LAUGHTER THROUGH TEARS IS MY FAVORITE EMOTION!

Ruthy, here! And yes, that smile is genuine, it's an "oh my stars, did I really final with Linda Goodnight and Irene Hannon in THE CAROL AWARDS????? Two RITA winners?????"

a. Yes
b. No
c. Are ya kiddin'????
d. Not on your life, what are you thinking, dude???

Those of you who answered "a" are correct! :)

And huge thank yous to the judges, to ACFW, to Mindy Obenhaus (one of God's most delightful and patient creatures, just a treasure of a woman to deal with the likes of me and Connealy) and to Melissa Endlich, my editor at Love Inspired, who took a chance on this newbie. I'm beyond grateful.


OKAY, NOW TO WORK!

We've had some great posts and thoughts on humor. I love humor. It's huge. We all laugh, we all cry, why not put both in a book? The same book? Because how often do you go to a wake/funeral parlor and hear laughter through the tears? How many of us cry at weddings? How many of us tear up while we smile at a baby's first breath?

(Right here let me confess that a well done McDonalds commercial, like the one where Ronald SWOOPS ONTO THE ICE RINK TO SKATE WITH THE LITTLE BOY has me reaching for tissues. Hallmark Hall of Fame productions??? I'm a sap, no harm, no foul)

This mix of emotions is natural, but it's not an easy grasp for a writer. Julie talked about rhythm yesterday, and that's huge for writing comedy. Mary tells us that all the time, and I NEVER ARGUE WITH MARY. She only pretends to be nice. Really. I mean it. Don't even think for one teensy, tinsy, little minute that I'm kidding.

Winter's End is a great place to take this blog topic because you can't get much more tragic than death and you can't get much funnier than a fashionista type nurse and a North Country farmer. Never the twain shall meet.

And yet, they did.

So today we're going to work on any sample you submit. We'll have a little Ruthy-fun. By fun I mean you put your heart out here on the World Wide Web for all to see and I rip it to pieces.

Now that sounds like fun, right???? (cheesy Ruthy-grin here)

Of course, right!

Here's a sample from Winter's End, a recipient of the Holt Medallion Award of Merit and a finalist in the Carol Awards sponsored by American Christian Fiction Writers. And no, I DID NOT post the entire book... It just seems that way right now.

This is a scene about 1/3 of the way through the book... Kayla and Marc have already figured out that they're oil and vinegar on the salad of life, but they also sense the spark of 'why me, why now?' attraction going on.

Craig and Sarah Macklin’s doorbell chimed Saturday night precisely at six.

“I’ll get it,” Kayla called up the stairs. Craig was offering veterinary advice online and Sarah was changing a shirt that had been burped on. Kayla scooped up McKenna and padded to the door in her socks.

Marc looked as surprised as Kayla felt, but he recovered faster. Sweeping her a look, he stepped in and shut the door against the frigid night. “Someone sick?”

Kayla clutched McKenna tighter. “No. I came for supper.”

“Really?” Marc shrugged off his leather bomber jacket and hung it on a rack of pegs. The ever-present flannel had been replaced by a simple turtleneck in Loden green. The soft country shade did wonderful things to his eyes. Why did that seem unfair? “Me, too.”

The night had disaster written all over it. Kayla jerked one shoulder. “I can come another time.”

She turned. A firm hand caught her shoulder. Marc stepped in front of her, his hands reaching for the baby. “We’ve eaten together before. No one suffered irreparable harm if I remember correctly.”

“Still.” She met his gaze. “You deserve a quiet evening with your friends. I’m sure Craig and Sarah had no idea that...” Her voice trailed off.

“That I give you a hard time because I want the best possible care for my father?”

Something inside Kayla snapped. “That you give me a hard time because you have a truckload of misplaced anger and should spend the better part of a week, no, make that a month,” she expounded, “with a punching bag, sorting things out.”

She clapped a quick hand of regret over her mouth. Well. That little tirade should do wonders to clear the air. Nice going, Doherty.

He stared, long and hard. She squared her shoulders and stared right back until a muscle in his cheek jumped. A sheen of hard-won respect softened his expression. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw and nodded. “Probably wouldn’t hurt.”

“Shall I call the gym, set up a time?”
His Derek Jeter eyes darkened with amusement. The difference was she liked Derek Jeter, the always-a-class-act shortstop for the New York Yankees.

“No, thanks. I’ve actually got one in the barn. High school leftover.”

Okay, I cut this because it was ridiculous. Trust me, if you didn't see it earlier, it was no big loss... And the humor in Winter's End had to be subtle because of content.

In SMALL-TOWN HEARTS I got to have a little more fun:

He’d half-tell her.

Gutless.

Yup, he was, admittedly. He turned her way and tried not to stumble over the half-truths he was about to spew. “It’s kind of hard for me to say this, but you really need to know. I’m down here to scout out a retail site for my grandmother. For a candy store.”

She stopped dead, face flat before confusion crinkled her eyes. “And you saw no reason to tell me that?”

“Megan, I—”

“Before I rented you the apartment next door? Before I let you walk with me, talk with me...”

Watching anger and distrust shadow her features, he decided it wasn’t the best time to remind her they’d done more than walk and talk.

And it still wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

She strode ahead, one hand back behind, as if literally shoving him off, which is exactly how it felt. Then she stopped, turned and walked back, indignation taking the place of hurt and confusion. “You rat.”

He put his hands up, well one hand, actually, the one not holding nearly sixty dollars of blanket material. “Megs—”

“Don’t ‘Megs’ me, Danny Graham, not now, not ever. You’re just like all the rest, only you’re a little better off and more practiced in the slick-and-sly department which only makes me like you less.” She turned away, a flip of those delightful golden brown curls her last word.

“That’s not true.”

She whirled back. “That you’re slick and sly? It’s so beyond true that it could easily become your Facebook status and everyone...” she took a step closer, “who logs onto your page...” closer yet, and now raised a finger to jab him in the chest, not once but twice... “will understand what a bozo you are with one quick glance.” She snapped her fingers to illustrate the instant pace of an onlooker’s assessment, looking very angry and way too cute for his good or hers.

“Meg, I didn’t lie to you. I just didn’t tell you why I was here.”

She waved a hand in the air as she turned the corner to her store and their apartments, her footsteps on the wooden stairs sharp and staccato. “Lies of omission are still lies.”

“Meg...”

Click. Swish. Slam.

So this is STILL LONG.... But not as long, LOL! So leave a snippet if you dare and we'll talk mixing humor. And one lucky commenter will get THIS: