grandma Dermyer and in honor of Dad.

Sunday we leave for Muskegon, MI, for a week spent at P. J. Hoffmaster State Park. It's been a couple of years since we've taken the camper out for a full week. Michael plans to golf every day and I'll be attending a Christian Writer's Conference.

Saturday the 26th we'll be working at the Memory Walk in Traverse City before heading back home.

I'll see you back here in about ten days. With any luck, you'll see some improvement in my posts after a week spent at the conference!

This is an issue I've read a good deal about on other blogs, forums and Internet sites. It's a serious question for a Christian writer. It needs to be thoughtfully and prayerfully considered.

A writer aiming to market through a Christian book publisher, should assume that profanity, steamy sexual content and gratuitus graphic violence will be unacceptable. After all, targeting these readers is akin to preaching to the choir. Don't get me wrong, choirs needs preaching as much as anyone. This type of book should not be marginalized for it's more gentle content.

However, not all Christians who write are aiming their books at a Christian publisher. They may want to reach the unreached. Does that mean their standards should change? Surprisingly, I think so.

I'm not talking about their personal standards, because those should be solidly based on the Word. However, when aiming a book at the secular market, one should be prepared to write to that market. Many people will find a book in Barnes and Noble who will never set foot inside a Family Christian Store. The message can be the same, but the language, content and/or genre need to be different to get published and reach this audience.

Sometimes we need to step outside our own comfort zones before the people we need to reach will notice us. It's a balancing act to do this without crossing the line, being in the world without being of the world. Food for thought. Fodder for prayer.

“Why is she walking like that?” Dance watched the shepherd hobble to the barn.

“I've seen her move like this before.” Nip tucked her front legs under her and collasped into a wooly heap in the shade of the old willow. “She looks like this after shearing in the spring and in the fall.”

“But we haven't been sheared,” Dance pointed out.

“Obviously.” Nip directed an annoyed glance at her daughter.

“So why is she walking like that?”

Nip asked, “Did you not smell the air yesterday?”

“Something smelled funny coming from the farmhouse. That's why we stayed out back, behind the pond.” Dance frowned. “I would rather have been here, under the willow where it's cooler and the breeze always blows.”

“That smell was paint.” Nip nodded sagely. “You haven't smelled it before, but I have. The shepherd uses paint to color things. It smells bad for a short time.”

“Is it the smell that makes her walk so funny and tilt to one side?”

“No, it's her muscles. When she shears us, she uses muscles that get stiff and sore. Putting on paint must do the same thing. That's what makes her move so funny.” Nip burped up a cud to chew.

Dance asked, “Then why does she put on the paint?”

Nip mumbled around her mouth full. “Perhaps the farmhouse needs paint as much as we need shearing.” She shrugged her shoulders a little, getting more comfortable and closed her eyes, ending the discussion.

Young Dance watched the shepherd as she hobbled back to the house from the barn. Humans are odd creatures, all in all.

I love the word 'genre.' It's fun to say and makes you sound educated and refined. But what does it mean?

Christian author Gilbert Morris boils it down to the bare bones. His definition of genre is, “kind of.” It's the kind of book, the kind of movie, or the kind of play.

When I think about the books I read, I find that I'm all over the map. I read romance, contemporary fiction, science fiction, fantasy, historical fiction, historical romance, non-fiction, biographies, cookbooks, cereal boxes and junk mail.

Do you have a favorite genre? Leave me a comment and let me know what you're reading!

I should be an authority on characters. After all, my family is full of them! Those who know me are nodding and grinning. For those who don't, let's just say there's never a dull moment.

Having such a colorful cast of characters in real life, however, I'm finding to be a great asset as I begin to write fictional characters. I'm sure some of the family laundry will make it into my stories, but names will be changed to protect the 'innocent'. There may be occasion to tell of a character singeing his eyebrows off in a campfire, backing a horse into an electric fence, or bob sledding down a steep ravine in a runaway outhouse. But for the most part, I plan on drawing from the rich, colorful personalities around me rather than specific events. I'll try to keep the worst of the bones in the closet.

Watching people interact, how they use body language, facial expressions, the variety of laughter, all of these things come together to help explain who they are. I want my characters to be real; warts, bad breath and morning surliness 'real'. Heaven help me if I create cookie-cutter characters; the type of people we try to avoid in life, who are too perky, too pretty, and too perfect to stomach.

There's nobody like that in my family and I hope there will be nobody like that in my stories.

In my last post, I mention that my main character is a "Martha". Perhaps not everyone is familiar with that reference. The story of Martha and her sister, Mary, is told in the Bible in Luke 10:38-42.

Now as they were traveling along, He entered a village; and a woman named Martha welcomed Him into her home. She had a sister called Mary, who was seated at the Lord's feet, listening to His word. But Martha was distracted with all her preparations; and she came up to Him and said, "Lord, do You not care that my sister has left me to do all the serving alone? Then tell her to help me."

But the Lord answered and said to her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and bothered about so many things; but only one thing is necessary, for Mary has chosen the good part, which shall not be taken away from her."

I admire Mary. She glued herself to the feet of Christ and soaked up His presence. She served Him with her quiet devotion.

I like Martha. She is the one in this story who I can relate to. She fully recognized Jesus for who He was. (That is made clear in other passages.) She showed her devotion by doing, by preparing and serving the meal to Jesus. Was that wrong? No!

Jesus did not reprimand her for doing. He reprimanded her for whining. Dang. Those of us who serve the Lord by doing need to remember that. We need to serve and do without whining.

Literary characters are the intentional creation of an author. Right? That's what I used to think. However, as I delve into this uncertain world of writing fiction, now I'm not so sure.

I started with the idea of my character. She's a 'Martha' type of woman, taking charge, gettin' it done, and no-nonsense to the core. That's how I envisioned her. I got the first chapter of my story written and then, in a swirl of literary magic that would make Walt Disney proud, she has wrestled control away from me!

This character has taken on a life of her own. She is not content to be who I would have her be. She is, quite literally, stealing the show. How dare she! I had other plans for her! But there she is, larger than life, taking the reins and galloping off with my story.

And I just started chapter three...

"What's she doing?" Mindy craned her neck for a better look, ears perked forward to catch any sound.

"I can't tell from here." EweNika moved forward with Mindy shadowing her until they stood by the fence bordering the back yard.

"She's still not moving. She hasn't even looked up." Mindy cocked her black head sideways. "Listen, what's that sound?"

"It sounds like the big beetles clicking across the cement barn aisle, only faster." EweNika watched the shepherd's fingers skittering over the open, thin gray box on her lap.

"Do you think she's got beetles in that box?"

"Don't be silly!" EweNika pulled her ears back and looked down her regally arched nose at Mindy. "She hates the beetles, you know she stomps every one she finds."

Mindy gave her a sheepish look. "You're right, what was I thinking?"

"That box must be very heavy." EweNika watched the shepherd, sitting under the largest willow, hunched over the box. "She hasn't moved for an hour. It must be holding her down."

"Yes, she never sits still that long."

"I've noticed she's been spending less time around the pasture lately." EweNika shook herself, starting with her head and continuing down her body, sending the white wool dancing over her back. "It's nothing for us to worry about. It's just a box."

Mindy watched the younger ewe walk away before turning back to look at the shepherd. "I'm not so sure..."

Sheepish according to the Merriam-Webster on-line dictionary:

* Main Entry: sheep·ish
* Pronunciation: \shē-pish\
* Function: adjective
* Date: 13th century

1 : resembling a sheep in meekness, stupidity, or timidity
2 : affected by or showing embarrassment caused by consciousness of a fault

With all due respect to Merriam and Webster... they missed one!

3 : in need of the Shepherd, prone to stray

I chose this title for my blog based on definition #3. I'm prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love. Thankfully, He has never left me.

Scribe according to the Merriam-Webster on-line dictionary:

* Main Entry: scribe
* Pronunciation: \skrīb\
* Function: noun
* Date: 14th century

1 : a member of a learned class in ancient Israel through New Testament times
2 a : an official or public secretary or clerk b : a copier of manuscripts
3 : writer; specifically : journalist

My journey into writing fiction starts with this blog. May He bless my best efforts beyond what I am able.