Jonathan Friesen's Blog

I met her at a mental health conference.
She grabbed me following my talk, and in words both passionate and disjointed, shared a story of life with DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder. Two hours later I saw her again … the same her on the outside. Yet, in her mind, a different personality had taken over.
She didn’t know who I was.
This teen had the same desires I had. To love, to be loved. But how would a young adult with DID relate to a member of the opposite sex? What would it be like to hold secrets from your other self?
In Both of Me, Clara knows all too well. She doesn’t have DID, but she’s a Londoner on the run from her own tragedy, the “Great Undoing,” a reality she can’t bear to face. She meets Elias Phinn on the red-eye from New York to Minneapolis, and senses his uniqueness. When their bags are switched and she follows him to right the error, Clara is plunged into the unpredictable world of Elias’s mental illness, and discovers the mythical country of Salem that one of his two personalities has created. This “other” Elias knows too much about Clara’s painful past. Soon the pair embarks on an Alice-in-Wonderland road-trip. Torn between the desire to uncover what Elias knows, and the growing need to aid Elias in his own search to become whole, Clara looses her footing, and travels with Elias over the murky roads of Salem. Reality blurs, but one thing is clear…
All of her has fallen for half of him.
Both of Me will challenge your readers’ idea of “normal,” as the “three” of them follow the stars toward a discovery in Maine that will leave you breathless.
We all fall into fictional worlds. We flee there when the “real” overwhelms. Spend some time with Elias in Salem, and you’ll never view mental illness the same.
Both of Me

Welcome to Author Scavenger Hunt Stop #16, and an exclusive interview with R. J. Larson. R. J. is the author of numerous devotionals and is suspected of eating chocolate and potato chips for lunch while writing. She and her husband live in Colorado. The Books of the Infinite series marks her debut in the fantasy genre.

"Larson makes the fantasy genre thrilling even for readers who wouldn't normally venture into mystical realms. Though the battles waged resemble tales from the Old Testament, there is no preaching here, merely a compelling story of good versus evil in which good is sure to triumph." –Booklist

Be sure to write down the clue given toward the end of the post, and continue to the next stop on the hunt. Enjoy the interview!

Q: When did you realize you wanted to become a writer?

I never dreamed of being a writer when I grew up. Ever. I wanted to be a nurse, a teacher, or an artist—all “normal” professions. Judging by everything I’d seen and read, I believed that writers were strange, reclusive people who always wore turtleneck sweaters and glasses, and I didn’t find the idea appealing. Until my “normal” sister-in-law became an editor. I glimpsed a manuscript she was working on, and I was hooked. Within a few weeks, I emailed samples of my writing to her and she retaliated by sending me guidelines for a collection of devotionals scheduled for publication the following year. I submitted several works, which were accepted for publication, and I’ve been writing ever since.

Have I become strange and reclusive? Perhaps. But only on writing days. Glasses, yes—for fine print. Turtleneck sweaters? Um, nope. I tried them. Nevermore. 

Q: Tell me a little about your books.

My current series is best described as Biblical fantasy—inspired by stories from the Old Testament, but with twists thrown in. My characters live in a different world and each book in the series adds to their world’s own Scriptures, much like ours on Earth, but with some unexpected twists!

Q: What’s your view on e-books and the new publishing revolution? Any e-book plans in your future?

I believe e-books will become the main focus of publishers’ contracts in the future, and paperbacks and hardbacks will be relegated to secondary rights clauses—if they’re to be offered at all, depending upon the author’s expected sales. All of my books are currently in e-book format and print, but I’m convinced that some of my future works will appear only in e-form.

Q: Describe your feelings when you opened the box and saw the first published copies of your very first book?

Unreal. As if the books belonged to someone else. Seeing foreign translations—which often arrive on the doorstep without warning—adds to the surreal sensation, particularly if I don’t recognize my own name on the cover. It’s happened!

Q: What were some of the challenges for you writing your book?

Fight scenes and battles. They HAVE to be perfect, and they must be included in every storyline!

Otherwise, it’s all mere politics and lethal scheming by dastardly villains—with a dash of romance.

Q: In what ways does your faith impact how you approach writing?

My faith is a natural part of my writing, and my characters’ stories unfold with faith naturally interwoven amid all the ordinary details of their lives.  

Q: Coke or Pepsi?

Mocha. Wait…sorry. That wasn’t on the list, was it?

Q: Soft shell or Hard Shell tacos?

Both! Tacos are a perfect food, and I’ll never choose one above the other—I’ll eat them both instead.

Q: Favorite place to vacation?

Ocean. Any ocean that’s a comfortable swimming or wading temperature.

Q: Do you listen to music while you write? If so what are some examples?

I listen to Audiomachine, Evanescence, Futureworld, Nightwish, and various collections of traditional hymns, most presented by the London Symphony, or folk groups. Oh, and I love LOTR-inspired music! 

Q: Does anyone else in your family have musical/writing/artistic skills?

Yes. I mentioned that my sister-in-law is an editor. She’s also a writer. My husband, Jerry, also edits and writes, and our daughter-in-law is an amazing artist.

Q: What have you learned about yourself through your writing?

That the impossible isn’t necessarily impossible—it just takes more work. Therefore, everyone, persevere! 

Thanks R.J.! I hope you’ve enjoyed the interview and will take a moment to check out R. J.’s great books. Before you go though, you’ll want to write down this part of the clue:  and support.

Now head on over to R. J.’s website for stop #17 HERE. 

 

 

I have Tourette syndrome.
It’s a gift.
I have it on good authority that we all have gifts. When you see someone living out their gifting, you know it. You smile and nod because you are witnessing the marriage of earth and heaven, of hard work and divinely inspired inclination, and who doesn’t like a wedding?
Yep, some gifts are marvelous to behold.
Others come like uninvited guests. I tell you, Tourette’s was definitely not on my guest list.
Likely different than your wedding crasher, this one causes my shoulder to leap and my hands to twitch. It also gives me a bad case of mannequin envy.
I won’t lie; sometimes it is a very painful gift.
When my youngest was not yet one, we arrived at Christmas with enough money to purchase one small gift. Three kids, one gift. The food shelf blessed us with a stuffed dog for our daughter, and we blew our wad on our oldest son, which left us nothing for our one-year old.
But in the rafters, we had a box. A large, cardboard box. We wrapped it up, and presented it to our babe filled with nothing but love. He tore at that wrap, laughing, shouting.
“It’s a little house for you,” I said. He smiled and crawled in. He cried and came back out. Dad (that’s me) had forgotten to check for staples. My son was a little scratched, I was a lot sorry, but soon all was put right, the staples were gone, and he played with that painful box for two years.
When he was three, he needed a box that could hold a gift for his brother.
“Let’s use my house,” he said. And we did.
It didn’t stop there.
His painful gift carried my lovely’s dishes into our new home.
His painful gift was the birthplace of five little kittens.
His painful gift, hardly recognizable, now catches the drops of oil that fall from my van.
But that’s what painful gifts do. If they are true gifts, they rarely leave. These severe mercies touch you, wound you, mark you in ways only they can. Suddenly, sometimes violently, they change the trajectory of your life, and then, if you’re willing to give them away, they change those around you.
And so, I would like to give you a gift … I’d like to share my severe mercy:
I have Tourette syndrome.
And if we ever meet, I hope you are blessed by the strange, messy, wondrous disorder I possess. I hope you smile and feel right at home, and a little more at peace with whatever painful gifts crashed your party.

I don't think I ever prayed as much as I did the year before my oldest was born. Simple prayers, really. Father, give us a healthy child. Just a healthy child. Not much else seemed to register as important. My pleas were much the same for the kids that followed. Health, Lord, I'll bother you with little else.

Well, my heart's been broken, and if you have a child with a health condition you know the sting. There is a bubble around your child that so few seem willing to push through. It doesn't matter that your kid is beautiful or kind or loving, others see the struggle and don't know what to say, how to say it. 

So they say nothing. And you watch with sadness, and not a little guilt, as this precious person walks quite alone on the earth.

I want to scream, "See my kid ... I know there are things you don't understand, but don't walk away, or around; don't turn you heart, or your back. My kid won't push like your other friends. My kid will stand, never too far off, waiting, waving, hoping that you'll say hello. Hoping for a bit of your smile ..."

But I don't, scream that is. Instead I watch, from inside my own bubble, and tell myself friends will one day come. Yet, my child doesn't seem concerned. My child trusts and hopes and trusts some more, with a smile that lights up the room. Friends will come. Someone will see me. God won't leave me alone.

I prayed for my child's health. I didn't get it. I got a kid who finds joy in the middle of the pain.

Maybe I got what I prayed for after all.

 

Live in Minnesota? Have nothing to do tomorrow morning? (Saturday the 21st) Goodness knows it's too COLD to go outside. I'll be speaking--yes, and signing--INSIDE at the Edina Barnes & Noble Store (in the Galleria) at about 10:30 am. I would love to see all 1,126 of my FB friends there! 

So come on out! (There's food!)

I've had a few animals in my lifetime, but none have endeared themselves to me like Streak, the farm cat. Now, I had planned on entitling this post "My Democat." (cute, huh?) But as I think about it, that feline is a Republican.

How do I know?

1. My cat is pro-life. I understand the attention given families with 10 plus children. That's a lot of kids. Streak's offspring now number near ninety, and if the three males hiding in my barn have anything to do with it, Streak will top 100 by September. And those males are scoundrels--disappearing quickly when Streak starts to show. Does Streak give a thought to ending the pregnancy? Nope.

2. My cat would approve of increased military spending. She spends countless hours roaming the landscape capturing pests and rodents. You could argue that she is merely hunting for food, and you'd be right. But her mice-battles across the acres prevent us from having mice in our house. (Okay, so maybe she's not a Ron Paul Republican.)

3. My cat is anti-entitlement. She does not wait for Big Government (I am over six feet) to care for her needs. She doesn't even seem to recognize my authority.

4. She cares much more about liberty than she does about equality. My dog is an indoor dog. He is fed well, kept warm, pampered, stroked, in other words, that dog is rich. My cat receives none of those creature comforts. It is completely unfair.  Yet in summer, when my dog comes out to play, she holds no grudges and they are the best of friends. Imagine that. A poor cat not getting upset at a rich CEO dog.

5. My cat is clueless about border security. A quick listen to any Republican debate reveals this must be a Republican universal. Streak shows no respect for our farmer neighbor's property lines. She has even given birth over there and smuggled the kitties over here, leaving us confused about proper citizenship.

6. My cat displays exceptionalism. She may roam all over the countryside, but she always returns. Yes, we are unique and special, to her, the best place on earth. France and Sweden and Switzerland may be wonderful places to visit, but Europe's got nothing on us. She likes American soil. Friesen land.

Undoubtedly, my cat also has many fine Democratic qualities, but with the Iowa caucuses fresh in my mind, and sleep calling me, I find myself thinking conservative thoughts. Good-night! 

I've done it--written a book with a ridiculously long name. Aldo's Fantastical Movie Palace is about twenty characters too long, so I will abbreviate: AL-FA-MO-PA! ALFAMOPA is a wonderful book name ... it also turned out to be a rather wonderful book. My first fantasy. ALFAMOPA comes out in May, but like all books of distinction, it is best enjoyed if pre-ordered and anticipated. So to allow you the full ALFAMOPA experience--the clicking, the ordering, the waiting, the dreaming--I now include this link for your convenience.

http://www.amazon.com/Aldos-Fantastic...

Enjoy!

 

Found it on Yahoo News. I don't care if it works, it sounds so perfect I'm going for it. I am going to workout every day of 2012. And I'm doing it the Yahoo way.

Here's the idea.

Four minutes of all-out sprint-like exercise is better for the heart and the waistline than an hour of moderate biking. Is that a big lie? Do not tell me. Let me live in my four minute delusion.

I can't bike for an hour without hurting something.

I CAN go all out for four minutes. This changes everything. Four minutes! I can eat four minutes worth of sour grapefruit. I can take a four minute freezing cold shower. I can endure the stomach flu for four minutes.

I can go all out for four minutes.

So here's how it went today, day one. 20 seconds of sprinting in place. Fall, half dead, to the floor and do 20 seconds of the mountain climber (a ridiculously easy LOOKING exercise that is ridiculously hard). Stagger to the feet and repeat those two all-outs three more times. About four minutes. Then roll on the carpet and groan and pray that your heart actually is meant to beat that fast and the searing in your stomach is not appendicitis.

Call for your wife. Call for the kids. Make sure the will is in order. This four minutes was, quite possibly, the most exhausting four minutes of my life. 

Tomorrow, I will attempt another four minute workout. I will capture this on film, perhaps post it on YouTube to encourage my sedentary friends. If, after four minutes of agony, I can haul my lifeless frame from the floor (a feat that resembles a resurrection), so can you.

At age 5. Staying up until 10:00 pm and falling asleep in front of the fireplace, magically waking up in my own bed.

At age 15. Drinking Sparkling Catawba juice (Mennonite Champagne) with my family. Saying good-night to the sleepy folks around 11:00, and wishing very much I had my driver's license.

At age 25. Going out with my wife of one year to Riverplace, downtown Minneapolis. Watching fireworks, listening to rock music, and experiencing the feeling of very un-Mennonite champagne dripping down my head.

At age 35. Staying awake all night ... holding my months old son, so sleep-deprived I did not realize it was New Year's Eve, begging the boy to stop wailing and fall asleep so I could, too.

At age 45. Tonight. Three kids. Big TV. Five movies. A break from veganism and a dish of pre-cooked shrimp, AND an absolutely gorgeous wife. Score.

It might have taken me forty-five years to achieve New Year's Eve perfection, but it was worth the wait. Happy New Years All!

 

Reading glasses. Yep. That's what the eye doc said. 

I've always been pefect that way, near, far, in-between, 20/20, crisp, sharp, practically x-ray vision, and yeah, darn proud of it. This is why it took me for a loop when he said those words. 

"For now, just some mild readers, but by the next time I see you, we'll probably be talking something stronger."

The next time he sees me? I will not be going back anytime soon. Maybe next decade. 

It's a terrible situation--the list.

First went the ankles (broomball, you know). Then the knees (more broomball). Followed by the back. But those body failures were due to me doing something. They were like a badge of honor. My eyes? Shoot. I just got older. These are READING GLASSES! I didn't do anything. 

So I picked them out. There is no such thing as a cool pair of reading glasses. The case isn't even cool. Like they think I'm blind and can't see how dorky they look on my face. 

What did you get for Christmas? Me, oh, I got proof of my mortality. I got reading glasses.

Merry Christmas!