The Ink's Not Dry

Long Time, No Blog

2011-09-30T08:34:00.003-05:00

It's been ages since I've blogged, but people are still stumbling across my blog once in a while. I've thought about deleting this blog many times, but maybe it's a good thing I didn't.

An explanation is in order. I'll make it as brief as I can.

I was writing like crazy when I last posted, but that spring I was hit with terrible fatigue. Now, I've always been fatigued to some degree or other. But this was completely non-functional fatigue. Sit on the couch and feel like my arms were too heavy for me fatigue. Accompanied by brain fog.

I'll give you an example of my worst mental fogginess. I was staring at the date line on a check. Never mind trying to think of the right date. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what that line was for. Needless to say, coming up with creative words for writing was impossible. Everyday conversations were difficult.

That lasted about a year. I found out I have a mold allergy, and that's what was causing the symptoms. I've improved quite a bit. We remodeled our bathroom to get rid of the mold that was there, and I bought an air purifier to help with the mold that's still in the house.

I'm still pretty tired a lot of days, but good days are coming more often. And the brain fog is gone. Praise God for that.

I want to get back to writing. I've been waiting for the writing passion to come back. But I have a feeling that it won't come back until I actually start writing.

On that note, there really is nothing new under the sun.

The WIP I was talking about below is a finished rough draft. I thought I had come up with a unique backstory for my main character. Then I happened to catch The Biggest Loser this week. (I watch that once in a while for motivation to keep moving through my fatigue. If those 300-plus-pound people can practically kill themselves in a workout, surely I can push myself for one moderate workout.)

The woman on Biggest Loser starts talking about a relationship she got out of. And my jaw dropped as she laid out the exact story I had for my character. A jealous boyfriend who didn't like the attention and looks she got from other men, so he pushed her toward food so she'd gain weight. He lavished her with attention, and in the meantime cut her off from everyone else in her life.

That was my idea. How dare this woman live it. :o)

Writing

2009-01-13T15:06:00.002-06:00

The other times I've mentioned the writing bug biting again, I haven't done anything with that impulse. I've let myself get busy with other things until the urge to write passed.

This time I'm writing.

Yesterday I wrote 1,000 words. Today writing was even easier and I wrote nearly 2,500 words. Now, I'm not working on the WWII story that's become the bane of my existence. I started something different. A contemporary.

Probably nothing will come of it. I'm not writing with marketing in mind. No one may ever see it. It's different from what I usually write. I just had to prove to myself that I can still write. The WWII had me so bogged down that the thought of writing has become horrifying.

But this story is fun. I know exactly where the plot is going--it's based on a dream I had. So although I'm getting off to a slow start because I'm rusty, I think my pace will pick up and I'll finish this one fairly quickly. Then I'll see if it's worth polishing. And then I'll see if I feel like getting back to the WWII.

After that first thousand words, I was so proud of myself for writing at all that I immediately wanted someone to read it. Is it any good? Does it make sense? I talked myself out of emailing it to my critique partner. It's a first draft, for crying out loud.

But I'm writing again. Hallelujah.

Everything went smoothly

2009-01-05T09:14:00.002-06:00

My dad came through his surgery just fine. He's been in quite a bit of pain, but I guess that was to be expected.

Pathology confirmed that it was cancer. But the tumor was self contained, and the lymph nodes in the area were clear. Now that the kidney is gone, he's cancer-free. He'll probably be released tomorrow.

Thank you for your prayers. I'm so grateful for the lasting friendships I've made through this blog. Writing isn't a priority for me right now, much less blogging. But I'm happy to say that the writing bug has been nibbling, so we'll see what happens.

Prayer request

2008-12-31T08:27:00.002-06:00

I have no right to expect that anyone will see this post. But if anyone does, I have a prayer request. My dad goes in for surgery Friday morning--Jan 2. There's a tumor in his kidney that they highly suspect is cancer. They don't mess around with kidney cancer, so they're removing the entire kidney.

The good news is that the cancer is contained in the kidney, so once that's removed he doesn't have to undergo any other treatment. Our family has seen quite enough of that, thank you.

But my dad has always been kind of fond of having two kidneys, and this is a major operation--the incision will be huge. Please pray that the operation goes smoothly and that his recovery will be as quick and comfortable as possible.

I just don't know sometimes

2008-11-17T10:04:00.003-06:00

A couple of weeks ago the phone rang. Brian answered and I listened to his side of the conversation to see if the call was for me.

"Who's calling? . . . Is she gonna want to talk to you?"

My interest was piqued. Who could it be?

"Does she even know you?"

Is it one of my AWANA girls and he's giving her a hard time?

"Wait a minute!" His voice hardened. "This isn't her new boyfriend, is it?"

My jaw dropped. "Who are you talking to?" I noted the slight edge of panic in my voice. Who in the world would he say something like that to?

He hung up and I demanded again, "Who was that?"

Brian just about split a gut. "Some guy wanted you to take a survey."

When I could stop laughing long enough I asked, "What did he say when you asked if he was my boyfriend?"

"He sounded a little scared. 'Oh, no, sir! It's nothing like that!' I doubt if he'll call here again."

Well, that's one way to deal with them.

He actually listens

2008-11-15T09:36:00.002-06:00

Brian and I were watching a cheesy show recently. We have very few channels, so sometimes we're stuck with cheesy. Anyway, this character starts feeding the audience information while she's on the phone. Stuff like...

"I've missed you so much since you moved away two years ago... Well of course you couldn't help it if your dad's job relocated..."

And so on, until Brian said, "Nice backstory."

I just stared at him. He does listen after all.

Interview: Sharon K. Souza

2008-11-14T08:23:00.002-06:00

(I've been rescued by a pre-made interview.)

AN INTERVIEW WITH SHARON K. SOUZA

Author of Lying on Sunday

In your previous novel, Every Good & Perfect Gift, you address the tough issues of infertility and catastrophic illness. Again, in Lying on Sunday, you've tackled a tough subject, that being infidelity. Why do you choose such tough topics?

I like to write stories that speak to women on deep and personal levels. None of us gets through this life without being affected in some form by sadness, loss, a sense of failure over one issue or another, and having been failed. I think when we know we're not the only one going through these types of situation--and it's so easy to feel that you are alone--it gives us hope that we really can come through, not necessarily unscathed, but certainly stronger and more equipped to help others.

Do heavy topics equal a heavy reading experience?

Definitely not. I firmly believe that pleasure reading should first and foremost be entertaining. Time is a precious commodity. I hope that readers who choose to spend some of their precious hours in the pages of my books will thoroughly enjoy the experience.

So even though I tackle tough subjects, I infuse enough humor to keep those subjects from becoming an albatross around the reader's neck. Conversely, I love to read for pleasure, but I want to take something away from the experience.

What would you have readers take away from Lying on Sunday?

In one day, Abbie Torrington has the underpinnings of her world knocked out from under her. Everything she thinks she knows about her marriage turns out to be false. It leaves her reeling in the aftermath. Years ago, while dealing with health issues in my own life, a close friend gave me a Precious Moments figurine entitled "Light at the End of the Tunnel." In Lying on Sunday I want to show that even with issues as devastating as betrayal there is always a light at the end of the tunnel, and for me that Light, of course, is Jesus.

Lying on Sunday deals with the betrayal of infidelity, but are there other forms of betrayal that the book might speak to?

Types of betrayal obviously vary, but the end results can be equally devastating. Any time a trust is broken between people in relationship, someone is going to be hurt. We can either allow those hurts to hinder us, or we can allow the Lord to use them as lessons to make us better and stronger. That brings to mind the old adage "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger." Well, through her own devastating experience Abbie becomes a stronger, more independent person than she knew she could be.

Once again you've written a story with a strong and vital friendship that's central to the story. Was that coincidence or by design?

Absolutely by design. I'm all about relationships and so are my characters. Having gone through a period in my early adulthood without a close friend, I know how important friends are in our lives. In fact, I've recently reconnected with two friends from high school, one I hadn't seen in 25 years, and the other in over 30 years. But relationships between women, while vital, can be very complex. That's certainly true for Abbie. Besides her close friendship with Shawlie Bryson, she has a close relationship with one daughter and a challenging relationship with the other, mostly because of the very different emotional place these girls are in while dealing with the death of their father. Not only that, but Abbie has a strained relationship with her own mother for reasons she eventually discovers. I'm certain that women of each one of these generations will relate to one or the other of these characters, especially the woman caught in the middle, where she's both the daughter and the mother.

Truth is a theme you deal with extensively in Lying on Sunday. In a book that deals with betrayal, wouldn't forgiveness be a more fitting theme?

I believe forgiveness is the key to getting beyond the kind of hurt Abbie experiences - which doesn't necessarily equate to restored relationship. (In Abbie's case, of course, that's impossible anyway.) But the discovery of truth is a huge first step in the process. In any difficult situation we can choose to ignore the facts and try to keep life on an even keel. But there inevitably comes a day of reckoning. For Abbie to arrive at the desired destination, there are some unpleasant truths she must acknowledge and deal with. She's dogged by a scripture from John 8:32 that says the truth will set you free. Only she can decide whether or not she'll let it.

What is the most satisfying thing that comes out of your writing?

I love hearing from readers, especially those I don't know, who say my stories have touched them in one way or another, and most importantly, have helped them see more clearly how good and loving our Lord is.

What are you working on now, and does it continue in the style of Lying on Sunday and Every Good & Perfect Gift?

My work in progress, Unraveled, is another contemporary novel about a young woman who gives a year of her life to help teach children in Moldova, a small country in eastern Europe. While there she experiences a crisis of fath (the story ultimately deals with human trafficking). And yes, it continues in the style of my previous novels.

Is there anything you'd like to add?

Naturally I love to hear from readers. You can email me through my website: http://www.sharonksouza.com. If you're in a book club and choose to read any of my books I'll send a complimentary book to the person who contacts me on behalf of their group. Then, after you read the book I'd love to participate in your group discussion, either by phone or in person if you're close enough for me to drive to.

Swamped

2008-10-31T09:42:00.000-05:00

I'm terribly busy right now. With Awanas, critiques and life, I haven't had time to write book reviews, or anything else.

I'm sorry about the blog. I don't know when I'll have time to get back to it.

Coming soon

2008-10-06T13:49:00.003-05:00

I disappeared for a while again. I've got to stop doing that.

I'm working on book reviews right now. I finished reading another book in the meantime, so now I've got three to write. And I'm still trying to think of another way to use this blog.

So stay tuned. Some sort of content is coming. At the very least, a few book reviews soon.

Finding balance

2008-09-30T13:24:00.002-05:00

Does anyone else have trouble finding balance in their lives? I have a personality type where it's sort of all or nothing. I have trouble focusing on more than one thing.

If I'm writing, I'm writing to the exclusion of all else. If the writing is going well, my hunger signals don't even get through to me. My house doesn't get cleaned, supper is a simple meal thrown together, or Brian cooks. I forget to read my Bible, etc. Because I'm writing.

If I get on a cleaning kick, that's all I want to do--clean and organize.

For the moment I have a new focus that's distracting me from all my work. In a way I'm on fire to write after the conference, but I haven't gotten to it yet. No writing or reviewing--I read two books that I have to write reviews for--and no blogging for a month, just my new obsession.

So if you have trouble balancing the various aspects of your life, but have found a way to balance, please give me some tips. I don't want advice from those of you who have always been able to find balance with no trouble. I don't want to hear from you, because I don't like you. *smile*

But if this is a problem you've overcome, please share.

Gratitude, part 3

2008-09-27T09:18:00.001-05:00

Forgive me for skipping yesterday. I’m simply not in the habit of blogging regularly anymore.

The rest of the conference. Wow. Great classes. I especially enjoyed John Olson’s continuing education class on writing the Big Idea. High concept, big characters, writing in the shadows. So much to absorb, I’ll have to read the notes over and over.

The other two classes that really stand out in my memory are Rachel Hauck’s and Susan May Warren’s. Probably because they made me laugh. But they had good tips, too.

I didn’t introduce myself to anyone on Friday and Saturday. My cold hit hard and I like to keep my germs to myself. It was hard to be social when I felt like I should be walking down the halls crying, “Unlcean! Unclean!”

Since I haven’t had a cold in probably 3 years, I kept asking God, why now? Maybe so I’d rest every once in a while instead of feeling like I had to attend every session.

My nose was so drippy Friday I’m sure anyone who happens to remember my face will remember me as the girl who was always blowing her nose. In fact, there might be photographic evidence of that.

My roommate gave me an antihistamine Friday night, and I slept great. Felt much better after that. Saturday and Sunday my cold was only a minor inconvenience. Even so, my assertiveness was gone.

We had a gathering of Midwest authors Friday before supper, and I met Linda Rondeau. (I hope I spelled that right.) We made a connection, in part because one of her genres is sci-fi/fantasy, which I enjoy reading. And partly because the same editor likes our writing, but isn’t interested in the books we’ve written. She had an encouraging word for me every time I saw her, and she gave me a nice hug goodbye on Sunday.

I met one final person at breakfast on Sunday. Rachel Ingle. (I hope I’m remembering correctly. My memory has had nearly a week to get fuzzy.) We bonded over a love of raw milk, of all things. We’re both Minnesotans. We talked so much over breakfast, I ended up telling her about the deaths in my family, and she shared a personal loss that happened to her years ago. When I said goodbye to her, she said she’d be praying for me.

By the way, it was at that breakfast I decided I couldn't wait any longer to blow my nose. Right in the middle of the process, I saw a big flash. Sure enough, the conference photographer had the camera aimed in my direction. Sigh.

What I shared doesn’t do justice to the kindness of everyone I met. They are the reason I want to go back next year. Denver would mean flying and more expense, but I’ll wait and see if it’s God’s will for me.

My heartfelt thanks goes to anyone who had anything to do with the planning of the ACFW conference, and to all the volunteers. You helped make it an unforgettable experience.

My Gratitude List, part 2

2008-09-25T09:58:00.002-05:00

I'd like these posts much better with some pictures. Unfortunately, I left my camera at home.

After the agent panel Thursday, Carla Stewart introduced herself to me. She remembered my name from the Genesis contest last year. She said she'd seen my blog, and she complimented me on my critiquing skills. She was another person who made a point of saying hi to me whenever she saw me the rest of the time. We ended up at the same supper table that night. Carla was a Genesis finalist this year. In fact, she ended up winning the young adult category.

After supper, I finally had the chance to check in. (Don't worry, I'm not going through the whole conference this slowly. I just met most of the people the first day. And I have to tell this frazzled little story.)

A lovely young woman named Shella--I didn't catch her last name--checked in at the same time, so we got our luggage out of storage together. She only had one suitcase on wheels, whereas I--Mrs. Eclectic Luggage--had a small suitcase, a small duffel bag, and a garment bag. When Shella saw me awkwardly trying to manage the three pieces, she offered to carry my duffel since we were staying on the 8th floor. How sweet and selfless that was.

Okay, the fact that they sent us to separate elevators should have tipped me off. I just thought they were being courteous and getting us as close to our rooms as possible. Shella and I agreed to meet in the middle of the hall once we got our suitcases in our rooms.

I stashed my stuff and set off down the hall. And came to a dead end. Just a door that said "staircase." Went the other direction. Same thing.

Oh, why had I parted with that duffel bag? My snacks were in it (blood sugar issues), as well as all my toiletries. I needed that duffel!

Just then, Donna Alice Patton, whom I had never met, but I recognized her name, was coming out of her room. I asked her if the hallways connected in some way I couldn't see. She sweetly informed me that they were separate towers, and that she'd gone up the wrong elevator to start with. She told me where the other elevator was.

(Donna and I ended up connecting a few more times--ate a couple of meals together. She came in second in mystery/suspense in the Genesis. Hmm... seems I'm drawn to Genesis finalists.)

The editor panel was about to start, so I got in the elevator back down to the first floor. Found the other elevator, which needed a key swipe. My key didn't work, since I wasn't a guest in that tower. Back to the front desk, had my key re-swiped so it would work, and back up to the 8th floor, other tower.

Praise God I have a thing for numbers. I can glance at a number and hold it in my memory for days without trying. I had seen Shella's room number, so I went straight to her room and knocked. She hadn't left for the session yet. She had my duffel bag. All was right in the world.

Back into the elevator. Down to first floor. Other elevator. Up to 8th floor. Put the duffel in my room. Back in the elevator to the 2nd floor where the editor panel was probably already starting.

Did I mention I don't like elevators?

But after that ride, the elevator was a breeze for the rest of the conference. The editor panel was just starting when I reached the ballroom. I sat down and relaxed, having great peace of mind in knowing that I had my room, my sanctuary.

I'm also grateful for a good roommate, Candle. We were enough alike, and enough different that we got along great. I was with her enough that I heard a half dozen variations of, "Candle? What an interesting name. Is there a story behind it?" I wonder how many times she had to say, "My mom just wanted something different." But of course, I was just as guilty as everyone esle when I first heard her name.

The one damper on the conference is that when I went to bed the first night, my nose immediately plugged up. I thought I felt the beginnings of a cold that evening, but tried to deny it. With a stuffy, drippy nose, I hardly slept a wink. Not a great beginning to a conference I knew would be exhausting anyway.

Okay, I have just a few more people left to thank and a few more details to talk about. I should be able to wrap this up tomorrow.

One missing piece...

2008-09-24T15:02:00.001-05:00

I forgot one detail. In the story below it helps to know that not only could I not check in, but I wasn't listed on my roommate's reservation. Even though I knew she'd added me, and I trusted that, fear got the better of me. After all, I'd never met my roommate before, and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get any room at all.

My writer's imagination immediately took hold, and I pictured myself begging from person to person. "Do you have room for one more?" That added to my emotional state.

My Gratitude List (ACFW Conference)

2008-09-24T10:38:00.004-05:00

I've been duly chastised by Deb for not yet having a post about the conference.

I had a great time. I hope I'm able to go again next year. Not because of the classes, though they were great. Not because of making a few connections that might profit me. But because of the people.

I knew ACFW was full of great people. Nice, helpful. They answer questions on the email loop so fast it makes my head spin. But seeing them face to face, and having someone there for me anytime I needed them just blew me away.

This may take a few days to write, because I want to drop a few details about the conference along the way, but my focus is going to be a gratitude list. I want to thank all the people who made the conference a good experience for me, whether they know they affected me or not.

Christina Berry was the first person I saw. I arrived at noon and couldn't check in yet, so I went across the parking lot to a DQ to change out of my comfy travel clothes. When I came out of the restroom, I saw Christina. She seemed so happy to see me and gave me a big hug. Then throughout the conference, whenever she saw me she said hi and we talked a while. It was nice to feel like I had a friend there.

By the way, Christina won second place in her category in the Genesis contest. She submitted the first chapter of Undiscovered to me way back at the beginning of this blog. I take no credit in her success, however. The chapter was already stellar when it came to me. I didn't so much critique it as praise it.

Gloria Clover was waiting in line ahead of me to have her luggage stored. I have to explain my state of mind before she'll sound special.

I didn't want to store my luggage--I wanted to check in. I wanted to have my anchor, that place I could go to get away if I needed it. I had planned to check in, have my husband (who drove me) help me carry the luggage to my room. I'd give him a hug and kiss goodbye. I'd take a few minutes to change (instead of a DQ restroom) and relax before facing everyone. I'm such an introvert that the prospect of meeting people is a little overwhelming. I just wanted my room!

I don't know if that does enough to explain how I felt. Things were not going as I'd planned. So there I was, trying to say goodbye to my husband without tearing up. I knew it was stupid to be on the verge of tears--I can't really explain it. A quick peck and he left. I turned to find Gloria Clover smiling at me sympathetically. I'd never met her. She asked how I was doing. I figured it was obvious I was fighting tears, so I told her I was a little overwhelmed.

She let me hang out with her as we registered, then headed to the bookstore. I didn't really connect with her again after that, though I saw her across a room a couple of times. Having someone so friendly and understanding at my side for that first hour or so meant a lot to me.

Oh, it was at the bookstore that I met Deb Kinnard. She was the one and only person at the conference who said my name first. Everyone else, I had to look at their name tags, then introduce myself. But at the bookstore, I heard my name, looked up and there was Deb. We had a nice little talk and she was very encouraging.

Speaking of introducing myself, I surprised myself by being quite assertive that first day. I got to meet several people I wanted to meet. Patti Lacy--one of my first critique partners, Cindy Hickey, Camy Tang, Sharon Lavy, Megan DiMaria. I saw Richard Mabry in a class, but it wasn't a good time to say hi, and then I didn't get the chance.

And I'll finish today with Rachel Hauck. No personal connection made, but she led the worship team. She has a beautiful voice and she led with such feeling that it made our worship something truly special.

I've barely begun to talk about conference, so I'll continue tomorrow.

ACFW conference and other stuff

2008-08-18T07:10:00.004-05:00

I can't believe the ACFW conference is in a month! So little time to prepare.

I've hardly written at all this summer. It just hasn't been a good summer for writing. I had to cancel my editor appointments because my WIP won't be ready to pitch. But there are always the informal meetings at meals and such where I can talk about my WIP.

So I should prepare a pitch of some kind. Be ready to talk about my project.

Business casual isn't my style. I have jeans and T-shirts, and then I have skirts and dresses for church. And since I don't want to wear skirts every day of the conference, I should buy a few items of clothing. I wouldn't be buying for the conference only. For one thing, I get called to do some office work once in a while. Second, I can wear them to church.

This is my first conference, so I'm not sure what else I should do to get ready. I have business cards. I have a roommate. I could ask the first-time attendee email loop, but do those of you who've been to a writer's conference have any gems for me?

In other news...

I've sold a good number of my brother's books. 225 out of 742. I sold one series of 87 books on eBay (it did pretty well--1.25 per book), held a yard sale (sold 67), and put out an email to ACFW on Friday. Okay, I still have a lot to sell, but 225 and counting isn't too shabby.

Tomorrow morning Brian and I leave for family camp. We'll be gone the rest of the week. I'm starting to relax just thinking about it. I really need this vacation.

Dealing with the dying

2008-08-13T08:01:00.003-05:00

Growing up, illness was something that was hush-hush in my family. If a relative was seriously ill, my parents kept it from us kids. We overheard--or sensed--just enough to let our imaginations paint a much more dire picture than the reality. This probably reinforced my fear of illness and dying.

To give my otherwise wonderful parents credit, when something was known for a fact--like when my aunt was terminally ill with breast cancer, they let us know. But still all the other incidences of Something's Wrong and I Don't Know What shrouded sickness in mystery and fear.

Even without that, I think the fear of being around someone who's dying is a common one. What do you do? What do you say? How will they look? When my grandma's two sisters were in the hospital dying, I didn't go visit them. My excuse was that I wanted to remember them as they were, not see them wasting away.

My father-in-law Perry and my brother Keith were diagnosed with cancer within 3 months of each other. Perry had well over a year of remission. Keith was in treatment the entire time.

When Perry went to the hospital with his second-to-last bowel obstruction and required surgery, his two daughters from out East made plans to come. I asked my husband, "Why are they coming?" He thought I was criticizing, and answered accordingly. But really it was a plea I couldn't voice. "Please tell me he's not dying."

When another bowel blockage came too soon and there was nothing that could be done for him, the shock of knowing he was dying rocked me to the core. Lack of such a simple thing--functioning intestines--was going to kill him.

I was nervous on my first visit after he was sent home with hospice care. The old fear and all the questions about how to face someone who's dying surfaced. But Perry was so at peace with it-- and after the initial shock, the entire family was at peace with it--that he eased the fear of everyone around him. At least he eased my fear. He kept his sense of humor until very near the end and had us all laughing every time we saw him. Then he'd let his family know exactly how much we meant to him, and had us all crying.

But I came to realize being around a dying person isn't so bad. What do you say? Anything or nothing. Just being there to let them know you care is enough. Don't be afraid of tears--it's no bad thing to let the dying person know you'll miss them.

The day after Perry's funeral, my dad called to tell me that Keith's cancer had spread wildly. All his tumors had grown, and new tumors had formed on his spine. Believe me, I asked God why He couldn't give me a break after what I'd just been through.

After the chemo worked its way out of his system, Keith did okay for a while. I got the time to breathe that I so badly needed, even though it was in the back of my mind that Keith only had a matter of months. In early July we could see his decline. And finally we knew he only had a matter of days.

If I hadn't gone through Perry's dying, I might have stayed away. But I knew exactly what to expect and that I could handle it. The question of what to talk about was kind of moot. I couldn't get more than a sentence out before Keith would fall asleep.

The day before he died, I went to his room with my sister because we could hear that he was awake. I was all out of words, but I was genuinely happy to see him awake and alert. So I simply smiled at him. He was very weak at that point, but he managed to smile back. An achingly sweet smile that was just as genuine as mine. It let me know he was happy I was there.

Later that night, thinking of that smile was what caused me to break down in sobs--the night I told you about, when Brian simply held me. I'm glad I had that good cry. That was the worst of my grief right there. Because I knew I would never see Keith's smile again.

I was privileged to be there for Keith's last few breaths. Just my mom, my dad, and me. (My sister was on her way, but didn't make it in time. My brother was working out of town.)

I'm so glad I was there at the end.

It's not an easy thing to go through. And two funerals in four months is quite enough, thank you. But I'm not afraid anymore. I know that when I have to go through this again some day, I can. God's blessings and comfort have held me secure.

Book Review: The Other Side of Darkness

2008-08-11T08:23:00.002-05:00

The Other Side of Darkness by Melody Carlson; Multnomah, September, 2008

Genre: General fiction

In her author’s note, Melody Carlson explains that in writing The Other Side of Darkness she wanted to explore the question of how a Christian can get lured into a pseudo-Christian cult.

Who didn’t watch, with interest, the news coverage in recent months of the raid on a certain compound? Although the events in this book don’t go as far as isolation in a compound, it’s a brilliant exploration of how a cult can start. How certain personality types—such as those with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder—are more vulnerable to the influence of cult leaders.

Synopsis:

Ruth is a mother of three whose husband’s apathy has forced her into the role of her family’s spiritual leader. She takes her position very seriously—a prayer warrior who spends hours on her knees doing battle against the demons for the souls of her young daughters. She can’t understand why quite a few people at New Life Church don’t like Pastor Glen. They seem to be plotting against him and spreading nasty rumors. To Ruth, he is a wonderful shepherd and the only one who knows the direction the church should be headed.

This story is told in first-person present tense, which gives immediacy to the events taking place. From the first paragraph, it’s clear that Ruth’s focus is wrong. And from there she only becomes more misguided.

Carlson did a wonderful job of putting her readers inside the head of someone with OCD. In fact, at times it was a hard place to be. The repetitive actions, the questioning of every decision—except for the decision she should be questioning. It’s plain to see why this personality type falls prey to manipulative authority figures more easily.

This book isn’t exactly for entertainment. The character is in constant struggle—with herself and with those she thinks are against her. It isn’t easy to watch her downward spiral. To see her making one bad decision after another and taking her daughters with her.

But it’s an important book. It shows how easily Christianity can slip off its tracks when the focus is taken off the Bible. When the words of people become more important than the Word of God. And when experience is given precedence over Scripture.

It’s a book I think everyone should read.

Book Review: Searching for Spice

2008-08-07T15:57:00.003-05:00

Searching for Spice by Megan DiMaria; published by Tyndale, April 2008

Genre: Contemporary fiction

Linda has come to the unwelcome realization that her marriage is boring. With the demands of job and teenage children, the relationship has become stale and routine. Even in the early days of dating and newly wedded-ness, her husband barely had a notion of what romance was. He’s a practical man and seems content with the way things are.

Instead of resigning herself to this fact, Linda comes up with a plan of action to infuse romance into her marriage. Her first attempts win her nothing more than a puzzled husband, but after a while, her plan starts to succeed. And that’s when life conspires to test the strength of their bond.

The story is told in first-person present tense, chick-lit style. Actually, those who like their genres fine-tuned call this type of book Mom-lit. Which means humor is liberally—and in this case, skillfully—applied. Even though I always have a harder time adapting to books told in first-person present, the story pulled me in. I laughed and I cried.

The events in this book are so delightfully everyday—until suddenly they’re not. Linda’s goal is simple, but life, work and kids interfere with that goal. This could be any woman’s story. Linda’s desire for romance in her marriage is universal. Every woman married for any length of time should have no trouble relating to this book.

I’m going to make a broad generalization here, but I think a lot of men have trouble with the concept of romance. When they hear the word, it sounds like a chore. A secret formula that they have to get just right in order to make their wives happy. Can’t blame men—sometimes we women don’t know what we want when we think of romance. This book does a good job of showing that romance is simply thoughtfulness—and it’s not only the man’s responsibility.

Linda makes plenty of mistakes along the way, and so does Jerry. A refreshing dose of realism wrapped up in a well-crafted story. Entertaining, plus it made me ask myself, what can I do for my husband today?

Books, books, books

2008-08-05T08:48:00.003-05:00

Turns out my brother had 730-some books. I'd estimate that just over half are pictured above. So this project took longer to finish than I thought.

But now all the books are alphabetized, separated into genre, cataloged, and and in shallow little boxes ready for display at a book sale. I had to cut most of the boxes down to size myself for easy browsing.

My first try at selling these books will be a yard-sale type thing. I thought about going straight to selling them online somehow, but the question of how to go about it was a bit daunting. Plus I imagined myself living at the post office for several weeks. And how much more will people be willing to pay for paperbacks on top of shipping?

So selling locally first makes sense. I'll deal with the other problems after that. And yes, I know I can limit shipping to one day a week to save myself lots of trips. Still there's a lot to sort out.

I ended up with four general categories of books:

1. Sci-fi/fantasy (the majority by far)
2. Action/adventure (including the Destroyer Series, which is almost complete from #2-#99)
3. Mystery/suspense/thriller
4. Horror

The funeral expenses weren't quite covered, so I'm hoping my efforts will pay off and help cover the last of those costs. Anyone have any tips for selling books? Either at a yard sale or online? I welcome any suggestions.

The service

2008-07-29T08:36:00.004-05:00

Keith's funeral service was very nice. Our former pastor, who knew Keith all--or at least most--of his life, preached the sermon. My family is full of softies who wouldn't have been able to get up and talk during the service. So my dad wrote a few memories down (and I edited them for story and flow) for the pastor to read.

This pastor had visited Keith several and was impressed at the uncomplaining way Keith dealt with his illness. So the message had a personal touch in more than one way.

My mom picked both songs. The solo, "Finally home," which my husband sang, and the congregational song, "In Christ Alone (My Hope is Found)." I've loved the second song from the moment I first heard it. I didn't realize it was so appropriate for a funeral. Especially since Pastor Charlie's funeral sermons always include the salvation message. My voice was fairly strong until the last verse. The line "...no fear in death" choked me up and I gave up trying to sing after that. Look up the words and you'll see why.

Both at the funeral and at the visitation the night before, so many people hugged me. That much contact and love during such a hard time just filled me up. People don't always say the right things, but that's okay. Their eyes said it all before they could speak anyway. What I liked hearing most was a simple, "We're praying for you." The worst thing I heard--though I can laugh about it now--was, "Oh, sweetie. Oh, your dear brother is gone. You're going to miss him sooo much!" That started the tears! But I know this sweet lady meant well.

Keith himself would have laughed at that sort of "comfort" being given out. He had a great sense of humor and he was a good story teller. That's what I'll miss the most.

I was with him at the end. If you'll indulge me one more post about him, I'd like to write about that, and the incredible growth I had to go through over the past months to be willing to be there at the end.

After that, I'll probably go back into normal posts.

I have a big project to finish up first. Keith loved to read and was a huge sci-fi/fantasy fan. I've got about 500 books in my living room right now. I'm getting them alphabetized and cataloged so I can sell most of them. It's a project that's a bit overwhelming at times. But it's nice to have something to do that's connected with Keith.

Thanks for all the support you've shown.

Another update

2008-07-23T08:14:00.003-05:00

My brother went to be with the Lord yesterday afternoon.

We're grieving, of course, but so thankful he didn't have to linger in a body that was filled with pain.

The funeral is Friday.

Thanks, everyone

2008-07-22T10:40:00.004-05:00

I'm touched to know how many of you are praying. Thank you for the comments.

My brother Keith is still hanging in there, but each day I see a difference. Yesterday he was barely responsive. I spent the day starting funeral plans with my parents and sister, and checking on my brother once in a while.

In the evening, my husband and I went to the Helmuth's for supper, then visited Perry's grave, which had only recently gotten it's headstone.

An emotionally charged day, to say the least. But I held back for the most part--other than getting teary-eyed a few times. As I was getting ready for bed, it was the first time I was alone all day. The tears started coming and I couldn't stop. My husband came and sat by me and held me until I cried myself out. I needed that!

In a few minutes I'm heading to my parents' again. I'll let you know when anything changes. That way, you can know how to pray specifically, like David said in the comments. Right now the family is praying--if it's God's will--that Keith won't linger too long in this current state.

Again, thanks. There's nothing like brothers and sisters in Christ--both near and far--coming along side for support. God bless you all.

Update

2008-07-19T10:47:00.002-05:00

It looks like my brother, who's been struggling with cancer for three and a half years, is down to his final days.

I don't put much stock in human estimates of how much time a person has left. The nurse's estimate of one week left for my father-in-law turned into seven weeks. But I know that my brother doesn't have much time left at any rate. He's had hospice care at my parent's house for a while now.

I'd appreciate a quick prayer for my family if you don't mind--the Tinquists. My brother is in quite a bit of pain. And if that's what it's come down to, none of us want it to drag on for longer than it has to. Once again, we're putting it in God's hands.

The timing isn't great. My husband's sister and her family will arrive tomorrow and stay through Thursday. So I'll be a bit torn between the Helmuths and the Tinquists this week. I should be able to alternate my time between them. But again, prayer is appreciated.

And yes, I have a book review due. I finished Searching for Spice, and really enjoyed it. I might write the review today. It could be Monday. Or it could be... don't hold your breath.

Summer Storm

2008-07-15T21:19:00.004-05:00

We had an interesting storm last night. There were some amazing textures in the clouds. I wish I'd thought to grab the camera sooner. Every few minutes the sky looked completely different. As my husband was snapping this shot, our town's tornado siren went off. From the formation of those clouds, I wasn't surprised. I don't know if a tornado actually touched down anywhere.

Later we were awakened by a second storm. Marble-sized hail on a metal roof is an effective alarm.

And the lightening was amazing. I've never seen anything like it before. It was constant. I'm talking 2-3 flashes per second, every second. Maybe it's more common in other states, but I've never seen that type of strobe-light lightening.

Gotta love summer.

Book Review: Unbridled Dreams

2008-07-11T14:54:00.002-05:00

Unbridled Dreams by Stephanie Grace Whitson

Publisher: Bethany
Genre: Historical Fiction
Release Date: September, 2008

Eighteen-year-old Irma has been working for three years toward one goal—becoming part of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. She’s a trick rider determined to take the stage as “Liberty Belle.” Irma’s mother has other plans for her, including finishing school and a good husband to tame her cattle-roping daughter. Marriage is the last thing Irma wants, but when she meets Shep Sterling, King of the Cowboys and Buffalo Bill’s right hand man, she has a hard time remembering that.

This book has a charming premise. The very name William F. Cody—Buffalo Bill—brings up all sorts of romanticized ideas about the Wild West. I immediately understood Irma’s desire to be a part of the show.

I was prepared to really like the book, but I was disappointed. I’m used to writing that brings me close to a character’s thoughts and emotions. Whitson sticks to the externals for the most part. I didn’t get to know the characters deep down. I didn’t feel what they were feeling because the words stayed on the surface. I was kept at arm’s length instead of being immersed in the story—part of it.

The entire book was building toward one moment, and when that moment came, it was told in summary, as if it wasn’t important after all. Over and over again scenes that had momentum behind them, and should have played out moment by moment, were rushed and told in summary. Robbed of all emotion.

I’ve heard of sagging middles, but this book had a sagging end. Irma reaches her goal partway through the story, and I felt it floundered after that. When the main character no longer has a goal to work toward, there’s nothing to base a story on. The author threw a couple of situations at her characters, but they lacked the basic driving force to make them work. For the last several chapters I kept wondering why the story hadn’t ended already.

The book did have its charm, but all in all I felt it could have had a lot more spark and depth.

Okay, shaking that off. (I don't like giving bad reviews.)

What I'm reading next: Searching for Spice by Megan DiMaria. I've heard great things about this book and I can't wait to start it.

Happy 4th!

2008-07-04T10:25:00.004-05:00

My plans for the day involve all the traditional 4th of July stuff:

Grilling hamburgers at my parent's house
Swimming-- if the water is warm enough. (With our late, late spring, it hasn't been yet. Quick dip or floating on a mattress, yes. Actual swimming, no.)
And in the evening, heading out to the big lake on the pontoon boat to watch the fireworks. (Double the pleasure--seeing them in the sky and reflected in the water.)

I hope your day is as relaxing and fun as mine should be.

Book Review: Amber Morn

2008-07-02T10:48:00.001-05:00

Amber Morn, by Brandilyn Collins, Zondervan, 2008

Genre: Suspense

This is the fourth book in the Kanner Lake series. All the characters we’ve gotten to know and love through the first three books are taken hostage in the Java Joint by three desperate men. Enough said.

The entire book takes place in about six hours’ time. Which means there are no breaks in the action to speak of. Each chapter ends with a typical Brandilyn Collins hook, only she’s taken it up a few notches. The story starts off tense and the tension keeps mounting in each chapter. I’ve never read a book that’s been harder to put down.

Excellent suspense. Brandilyn Collins’ tagline is “Don’t forget to breathe…” with good reason. It’s never been more true than in this high-speed book. (I actually found myself pressing a loose fist to my mouth more than once.)

What shouldn’t work in a novel, Collins pulls off brilliantly. There were a dozen hostages inside the café, and at some point the story is seen from each of their viewpoints. Throw in a few point-of-view characters on the law enforcement side of the hostage situation, and that’s a huge ensemble cast.

In the average book, this many characters would leave the reader feeling disconnected because they aren’t allowed to get close to a particular character’s emotions for very long. The reason it works in Amber Morn is that the readers already know who the characters are, and all the hostages are experiencing the same basic emotions. The officers on the other side are all focused on the same objective. Therefore, the reader never loses touch with the emotion of the book.

Collins did choose two characters to go back to more often than the others, which gave the story a stable structure. Spreading out the viewpoints the rest of the time made for a rounded story with no sagging middle. The perspective stayed fresh. The action and tension remained taut.

And it wouldn’t be a Brandilyn Collins book without that twist in the end. A truly unique book. The entire series has my highest recommendation.

The Creeping Blush

2008-06-23T10:37:00.005-05:00

I recently noticed something in a lot of published books. That's not to say that it's a recent phenomenon, just that it's recently jumped out at me.

The creeping blush. The author will say something to the effect of, "A flush rose slowly from her neck."

It bothers me because it seems like a physical impossibility. Whenever I've blushed, it's been an instant heat in my cheeks. And when I've seen others blush, it's been the same thing. A split-second reddening of the face.

And it's not hack writers who are putting this in their books. I'm talking about authors who excel in craft. But there it is, the slow blush that starts in the neck and rises, flood-like, to the face. In that moment, the character of a book becomes a cartoon to me.

I have a feeling that authors write it because they've seen it in so many books they don't give it a thought. But maybe I'm wrong. So I want to know, have any of you ever seen a slow blush? Have any of you ever seen a blush starting in the neck?

I really want to know. Call it scientific curiosity.

Review: Only Uni

2008-06-20T11:01:00.003-05:00

Only Uni by Camy Tang, Zondervan, 2008

Genre: Contemporary fiction/chick-lit

Man-crazy Trish Sakai hasn’t been living out her Christianity. Her temperamental artist ex-boyfriend was terrible for her, yet she finds him physically irresistible. He’s determined to win her back, and he has Grandma’s approval. Trish is one of the cousins who always wants to please Grandma, so this double attack is almost more than she can withstand. Her mom is in the hospital and Trish isn’t speaking to her dad. The latest slip in her backsliding journey has her three cousins mad at her.

Feeling alone in the world, Trish decides it’s time to get back with God. She makes three rules to follow based on 2 Corinthians: #1 don’t look at boys, #2 tell others about Christ, and #3 rely on God. She figures if she goes through the steps of becoming fully devoted to God, her heart will follow. Everyone she’s close to can see she’s setting herself up for failure, but Trish is determined to prove them wrong, and at the same time proving herself worthy of God’s forgiveness.

Rule #1 gives her the most trouble when the hunky Spencer Wong is assigned to her research team. He’s got dimples, for crying out loud. How’s she supposed to not look?

Camy Tang does it again. This second look at the wacky Sakai family was thoroughly enjoyable. The grandmother is just as determined and domineering as she was in book one.

Excellent spiritual thread. I could see from the start that Trish was going about things the wrong way with her three strict rules, which she attempted to follow out of a sense of obligation rather than love. But she truly meant well, so I was pulling for her. She couldn’t figure out how so much could keep going wrong in her life now that she was serving God.

Trish is much more of a people-pleaser than Lex, but the propensity for not filtering her words must be a family trait. Her hasty tongue leads to a series of mini-catastrophes—in true chick-lit style. I can’t wait to see what Camy dishes out next in the Sushi series.

Tip #3: Character Goals

2008-06-19T13:16:00.002-05:00

I talked briefly about goals earlier, but that was mostly as it related to an individual scene. The most important element in an overall plot is your character's goal. A character striving for something is what moves a story forward.

If your main character doesn't have a goal to go after, you don't have a story.

Most of you, hopefully, are saying Well, duh! But I've come across several manuscripts where the characters don't have any kind of goal. A goal has several functions.

1. Moves the story forward (as I already said). As your character moves closer to achieving her goal, or is distanced from the goal, that's story.

2. Wins reader sympathy. Everyone can identify with having goals. When we see a strong desire in a protagonist, it tweaks our sympathies. Forges a connection. Makes the character more real.

3. Makes for a satisfying ending. Most stories end with the protagonist reaching his/her goal. With no goal--nothing acheived, nothing realized--how can the ending of a book possibly be satisfying? There's no sense of accomplishment in the end. The story is simply over, as if the writer ran out of words.

I'm sure there are other functions, but I'm flying by the seat of my pants here. I recommend Brandilyn Collin's book Getting Into Character for an in-depth look at character goals, which she calls Desire.

First a word...

2008-06-13T11:35:00.002-05:00

...about the review below.

As a member of ACFW, I was "acquainted" with Camy Tang before she got published. I put acquainted in quotes because she probably doesn't know who I am. Maybe my name is vaguely familiar to her. But through various resources, I've become very familiar with who Camy is.

I don't know why it took me so long to get around to reading her first book. I've been looking forward to it since I learned of her contract with Zondervan. It was worth the wait. It's a great book.

I usually skim or skip the acknowledgments page, but I read Camy's because I "know" her. I read the first name--ooh, I've heard good things about her. The second name--ah, I know who that is, too. And the third... My excitement grew with each name--I recognized almost every one in the sizable list. It pays to be a member of ACFW. I feel so connected. :o)

Review: Sushi for One?

2008-06-13T11:19:00.002-05:00

Sushi for One? by Camy Tang, Zondervan, 2007

Genre: Contemporary Fiction

With her cousin’s wedding looming, Lex Sakai falls under the title she dreads: Oldest Single Female Cousin. The OSFC is her grandmother’s special project. She feels so strongly about getting all her granddaughters married off, she hands Lex an ultimatum. Find a boyfriend in four months or have her volleyball team’s funding cut.

Lex has plenty of reasons to avoid dating, but she can’t let her team down. Her grandmother starts throwing every eligible man in the Asian community her way, but Lex won’t settle for just anyone. She makes a list of biblical qualities she wants in a man. The trouble is, the only man she feels comfortable befriending doesn’t seem to have a single one of those qualities.

This is a wonderful book from a debut author. Camy Tang’s engaging voice—with the sassy ring of chick-lit—won me over immediately. And she went on to unfold a solid plot with many layers. We see Lex at church, at work, playing sports, and at family gatherings, and she’s got unique problems in each area. The humor had me laughing out loud. The more serious elements touched my heart. Lex felt like a friend from the early chapters and I can’t ask much more from a book.

I also enjoy when a story takes me outside of my experience. Sushi gave me a glimpse into the Asian community. I don’t know of any books out there with an Asian main character, much less an entire cast that’s Asian. If this book is any indication, it’s a community that’s close, loyal, steeped in tradition, and in the case of Lex’s family, loud and a bit crazy.

Lots of fun with a serious side. I highly recommend it.

Tip #2: Scenes

2008-06-12T10:13:00.002-05:00

In my work, I often run across a diabolical little story killer. What is it? A section of text all dressed up as a scene that really isn’t a scene.

It’s a section of dialog. Or an incident. Whatever it is, it doesn’t move the story forward. I get to the end of it and say, “What was that? Nothing happened.” I’ve come up with a title for tidbits of writing like that: What’s Happening in the Meantime.

The characters are about to do something that’s part of the story. But first, they sit down and talk about its significance. Or they have a little family time, which is no doubt meant to show how close and happy they are. The heroine’s sister is about to have surgery, so she sits down with the hero and talks about her fears.

“I’m really scared, John. My sister was all I had growing up.”

John reached for her hand. “I know, but it’s going to be all right.”

“What if it’s not all right? What will I do without my sister?”

“I’m here for you, Beth. I’ll get you through it. But you’re worrying for nothing.”

Beth is allowed to talk about her fears, but if that’s where the scene ends, what has it done for the story? Go straight to the story, and skip “In the meantime.” A conversation has to lead somewhere—to a decision, to a course of action. It can’t be there simply for the sake of characterization. Characterization comes out through the story, through the action a character is forced to take. You don’t need to set your story aside to take time for characterization. Keep the story moving.

Think of your story as a puzzle. Each scene has to be a piece of that puzzle. Don’t leave your reader studying the color and shape of a piece that doesn’t even belong. Your reader may not realize where the piece fits until later in the story, but it has to fit. If you can delete a scene without hurting your story, the scene wasn’t necessary.

It all comes down to your character’s goals. Others have done a good job of laying out the structure of a scene—Randy Ingermanson’s Writing the Perfect Scene, for example. So I won’t go into detail. Bottom line is, your main characters have to have an overall goal for the book, and each scene should either move them one step closer to that goal, or distance them even further through obstacles. Conflict.

The goal for individual scenes doesn’t have to be earth-shattering. It can be as simple as wanting lunch. Someone else comes along to waylay your character, and you’ve got conflict. Hungry hero versus chatty Cathy.

A scene can be mostly dialog. In one of my stories, the first step toward my heroine’s goal is making friends so she has someone to show her the ropes. During a conversation, she learns what another character wants, and she offers a trade. Basically, nothing happens except for a conversation. But it gets my heroine one step closer to her goal.

On the other hand, before I had a clear idea of my heroine’s goals, that scene was just filler. Once I knew her goal, I tweaked it enough to make it a necessary scene.

Okay, all of that was pretty vague. Follow up questions anyone? Need to see examples?

Book Review: The Edge of Recall

2008-06-05T08:02:00.002-05:00

The Edge of Recall, by Kristen Heitzmann, Bethany House, July 2008

Tessa Young is a landscape architect who specializes in labyrinths. Something hidden in her past has forged a connection with them. They fascinate her by day and haunt her dreams by night. Her therapist tells her that if she stopped building labyrinths, the nightmares would also stop. But she’s compelled to find the meaning of her dreams, as well as the identity of the monster who stalks them.

The past creeps closer when she receives a job offer from Smith Chandler—an almost college flame. Six years previously they had a falling out that shattered their friendship and provided more fodder for her life-long therapist.

Tessa has searched for God her own way all her life. To some, a labyrinth is a prayer walk—a time for introspection and journeying toward God. Tessa has incorporated that belief into her life. God is a mystical being to her. But Smith sees God as a personal God—Father and savior—who could help heal the childhood trauma she denies. She’s intrigued by this notion, yet repulsed. Her own father abandoned her as a child, so the image of God as Father isn’t an inviting one.

This is a brilliant piece of storytelling. Kristen Heitzmann’s poetic descriptions jump off the page. Her plot takes as many turns as the labyrinths she depicts, and deep characterization adds realism. Smith is unmistakably British—not just in the words he uses, but in the cadence of his speech. That shows an attention to detail I can only admire.

Two elements captured my attention from the start: A wounded woman with a buried trauma in her past, who still manages to be strong, and the most unique villain I’ve seen outside of a fantasy novel. The richness of the story pulled me along to the end. A must read.

Tip #1: Dialog

2008-06-04T10:24:00.003-05:00

I have another book review ready to go, but I'm going to post it tomorrow.

For quite a while I've been toying with the idea of doing a series of writing tips. The problem was, when I sat down to do it my mind went blank. Now that I'm in the middle of a manuscript critique, problem areas are fresh in my mind. And they're something I've seen in almost every manuscript I've read. I'll start with dialog.

Too often I come across dialog that's stiff and unnatural. The characters aren't talking, they're reading from a script the author has given them. Or they're making small talk. Chit chat doesn't belong in a book any more than lots of long, profound speeches do.

How can you recognize stiff dialog?

Read it out loud. Does it sound like something an actual person might say? Or does it sound awkward in your ears? Copy and paste to fill up a page with only your hero's dialog. Do the same for your heroine. Does each character have a unique voice, or do they sound the same? If they sound the same, they probably both sound like you. There's a reason for that.

Why does stiff dialog happen?

The number one reason is that the writer doesn't know his characters well enough. I can picture him staring at a line of text on his screen and thinking, "What should she say next?" If you have to ask yourself that, either not enough is happening in your plot, or you don't know your character.

Get to know your characters inside and out. Even the secondary ones, to a lesser degree. Know what's happened to them in the past that's made them the way they are. Know their quirks and foibles and why they have those quirks and foibles.

When you know your characters that intimately, their dialog will flow. You'll have to make an effort to shut them up, not poke at them until they say something. They'll be the ones talking so you don't have to be off stage whispering their next line.

Book Review: Deep in the Heart of Trouble.

2008-05-28T13:31:00.002-05:00

Deep in the Heart of Trouble by Deeanne Gist, releasing in June 2008 from Bethany House

(I never repeat the back cover copy. You can read it here. And check out the back cover for Courting Trouble while you're at it--I came closer to that one, but didn't do it justice, I'm afraid.)

God gives a clean slate, but what happens when past sins will affect someone else? That’s Essie’s dilemma. She lives with the fear that if she has to reveal her secret, people will see nothing but the ugly stain.

Deep in the Heart of Trouble takes us back to Texas in the early days of the oil industry. It’s now 1898. In the years that have passed, Essie has committed to living for Christ first and foremost. The growth that has taken place in her character is remarkable—both in her spiritual life and in her relationships with others. She’s wiser, more mature, and has a greater sense of purpose. But she’s still the same head-strong, bicycle-riding gal looking for adventure.

This two-book series is aptly named. Trouble follows Essie around. However, she’s in store for an entirely different brand of trouble than in the first book. She has her hands full running her bicycle club, managing her father’s oil company, and demanding respect from a new hire who’s trying to give her orders.

Almost the entire cast of characters returns. Mrs. Lockhart, with her love of slightly naughty romance novels, takes a bigger role. And we’re introduced to the new characters of Tony Morgan, disinherited oil man looking to start fresh and learn the business from the ground up, and the surly Deputy Howard.

While it technically could stand alone, I wouldn’t have wanted to read it without the deeper understanding the first book gives.

Full of fun, romance and lively characters, the plot moves forward at a pace that kept me turning the pages. With each new book, Deeanne Gist earns her place on my list of favorite authors. This book is much less sensual, for good reason. And I was pleasantly surprised by a touch of a mystery toward the end. A great follow-up to the first book.

Review: Courting Trouble

2008-05-26T08:32:00.005-05:00

Courting Trouble by Deeanne Gist, Bethany House, 2007.

Texas, 1894. Essie is the town spinster. All her hopes and dreams revolve around having a husband and family. When she turns thirty and God still hasn’t provided a spouse, she decides it’s time to take matters into her own hands.

Since she doesn’t have feelings for any of the eligible men in town, she draws up a list of each man’s pros and cons, spreads the papers on her desk, closes her eyes, and points. Where her finger lands is the man she’ll pursue. And that’s the beginning of her troubles.

This is not your typical romance novel. It contains plenty of romance to make a reader’s heart thump, but it vastly deviates from the formula. The story takes so many twists and turns, I never knew what was coming next. I highly recommend this book.

There’s a good dose of humor injected into the story. I’d say more humor than her previous works, which is a fitting balance, as this book also deals with much more serious issues. I’ll let you discover what issues on your own.

Anyone who’s read Deeanne Gist knows she’s a master manipulator of her reader’s emotions. That ability especially shines in this book. With a few words she was able to soften me toward a character, then, with a snippet of dialog, harden my heart against that same character. This was artfully done to sweep me along with the ebb and flow of Essie’s emotions.

When Deeanne Gist describes a kiss, she makes the reader feel the kiss. That’s not everyone’s cup of tea—it might be a little too much passion for some. I was surprised by her first novel (A Bride Most Begrudging). She wrote scenes bursting with sexual tension. I thought, can a Christian novel do that? But she knows what to say and what to imply to paint a picture without crossing the line.

I personally prefer that to novels which pretend physical attraction doesn’t exist between a man and a woman. But there are audiences for both types. I only mention it because those who are new to this author should be aware that while this is a clean romance, it isn’t a tame one.

In the next post, the sequel to Courting Trouble.

A million miles away?

2008-05-23T08:15:00.002-05:00

On a writing/book related note, I've written two book reviews this week that I'll post next week.

I don't mean to go so long without posting. I got out of the habit and now it's going to take conscious effort for me to post a few times a week. But that has nothing to do with this post's title.

I said I might post something about my father-in-law. His death was two months ago yesterday. The whole process was such a healing/grieving time that I haven't felt the need to work out his death through writing. But I do want to make a note of that very special time.

In the midst of it, a man requested a book review. I briefly explained why I didn't want to take on any extra obligations and he replied with his sympathies. He also reminded me that even though God might feel a million miles away, He was in fact right there with us.

God a million miles away? I can understand someone feeling that way. But in my case it was so opposite the truth that I just sat and stared at that sentence. It was a foreign concept.

I've never felt closer to God than I did around Perry's death bed. God was such a very real presence in our midst. The entire family was together. In the evenings we'd sit around and sing old hymns and choruses. My husband Brian, and sometimes his brother, would play guitar. The four-part harmonies filled the cramped living room.

The natural-born Helmuths are all gifted musically--a gift from both their parents--as are the sons-in-law. So the sounds they produced were beautiful. Perry had always loved the song "I've Never Been This Homesick Before," and it was more meaningful than ever. (If you aren't familiar with that song, try looking up the words.) "What a Day That Will Be," "I'll Fly Away." Many, many more. I never realized how many songs there are about longing to be with the Lord.

I usually sang along, but at times I just had to sit back and listen. Along with the harmonies filling my ears, the peace of God filled my heart. And I'm sure the hearts of everyone in the room.

It was a stressful time, but those peaceful evenings are the part I miss. Sure, we can have music when the family gets together in the future. But it will never be quite the same. We'll never recapture the feel of it because we were all sending our dad on ahead of us.

PhD 2

2008-05-07T09:02:00.001-05:00

by Linda Glaz

CHAPTER TWO

Staring into the darkness, Rochelle rested against the side of the dumpster, trying to will herself back to reality.

Where am I? How long have I been here?

Peeking through the swollen slits of her eyes, she cautiously absorbed the immediate area. She stared through the darkness, her breath coming in painful gasps.

Rochelle crawled over broken glass shards and a crumpled burger bag that leaked mustard. The smell caused her to turn her head aside and vomit. [This could have more punch: “The smell twisted her gut. Her stomach heaved and she turned her head to vomit.” Something along those lines.] Hoisting her tender arm gingerly, she managed to wipe her mouth and then press[ed] her coat sleeve against her nose because of the horrific odor. She cried, “Oh God, oh God, oh God, please! Jesus . . . please help me!” Over and over she repeated the phrase until her breathing steadied with the familiar mantra. [Nice.]

At last, she yanked one item after another from her bulky purse until she discovered her cell phone at the bottom.

In the distance, from the direction of St. Phillip’s, she heard sirens and wondered, dazed, who else had been hurt.

[Personal opinion: I’d have her feel a surge of hope at hearing sirens. Were they heading for her? She listens, but they fade instead of getting louder. Then she chides herself—who could possibly know she was there? That would build more empathy for your character instead of simple wondering.]

After punching in numbers, Rochelle did not know the man who answered her call. She almost hung up hearing a stranger’s voice. Then, she recognized the regular locker room shouting and laughter before her boyfriend, Ed McGrath, came to the phone.

“Eddie. Come get me, please? Now!” Rochelle cried into the thin phone at her ear. Blood trickled over the edge of the receiver and onto her hand drop by drop. Without deliberate effort, she lifted her hand to her mouth, tasted the blood, and grew queasy all over again. [I’m a little confused here. Do you mean with deliberate effort? “Without” doesn’t create a clear picture. And do you mean she put a bloody hand to her mouth for the purpose of tasting her own blood? Why would she do that after she’s already thrown up? If that’s not what you meant, it’s how it reads to me.]

Is this really happening?

“Where are you, Chell? What’s going on?”

“Please, Ed. Help me. I’ve been in some kind of accident.” She struggled for the right words. [This will be more effective like this: “Please, Ed. Help me. I’ve been …” She struggled for the right words. “…in some kind of accident.”]

“Rochelle, what is going on? Where are you!” he shouted. [Dialog tags like “shouted” aren’t necessary. Well, if they are necessary, you haven’t written your dialog properly (but you have). Plus, he’s repeating the same things he asked her before. Try, “What? Where are you?”]

“I feel sick. Please get help. I’m,” she surveyed her surroundings, her judgment blurred by the overwhelming nausea, “next to a huge metal dumpsters past Nino’s.” She sobbed uncontrollably for a moment and then cried, “For the love of God! Help me!”

[Overwhelming nausea, uncontrollable sobbing, and her cry of “For the love of God!” all contribute to an overly dramatic paragraph. Those techniques aren’t the way to get emotion across. Also, her judgment blurred doesn’t sound right. People seldom know when their own judgment has been impaired. But I know what you mean—she was having a hard time judging her surroundings. Rewrite the paragraph to something like this:

“Please get help. I’m…” She surveyed her surroundings. “…next to a dumpster past Nino’s.” For several moments all she could do was cling to the phone and sob. “Please, just come get me!”]

To pack the right kind of emotional punch in this scene, she could have a nagging fear that her attacker might return, maybe try to steady her shaking hands enough to work her phone.

* * *

Hidden behind the corner of the dumpster, Kyle examined her from the shadows and ridiculed a god who would allow her to rot like this. Though his first thought should have been escape, he paused long enough to delight in her misery. Her dark hair had loosened more and blood caused soft curls to mat against her head.

Kyle stumbled away with her leather glove dangling from the pocket of his Army jacket.

You know me now, don’t you, Princess?

You know me reaaaal good.

Cursing the cold in his fingers, he hauled out half a poorly rolled joint and lit the end with an old Zippo lighter engraved with “Born to Raise Hell” on the side. As he strolled away he hummed a tune reminiscent of an AC/DC album his mother used to play late at night when she entertained. After each puff and each step, he considered himself more in command, more in charge of his life.

Princess got just what she asked for. You want to give people like me a guilt trip every time you open your stupid mouth on the radio?[All that was over a guilt trip? You need something more compelling here. Or just skip his rationale in this scene.] You dirty little witch. You got just what you deserved.

He stopped a couple steps outside St. Andrews on Barrymore Street kitty corner from Nino’s. The lights were off; the building appeared locked up tight for the night. And Kyle smirked.

Will you look at that? Nobody’s home. I think God just may be on vacation. Well, I appreciate it O’ Mighty One. Thou dideth me a big favor tonight. Stay on vacation, You hear?

A loud clanging noise and Kyle spun around glaring toward the alley. The kid at Nino’s with more garbage, he supposed. He longed for a final glimpse of Rochelle spread on the ground bloodied and sobbing, but the fantasy was not meant to be. He had to make tracks.

Just keep your pious opinions to yourself from now on, Princess. Stay put in your little ivory tower. Your opinions don’t matter out here in the real world. Nobody wants ‘em. Nobody cares.

With his head bowed into his hands to drag on what was left of the joint, he breathed deeply and stepped blindly into the street. Before he could react, he heard the screeching wheels of a city bus.

* * *

Blaring sirens resounded through the air while Rochelle fought to regain consciousness once again. She felt herself being lifted. The sound of doors closing. The sirens again.

Forcing her eyes open, she caught a glimpse of Ed, still outfitted in his red and white team jersey, clutching her hand to his lips. Is he praying? Why? A stranger inserted a needle into the back of her hand. What is he doing? She winced at the pain. Noticing blood smeared on Ed’s jersey, she wanted to ask him if he’d been hurt in the game. Words would not come.

Finally she tried, “Ed, why is there blood all over you?” Her voice sounded faraway and remarkably calm. Ed didn’t answer her. Rochelle tried to recall the events of the evening, but her mind felt as if it were shutting down. Drugged.

Oh, why can’t I remember?

Then, she closed her eyes and allowed the gentle feeling to wash over her. She floated for how long, she wasn’t sure.

“We’re almost there, Chell. The MedVac’s making great time.”

His words drifted in and out and Rochelle’s mind whirled into a battleground of questions, able to hear but not to answer. Why were they in a MedVac? Maybe Ed was going to tell her. “Don’t worry, Chelley. We’re getting you to the hospital. You’re doing fine.”

Why should I worry?

“They’ll take care of you. We’re just a few minutes from St. Phillips.”

Why am I going to a hospital?

“I promise you’ll be okay,” he said. “You have to be okay.” Then, he grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers over and over.

Of course, I’m okay. Why is everyone acting so funny?

Little by little she started to remember as Ed’s tears dripped onto her cheeks and her hands. Just when they arrived at the hospital, she fought through the fog in her mind and clutched at him, screaming, “Oh, God. No!”

The scene is fine for the most part. But it would be better with even subtle little changes. Her thoughts annoyed me for some reason. Forgive me, but I’m going to edit it to show you the difference:

Blaring sirens resounded through the air while Rochelle fought to regain consciousness. She felt herself being lifted. The sound of doors closing. The sirens again.

Forcing her eyes open, she caught a glimpse of Ed, still outfitted in his red and white team jersey, clutching her hand to his lips. A stranger inserted a needle into the back of her hand and she winced at the pain.

Ed’s jersey was smeared with blood. Had he been hurt in the game? “Ed, why is there blood all over you?” Her voice sounded faraway and remarkably calm. Ed didn’t answer and her mind felt as if it were shutting down. Drugged.

She closed her eyes and allowed the gentle feeling to wash over her. How long she floated, she wasn’t sure.

“We’re almost there, Chell. The MedVac’s making great time.” His words drifted in and out.

Rochelle’s mind whirled into a battleground of questions she was unable to ask. Why were they in a MedVac? Why was Ed crying and praying?

“Don’t worry, Chelley. We’re getting you to the hospital. You’re doing fine.”

Why should she worry?

“I promise you’ll be okay. You have to be okay.” He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers over and over. His tears dripped onto her hands.

The fog in her mind lifted a little. One after the other, images flooded her mind. Her attacker’s face. His cruel eyes. His eager hands reaching for her.

Dear God, please tell me it didn’t happen.

But she knew God couldn’t make such any such reassurances. She clutched at Eddie. “No!”

PhD

2008-05-05T08:51:00.001-05:00

By Linda Glaz

(red = could be deleted, blue = my comments/additions)

PROLOGUE

A snip and a cry.

“Welcome to the world, Stacy McGrath.” His father whispered. Fifteen minutes later, ignoring the disarray of the room, John placed a sweet-smelling, swaddled baby in his wife’s arms. His heart skipped [at her blissful expression]. Her expression pleased him so.

Donna sighed. “Look at him. His fingers. His toes. He’s absolutely perfect.”

John kissed the tip of her nose and slipped a hand around his son’s fuzzy head. Twisting to face Dr. Reinholdt, he chuckled, anticipating the obstetrician’s answer. “All parents think their babies are perfect, don’t they?”

“Yes, John. But in your son’s case, he is. Look at those eyes. So bright and clear. Ah, yes, he is as perfect a specimen as I have ever seen.”

“Specimen?” John laughed.

CHAPTER ONE

Kyle Finley fixed his eyes on Rochelle LeMieux, a Christian talk show host. He hated her more than anyone else in the world. Ignoring the unusual cold that seeped through his threadbare jacket, he drew his hands from the pockets.

As the light turned from red to green and she stepped into the street, he watched her approach from his post at the corner. Black ice covered much of the road. And her boots, which he could tell were purchased for fashion rather than practicality, were going to be her undoing. Although he was almost close enough to reach out and catch her, he remembered why he was there and let her slip.

[He hated her more than anyone else in the world. Intellectually, that tells me everything. Now I have the head knowledge that he hates her. But I’d rather feel his hatred.

Kyle Finley fixed his eyes on Rochelle LeMieux, Christian talk show host. He felt his lip curl. Hypocrite. Striding across the street in her I’m-a-slave-to-fashion stiletto boots. Heedless of the black ice in front of her. Idiot.

Doesn’t that give you a feeling he’s not too fond of her? Also, you never actually show her slipping. I was wondering if she actually fell, or if he was still anticipating it.]

Brushing at her coat with muddy gloves she said, “And where’s my knight in shining armor when I need one?”

Knight? You think you know people so well, Princess. [His thought doesn’t match what she just said. The fact that she’d like a knight to rescue her says nothing about how she thinks of other people. Knight? You think you’re a princess? would fit better.]

He blew warmth into his cupped hands.

Who are you to sit on your throne behind a microphone and judge me? [Again, you need a logical thought flow. Something needs to trigger a particular thought—why is he feeling judged at that particular moment?]

Every thought rushing through his mind served to anger him further, but he kept his eyes on his prey. [Show his thoughts getting angrier, then this sentence won’t be necessary at all.] He inched closer. She was already entering the dark alley behind Krestons’ Klothing Closet and Nino’s Italian restaurant. Kyle had observed her taking the shortcut many times as he waited patiently in the shadows, devising his plan.

You don’t know what it is to be me, Your Highness. To be so poor. So alone. [To me, that makes your villain sound a little too pathetic.]

You’ve got it all. The little princess. Kyle started to shudder now; his hands trembled, his lip and eye twitched. To prevent the screams in his throat from escaping, he jammed his knuckles against his mouth. Blood bathed his chin while he pressed against the wall of Tiny Tots and Kids. There, he watched her draw near the restaurant.

Did your father come home everyday? Was your life in the castle cozy? Was your family content? Did you ever notice not everyone’s life was so hunky motherlovin’ dory as Mommy and Daddy held hands and tucked you into your little beddy-by at night? You smiled and they smiled. You laughed and they laughed. And not one of you ever turned your thoughts to the thousands of kids outside the castle walls who were freezing-so-bad-and-so-hungry-and-so-scared!

He knew he had to calm down. Had to control his emotions. Slowly, slowly, Kyle leaned forward, breathing against his numb fingers. A loud crash! brought him back. She stopped. He stopped. He couldn’t believe what he saw as she stretched over boxes of scattered garbage to help a young boy get to his feet.

[You can avoid “he knew” by saying, “He took a deep breath to regain control of his emotions. Skip the exclamation point in the middle of a sentence. And I’m not fond of “he couldn’t believe what he saw” type sentences. Just show it.]

“Are you all right?” she asked, loud enough so Kyle heard every word. [Not necessary. We’re in his head, so obviously he’s hearing it.]

“Yeah. Thanks, lady,” replied the boy. He appeared to be no more than twelve or thirteen.

From Kyle’s vantage point at the back of Krestons’, he could see Rochelle’s face twisted into what? Concern? No way, he thought. She only cares about herself.

“Would you like some help with this mess? I really don’t mind.” Rochelle offered her hand.

“Shoot, no. My dad would have my head on a platter if he thought I didn’t clean up after myself. But thanks.”

Goody Two Shoes to the rescue. Imposter!

[What’s your purpose for this part? To show the readers she’s really a good person after all? Don’t be afraid of someone seeing your main character in a negative light. This is the villain’s POV after all. It’s bound to be skewed. So if that exchange doesn’t make Kyle pause to reconsider what kind of person she is, or if it doesn’t put his plan in jeopardy (a witness, will he be seen?), then it’s not necessary.]

Kyle waited for the boy to finish jamming spoiled food and lettuce leaves into the metal container before he caught up with her again. He nearly choked on the smell when he passed the garbage cans, remembering all the times his mother had kicked him in the butt and called him “nothing but trash”.

Did your mother love you?

His eyes misted over. A cough spasm’d out of his chest while the lump in his throat threatened to choke him.

Well, did she, Princess?

Thick, heavy clouds reminded him that more snow was on its way. Hurry up! He wiped his runny nose on a sleeve, coughed, and hawked up a thick glob of mucus. After spitting, he sucked back another deep breath and willed the lump in his throat away. Willed his anger to replace the feeling of hopelessness which lived with him, his constant companion.

Or did she come to despise you? Hate your guts. Wish you were dead. No. I don’t think so, Princess. I don’t think you know as much about me as you believe you do. You don’t have a clue what it’s like to be me.

That’s right, Princess. The perfect family.

As quickly as they had misted over, he felt his eyes go dry like sand. A cold, hard determination, which would have struck fear in the darkest soul, filled his gut like nourishing manna.

For a split second he glanced over his shoulder to make certain the boy had returned to the restaurant.

You’re only going to get what you asked for every time you opened your mouth and spewed out your hateful opinions about me and people like me. People like me. People . . . like . . . me.

Rochelle’s footsteps grew fainter. After the briefest moment of hesitation, Kyle strode from the back entrance where he had lingered out of sight. She would be moving about ten feet past him, he thought. Near enough for him to overpower her. With meticulous accuracy, Tiny Tots closed at seven every night and switched off each light before locking up the daycare center; Kyle counted on their consistency.

Fifteen feet beyond Tiny Tots, parallel to the deserted alley, loomed a large gray dumpster and just beyond the dumpster, an exposed grass lot where kids from the day care center often played tag and duck, duck goose. The noisy Italian restaurant remained the only site which might provide witnesses. But the boy was gone and the supper crowd created a howling ruckus from seven to nine in Nino’s. Not a soul would hear her cries.

Rochelle could not be more than ten feet from him, when she turned. “Is someone there? Hello?”

Kyle ducked behind the Tiny Tots climbing wall and it excited him to think she sensed his presence. Did she fear what might be hiding in the dark or was she looking for the boy? He had to slap a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. To think she didn’t have any idea what was going to happen to her. He stole a glimpse of her as she quickened her steps, but he was faster.

Then, a light scent of musk floated back to Kyle as he grew closer. Three more feet and he grabbed for her hair, but Rochelle jerked free and ran without ever looking back. Kyle stared as the heel of her boot snapped and she tumbled to the ground. He wasted no time but ran to her side. “Did you see that guy? Must be a crack head. Are you all right, Miss?”

“Yes. Thank you so much,” she said and he helped her to her feet. But he could hear the fear in her voice. She knew.

[You were building momentum, but spoiled the tension with his “Are you all right?” ploy.]

“Rochelle, don’t make a sound or I’ll kill you.” He spoke through pursed lips and his fingers tangled into the curly softness of her hair.

Her wide blue eyes, darting back and forth, told him everything he wanted to know. No one was coming to help her and she knew it. “Are you happy now, Princess? You asked for this.”

I used to be happy. Just like the perfect family you’re always preaching about on your talk show. Church on Sunday, Dad home from the base every night playing games, tucking me in. Perfect. You got it? The perfect American family. One dad, one mom, and a kid. A kid who believed his life would never change.

Then, as she twisted against his hands, he summoned up memories with clarity about how life had been following his father’s death. Kyle had been an unwilling participant in his mother’s nightmare world of alcohol and strange men.

[We only need just enough of his background to show his motivation. It doesn’t seem like he’d dwell on it when he’s finally acting out his plan.]

With one hand digging into her shoulder and the other across her mouth, he looked again to be sure no one was watching. He wanted the freedom to enjoy every last minute.

“Do you know what it’s like to have a parade of ‘uncles’ moving through your front door like a turnstile, Princess? No. You don’t have a clue, do you? Makes it hard to believe God’s watching over you, doesn’t it?” He thrilled to her struggling against his grasp, but afforded her no chance to respond. He hauled her behind the dumpster, where a brown, furry something with bulging eyes scuttled over her legs and into the night with racecar speed.

At the same time, Kyle’s hand slipped from her mouth and she cried out, “Help me, someone. God, help me. Why are you doing this?” Only then did he deliver the first blow with his fist. Her head was driven against the frozen ground.

“God? Where’s God now, Princess?” [It would be more effective for this to trigger his thoughts about God watching over him. “God? Why should he watch over you when he didn’t watch over me? Do you know what it’s like…”] Without waiting to consider whether she would pass out or attempt an answer, he tugged her face closer; his breath the only air moving. Her left eye had already swelled shut, a thin line of blood streaming from the cut outside her eyelid. Bringing her head to within an inch of his own, he inhaled deeply of her perfume. His tongue flicked out, snaking to the nape of her neck just below her right earlobe, and he was pleased when he was rewarded with a terrified moan. [The fact that you mention it as a reward implies that he was pleased.]

Kyle listened and smirked. She muttered a plea to God one last time before he jerked her back and glared into her one good eye, now blinking wildly.

“Answer to your prayer, Princess.” He laughed and slugged her again and again until he could tell she had no fight left. [Seems excessive. It doesn’t appear to me that she was fighting back at all after she initially tried to get away. What’s coming is her punishment, and he’d want her conscious for it.]

Then, he whispered in her ear, “The court jester’s here. Let the party begin.”

[The end of the chapter fizzles for me. For best dramatic effect, I’d cut the scene after the icky neck licking.]

Taking it easy

2008-05-02T11:41:00.003-05:00

I haven't posted as much as I thought I would. I guess I'm taking a bit of a break from extra obligations.

The week we knew for certain my father-in-law was on a downward turn, and the end was near, was also the week two books for review landed in my mailbox. Plus I received a manuscript for a paid critique. Oh, and the 7 entries I was judging for the Genesis contest also arrived in my inbox. All in the same week when stress levels were already a bit high.

So I'm sure you can understand why I'm enjoying a time to be a little more laid back.

It was an honor to be asked to judge for Genesis this year. I'm a little disappointed that neither of the two manuscripts I thought were really good ended up as finalists. But it was a good experience and I think I'd do it again. I received very nice thank yous from all but the entry I scored the lowest.

One entry I also scored pretty low was so grateful for the comments I made that she asked if she could send me a rewrite. (I'm sure she was also grateful for the other 2 judges' comments, but I put my name on all the entries I judged.) I said I'd be happy to take a look at what she did, but that I'd like to post the critique on my blog if she didn't mind. She didn't.

So, Monday and Wednesday I'll have the two chapters I critiqued.

Critique: The Ebony Piano

2008-04-29T09:47:00.004-05:00

At last, I finished the critique I promised you. Aside from the usual red and blue, you'll see a few green words. That's because Debbie isn't from the US, but her story is set here. The green phrases are ones that needed American-izing.

The Ebony Piano

by Debbie Roome

[red = could be deleted, blue = my comments or additions]

The air was frigid and her breath hung like misty ribbons against the velvet spread of dusk. On the street, lamps [Streetlights] spilled golden puddles of light[This would be better phrased as a question. Where was Ryan?] Probably with a customer. He seemed to work[ed] such long hours these days. Chilly, she pulled her coat around herself, a leather womb of comfort and warmth. [You can skip telling us she’s chilly. The rest of the sentence shows it nicely.] onto soft mounds of snow heaped around their bases. The neighbourhood was quiet, the evening sounds muffled by layers of white. She had expected to find the house welcoming, with warm light overflowing window ledges but it was dark, silent, aloof. She wondered briefly where Ryan was.

Anxious to get inside, she tiptoed carefully across the icy walkway, her movements cautious, feline. [To say her movements were feline sounds odd coming from the inside. That’s something for an outside observer to note. Plus, it sounds conceited.] She hoped Sylvie had laid a fire. It was one of the few pleasures she still enjoyed with Ryan. Relaxing in front of a crackling fire, burnished logs shooting mellow sparks towards the heavens and a mug of creamy coffee at her side. Her mind riffled through the last few weeks. How long had it been since they’d shared an intimate evening? Toasting marshmallows and drinking hot, spicy cider that burned warm pathways through their chests. She couldn’t remember. “Oh Lord,” she whispered, “What's happening to us?”

Light pooled around her as she flipped the switch inside the hall. [Change the order. You have the light appearing before she turns the light on. “She flipped the switch inside the hall and light pooled around her.”] The emptiness took a few moments to process. The lack of all that was familiar. Instead of the rich ambience of copper and brass, she faced stark walls and dull reflections from bare window-panes. Shocked, she stumbled backwards, half falling down the steps, fumbling for her cell phone, clumsy fingers stabbing at the keypad. Come on Ryan. Please answer.

[Redo the last sentence. You’ve got a couple of problems—telling an emotion, plus everything is happening at the same time, which is impossible. She can’t be fumbling for her cell phone at the same time she’s punching numbers on that same cell phone. Try: “She stumbled backwards, half falling down the steps. Her clumsy fingers fumbled for her cell phone, then stabbed at the keypad.” I still don’t like stumbled and fumbled so close together, but that gives you an idea of how to fix it.]

“You’ve reached Ryan Stafford. I’m not available right now.”

Oh, God. What should I do? It looks like a robbery. What else is missing? How did they get in? Where is Ryan? Was Sylvie here when it happened?

She tried to shuffle the thoughts into some kind of order. Scenes from CSI filtered into her mind. If this was a crime scene, there had to be evidence. The hall-light dribbled over the steps and lit the wide pathway that led down to the road. Although fresh snow was falling, she could see signs of recent activity. Dirty heaps of slush, scarred and crushed, trampled by heavy, booted feet. Deep impressions left by laden carriers. Along the road-side, lumps of turf and sod [turf and sod? What’s the difference?] lay scattered where a heavy vehicle had struggled to gain traction. A vehicle that had disappeared with part of her life.

[You’ve got a lot of active description. Now, that’s a good thing, but it can be overdone. So far light alone has puddled, pooled and dribbled. Also, your description is doing a great job of establishing the setting, but you aren’t establishing your character. I feel distanced from your character.]

The emergency services answered promptly. “911, please state your emergency.”

“Uh, my home has been broken into.”

“Is there any sign of activity?”

“I haven’t been inside yet.”

“Is there any sign of forced entry?”

“Not at the front, but all the furniture from the hallway has gone.” [In America, this sounds like the furniture got up and walked away. We’d say the furniture is gone.]

“Alright, Ma’am. Your address is 79 Hartwood Drive in Amberfield, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And your name?”

“Terri Stafford.”

“Terri, I’m dispatching officers to the scene as we speak. I want you to stay away from the house. Go over to a neighbour if you can or wait in a safe place. Will you do that for me?”

She clicked the phone off, shivering slightly, more from shock than cold she guessed. Surely it wouldn’t harm if she went into the house? [We’d say it wouldn’t do any harm.] It was obvious the thieves had long since departed.

The hall echoed softy as she padded through to the living room and groped for the switch. Soft peach light illuminated hollows in the carpet where leather furniture had stood that morning. The accessories were gone too. Coffee tables, CDs, television, stereo, lamps and rugs. The only thing undisturbed was her piano, the ebony upright she’d inherited from her grandmother. She walked across to it and ran a finger across the smooth, ivory keys. How many times had she worshiped God from this piano? Memories washed across her heart. Grandma’s tiny cottage, the fragrance of baked apples and cinnamon. Grandma singing Amazing Grace in sweet tones. The clean scent of soap and witch hazel as Grandma leaned over her and helped her pick out the melody. Thank you God. Thank you for sparing my piano. You know how special it is to me.

She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes as she continued down the passage way, following the trail of splotchy mud. Room by room, she surveyed her loss, the emptiness in her heart growing in proportion to the emptiness in her home. Nearly everything was gone. The dining room was empty, the kitchen stripped of appliances. Only the simple wooden table and chairs remained. She’d left a note for Sylvie. Asked her to prepare a casserole for dinner but there were no savoury aromas in the air, no pungent garlic or spicy curry to stir the appetite. She wondered if Sylvie had come in but then spotted the cookie jar. It was full of thick choc-chip cookies and striped pinwheels in peppermint and pink. I wonder where she went to. I hope nothing happened to her.

[When she stops to think about all these things, dinner aromas, cookies, memories—your scene loses its immediacy. If she feels confident the robbers have gone and she’s not in any danger, she should be rushing from room to room simply taking note of what’s gone.]

She moved on to Ryan’s study. A barren cube of muted beige and khaki. Seeing the phone lying in a dusty patch on the floor she felt a pang of irrational annoyance at Sylvie. [I like the irrational annoyance. It’s one of the only glimpses you give us of Terri’s personality.] When had she last moved the desk and vacuumed under there? Next to the phone lay the framed photos that had been on Ryan’s desk. Crouching on the floor, she picked them up and arranged them like silver soldiers in a neat row. Those had been happier days. [This isn’t the place for more reflection. You established well enough in the beginning that they have marital problems. The fact that almost every belonging is gone is going to take precedence over all else.]

Ryan grinned out at her, fist raised in triumph as he received the award for businessman of the year. His face was relaxed and toffee hair curled rampantly round strong features. The next photo was them as a couple, dancing at their wedding; her slender frame engulfed by his bulk as he whirled her in the air. The last was a studio shot that captured the sheen of her hair, glossy as a raven’s wing against milky skin and blue-sequin eyes.

[My, my. Doesn’t she think a lot of herself? Narration is basically your character’s thoughts. You might as well put it in italics, I’m so beautiful. Okay, you can't hear my teasing tone. I realize you’re only trying to get a description in the reader’s mind, but that can wait until you can do it differently—through another character, ideally, if you have more than one POV.]

She glanced at her watch, wondering how long the police would take. She thought they would have arrived by now. Maybe she should call Ryan’s office. He preferred she use his cell number but it was an emergency. She picked up the receiver and punched in the number. An unfamiliar male voice answered. “Compumate, good evening.”

“Good evening. Could I speak to Ryan Stafford please?”

“I’m afraid he no longer works here.”

She didn’t absorb what he was saying. “Has he left for the evening?”

“No Ma'am.” His voice was toneless, bored. The drone of a gum-smacking youth. “He left the company about two weeks ago. Is there anything I can help you with?”

She hung up and walked over to the naked window, pressing her nose against the frozen glass. It was snowing hard now, feathery flakes drifting through gilded haloes around street lamps. [That’s nice description, but it doesn’t enhance the mood of the scene. She just learned a shocking piece of news. Any description you place in this spot should deepen the tone—or provide stark contrast to it—not be incidental.] What was going on? Ryan had dressed each morning and left as though going to work. Why hadn’t he told her he’d left Compumate? Did he have another job? A thought flitted across her mind. Maybe he was depressed. Didn’t depressed people do crazy things? He hadn’t been himself for weeks. She thought of the silences, the surliness, the reaction when she entered his study without knocking. The way he snapped files shut and shoved them into drawers. The secretive behaviour when he was on the internet, shielding the screen, minimizing his work as she brought offerings of coffee and Danishes.

Lord. I’ve lost my possessions and I feel like I’m losing Ryan as well. Please help me to be calm when I find him. Let me understand what is going on in his life.

She swallowed a sob as she left the study and climbed the thickly-carpeted stairs to the top section of the house. They’d been up here too. She could tell by the knocks on the wall, the muddy smears on the treads. Did she really want to expose herself to any more pain?

The phone rang in the passageway, jarring and shrill, startling her.

“Hello.”

“Mrs Stafford. It’s me Sylvie. I’m calling to find out if everything is alright.”

She tried to keep her voice even as she replied. “I just got home and the house has been robbed, Sylvie. And I don’t know where Mr Stafford is.”

“Oh my.” Sylvie drew a quick breath. “Mr Stafford came in at noon and sent me home. Said he needed to be alone. I didn’t have time to prepare the dinner…” Her voice trailed off. “You say you’ve been robbed.”

“The house is empty. Drapes, furniture, appliances. They’ve all gone.” [They’re all gone.]

There was a pause as Sylvie absorbed the news. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Stafford. Would you like me to come in? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No. No thank you. The police are on their way. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what’s happening.”

Her thoughts were running on a new track as she hung up. Why had Ryan come home at noon? Was he having an affair? Maybe he’d taken the stuff and run off with his mistress. She pressed cold fingertips against her temples. Surely not. But why hadn’t he told her about his job. And why had he come home early?

Her cell phone rang and she eagerly checked the display, hoping it would be him.

“Hello.”

“Terri? It’s Joan here from Emergency Services. Is everything alright by you?” [Either end the sentence at alright, or say with you.]

“Yes, but the police haven’t arrived yet.”

“That’s why I’m calling. All units had been dispatched to a multiple shooting downtown. That’s under control now and we have a vehicle on its way to you. I’m sorry for the delay.”

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

She tucked the phone away, glad the woman hadn’t asked where she was waiting.

I feel so alone, God. Things seem to be getting worse and worse. I know our stuff is insured, but some of it is irreplaceable. Things I’ve collected over the years. And Ryan. I can’t believe he’s involved in this. Please bring him home safely and help us sort out his work problems.

She paused at the closed door of the nursery. The nursery that had never been used. She started decorating it three years ago, a dream that had bloomed into a passion. She couldn’t bear to find this room empty. I’ll leave it for later, God. I can’t handle much more right now.

The faint wail of a siren rose and fell in the distance as she pushed open the door to the master bedroom. It was a pleasant surprise to find their bed untouched. A solid oak structure, draped in rich emerald and sapphire. The matching drawers and dressing table were gone, however. Clumsy piles of clothing and underwear lined the plush carpet down the left side of the room. She sank onto the bed as her eyes scanned the chaos. She was relieved to see Ryan’s things were there as well. If he was leaving her, surely he would have taken his clothes? She was unable to make sense of any of it. Her life had been shattered in a matter of minutes. Her peace was gone; the accumulated treasures from years of collecting were gone. Even her husband was gone.

The sirens were close now and she felt a small measure of comfort. Give them wisdom, Lord. Help them to find our possessions. Help me to find Ryan. I need him here with me.

“Terri.” A harsh whisper sent adrenaline surging into her blood stream, tensing her muscles, increasing her heart beat, causing a fine sweat to dampen her hands. Downstairs, the police were hammering on the door. “Police officers. We’re coming in.”

“Terri.”

What must I do, God? Should I try and get away? [A simple action, such as “She gripped the bedclothes,” would be much more effective than that prayer. Besides, What must I do? sounds entirely too British.] The voice sounded close, maybe in the bathroom. She could hear the police stomping through the rooms beneath her.

“I’m sorry.”

Trembling, Terri pulled herself up from the bed and walked slowly towards the bathroom. Ryan was sitting on the toilet lid. [Toilet lid distracts me. I see why you wrote it—you don’t want to give the impression that he’s actually using the toilet. But why not have him perched on the edge of the tub instead?] A broken man in wrinkled pants and crumpled shirt, eyes red-rimmed and hair mussed up. His elbows rested on his knees and he hunched forward like a cripple. From his clasped hands dangled a gun.

[Good hook. At the end, I want to read more.]

I can’t point out each little instance, but overall the tone is too formal. Your character doesn’t have her own voice. And you break in with direct thoughts and prayers a little too often. Instead of pulling the reader deeper into your character, as you’d think, this actually serves to distance the reader further. You’re breaking into the action to show us exactly what Terri is thinking. And it reads like the interruption it is.

Here’s what I would try—simply as an exercise to get deeper into character. Write this scene in first person, which might allow more of her thoughts and emotions to be part of the narration. Once you capture her feelings in the scene, change it back to third person, leaving the deeper characterization.

You have a good premise and I want to know what's going on. You set the scene very well. But as written, I’m not feeling the sympathy for Terri that I should feel, given her situation. It needs more emotion.

Blog Tour: Tuesday Night at the Blue Moon

2008-04-15T11:03:00.004-05:00

Tuesday Night at the Blue Moon

Debbie Fuller Thomas

Moody Publishers

June 1, 2008

ISBN: 978-0802487339

Debbie Fuller Thomas

"I am passionate about good fiction, the kind that grabs you and won't turn loose. My hope is that my characters will capture you and that you will consider my stories old friends with whom you visit often."

What others are saying about Tuesday Night at the Blue Moon:

A wonderful debut novel! Honest. Real. Gritty. A compelling look at the hardscrabble lives and beat-up souls of a grieving, single mom and her daughters as they navigate their way to hope and healing to become a family again. I couldn't put it down! I LOVE Debbie Fuller Thomas's beautiful, descriptive writing. You will too. Highly recommended.

Laura Jensen Walker, Author of Miss Invisible and Daring Chloe

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You'll be caught up in this story from the first page, and drawn along by Debbie Fuller Thomas' masterful writing. A beautiful, wise tale of a family caught in a predicament with no simple answers, Tuesday Night at the Blue Moon will linger in your thoughts for a good long time.

Kathleen Popa, author of Saint Bertie and To Dance in the Desert

____________________

In Tuesday Night at the Blue Moon, Debbie Fuller Thomas takes every parent's worst nightmare and spins it into a deeply touching story. From the fragile seed of hope in Marty, to the fearful confusion of Andie, we see deep into the hearts of two families who have fallen victim to not one tragedy, but two. Compelling from the first word to the last, this is a story of the healing power of love, both human and divine. Sharon K. Souza, author of Every Good and Perfect Gift and Lying on Sunday

An Interview with Debbie Fuller Thomas

Your story is about a mother whose daughter was switched at birth. How does Marty find out that her child was switched?
Marty's daughter, Ginger, is the victim of a fatal genetic disease, Neimann Pick Type C, which often strikes every sibling in a family. Marty is concerned for her other 2 daughters, and when it's determined that she and her ex-husband are not carriers of the disease they know something's not right.

Where did you get the idea for your story?
My inspiration for the book came straight out of real life from a news story I heard about two families fighting over switched-at-birth babies when one child is orphaned. Of course, the circumstances and setting in my story are different, and the characters are completely fictitious. But I knew it would be a heartbreaking dilemma for any parent, especially for one who had suffered through the death of a child she thought was hers.

Do you have a favorite character?
I would have to say Andie, because even at 13-years-old, she doesn't become a victim. She's a little quirky, and she's had to mature quickly. Even though she's developed an attitude toward God and her situation in general, she keeps it to herself most of the time, and we understand her need to vent occasionally.

On what level do you think women will identify with Marty, her biological mom?
I think most moms would understand the panic of discovering they had the wrong child, and the guilt at not realizing instinctively that something was wrong all along. On another level, Marty is a caregiver who sets aside her own dreams to nurture her family. As women, we often set aside our dreams out of necessity, guilt or lack of support from our families, but like Marty, we don't have to abandon our dreams completely.

The story is set at a drive-in movie theater. What led you to choose that setting?
I think there's a nostalgic winsomeness about drive-in theaters and I want to encourage families to take advantage of the few drive-ins that are still in operation. I remember the smell of hot coffee when my mother poured cups from the thermos, and falling asleep in the backseat with my pillow and blanket. There's a sense of intimacy and togetherness that comes from being alone with your family, even though hundreds of other people are watching the same movie. I also used the run-down condition of the Blue Moon Drive-in as a reflection of the relationship between Marty and Andie and of the condition of their spiritual lives when they first meet.

What is the meaning behind the title: Tuesday Night at the Blue Moon?
Tuesday night is family night at the Blue Moon Drive-in. Andie needs a family, and the desire of Marty's heart is for her dysfunctional family to be a whole again.

Who are some of the other interesting characters in your story?
Andie is sandwiched in the birth order between Winnie, the needy younger sister, and Deja, an older teen who is bitter about the situation. Some interesting dynamics that take place when the three of them interact, especially when mom has to work long hours and there's too much unsupervised together-time.

What is the message that you would like your readers to take away from Tuesday Night at the Blue Moon?
I believe that God is our Father and that we were created to commune with Him on a deep level, but sin orphans us. When we're open to it, God is ready and willing to re-claim and restore us as his children.

How did you begin your writing career?
I operated a home day care for 6 preschoolers when my children were young, and I was in desperate need of a distraction to keep my sanity. So I began to write a novel during their naptimes. I finished it in about 2 years. It was my 'practice novel' which gave me confidence and helped me plot the blueprint for Tuesday Night.

What advice would you give to someone starting out as a writer?
Don't quit. I sold the first article I ever sent to a publisher and didn't sell another thing for 19 years. It's not going to happen overnight. It's an apprenticeship - a craft to be honed. When you're tempted to give up, remember the encouraging things other writers, agents or editors have said about your writing. If God has given you some talent, what acceptable excuse can you give Him for not using it?

Further thoughts

2008-04-11T14:07:00.006-05:00

I wanted to put my thoughts about Every Good and Perfect Gift in a separate post, because I'm going to get personal. (Scroll down to read the review first. I wanted this post second, but it's too late.)

I was happy to see a book whose main character is a woman who has decided not to have children. I don't have any children. By choice.

My health is the reason. Terrible fatigue and a bad back. I won't bore you with detail. Women have a nesting instinct. My instincts tell me I couldn't provide good care for a child. There are a lot of days I can’t take care of my husband—he has to take care of me.

This isn't a pity party. I love my life, I just have my limitations. And if it wasn't for those limitations, I never would have discovered writing. My one heartbreak is for Brian. He'd be such a great dad. As is, he's a wonderful uncle to 15 nieces and nephews.

Anyway, I have my reasons. Legitimate ones. But I still feel evil. Every Mother's Day, whenever I hear scripture such as "the purpose of marriage is godly offspring," every time I see my friend who is unable to conceive and so badly wanted to.

I feel like a selfish sinner for not having children. Like I never should have gotten married if I wasn't going to have children. (I thought I would have children when I first got married. And I don't know what I'd do without Brian.)

Now, bringing it back to the book...

The main character asked her husband that very question. Are we sinning by not having children? He gently assured her that it was a decision, not a matter of sin at all. It was nice to get an outside opinion on that.

Because when I think about my decision, some days it tears me apart. Are we doing the right thing? Will I regret it some day? What do other people think of me? I know many people assume I don't like children. But let me tell you, those 15 nieces and nephews bring me great joy.

Okay, back to the book again. The one place where I thought something was missing was that Gabby didn't feel betrayed by DeeDee's decision to have a baby. I started out with three married friends who said they never wanted children. After a few years, they changed their minds. And I felt alone and betrayed. [Did I mention my selfishness? :o)]

Everyone reacts differently, but I know what a lonely path this is. So if Gabby had a friend for 18 years who was on the same path, I think she'd feel abandoned at this change of heart.

I'd like to think I won't have any regrets later in life. So I felt let down when... MINOR SPOILER ALERT... Gabby temporarily decides she wants a baby at age 41.

In fact, I had a hard time picking up the book again after that. Since nothing came of it, I wondered why it was necessary. Instead of the reassurances the book had been giving me up to that point, it was now giving me doubts.

But that was a very minor part of the book. Sharon Souza does an excellent job with this topic. (I don't mean to imply that the whole book is about childlessness. That's just part of Gabby's situation. DeeDee and the friendship is the focus of the book.)

This isn't something Christians talk about. Spurred on by this book, I'm talking about it.

I have one request of humanity in general. Please don’t ever ask anyone when they’re going to have a baby. One way or another, it’s in God’s hands. That could be a very painful question.

Sharon, if you ever read this, thank you for including this subject in your book.

Every Good and Perfect Gift

2008-04-11T13:15:00.006-05:00

Every Good and Perfect Gift (NavPress, 2008)

The Review

From the day DeeDee McAllister rode into Gabby’s life on her banana-seat bike, Gabby’s life would never be the same. In fact, her name wasn’t even Gabby until DeeDee decided it should be. Full of charisma and class, DeeDee takes over the planning of their lives. And that’s fine with Gabby. She’s content to be in her amazing friend’s shadow.

They marry their college sweethearts and settle into careers. The plan includes no children. All the reasons not to have children made sense to both women--and their husbands--so the decision was mutual. But at the age of 38, DeeDee changes her mind.

Two years of infertility follow, but DeeDee finally gets her way. After the birth of the baby, Gabby sees an alarming trend of forgetfulness in her friend. The symptoms continue to worsen until they receive the diagnosis. Now Gabby has to be the strong one—a role she doesn’t feel suited for.

The high-caliber writing in this novel is apparent from the first paragraph. The characters are rich—the friendship so real I wanted to be a part of it. The author dares to discuss the topic of childlessness by choice in a Christian setting. Although it’s clear from the back cover that the story is headed for a weighty topic or two, it’s an enjoyable trip.

Humor lightens all but the bleakest of moments. And those dark moments are shown with depth of genuine emotion. This story took me from laughter to tears and back again. It will have a lasting impact on me. A must read.

It's April??

2008-04-09T20:32:00.002-05:00

This is just a quick post to let you know I'm back.

It's been quite a winter. A very long one... and yet I can't believe it's April already.

On Christmas day, my father-in-law, Perry, ended up in the hospital with a bowel blockage--a side effect of colon cancer and its treatment. Our Christmas was canceled. Well, postponed until January 11, when he was out of the hospital after surgery.

On January 23, he was back in again. This time there was nothing they could do. A patient with a bowel blockage can't eat or drink anything. The IV nutrition they gave him was absorbed by the cancer before his body could utilize it.

On the 30th, they sent him home to die. The hospice nurse gave him a week to live. She's had years of experience, and she's usually right on.

Perry lasted 7 weeks.

For the first three weeks we were there every day. After all, we thought, this could be our last chance to see him. When he stabilized and even improved slightly, we cut back to a few times a week.

So that's where all my free time has gone. I thought about blogging a few times in there, but saying, "My husband's dad is dying" seemed so stark. And so I stayed away. But now that the funeral is over, and I've caught up on some other things that were neglected during those two months, I'm ready to blog again.

I'll have some reviews soon. Even a critique or two. I'll also share a little more about Perry. He was an incredible man of God. Well loved by his family, church and community. He died as he lived--to the glory of God.

A review of My Name is Russell Fink

2008-02-18T10:27:00.007-06:00

Recently I started doing reviews for The Christian Manifesto. Every review I write for them, I also post here. But there are two other fiction reviewers, plus reviews of non-fiction and film so you may want to check it out.

My Name is Russell Fink by Michael Snyder was like no book I’ve ever read and I recommend everyone go out and buy it to experience a unique story told in a fresh voice.

I first heard Michael Snyder’s name when Brandilyn Collins posted about her Mt. Hermon murder mystery in April 2006. I tucked the name away in my memory because it was linked with a clairvoyant dog. That kind of nuttiness I had to know more about.

Therefore, I was thrilled when this book came my way for review. Plus Mike and I have the same agent, which made me more eager to read his book.

I’ll admit that I had a little trouble getting into it at first. It doesn’t release until March, so I received an advance reader copy. This ARC didn’t have any back cover copy, so I had no idea what the story was supposed to be about.

I kept trying to identify the plot, and where it was headed. Yet it’s told in such an enjoyable style that after a short time I just sat back and enjoyed the ride. And trust me, all the seemingly random events in the beginning of the book do gel into a cohesive plot—a twisty, and unpredictable one.

Russell Fink is a bundle of neuroses. He blames himself for everything, including the death of his twin sister from cancer when she was nine years old. His phobias and guilt are probably the reasons he’s stuck with a job he hates and isn’t very good at. He’d quit, but he can’t. He’s saving up so he can move out of his parent’s house.

Russell Fink is also a character I couldn’t help rooting for—even when he was doing or saying something stupid. And much of the time he doesn’t seem to have control over what comes out of his mouth.

Quirky doesn’t begin to describe the people he interacts with every day. But instead of expanding on that, I’ll let you make the bizarre and delightful journey of discovery for yourself. Likable and unforgettable, these characters nevertheless make Russell look like the sane one. The great thing about Mike’s writing style is that he doesn’t shout, “Hey, look at this weird character!” Over time, he reveals new traits and lets the reader draw their own conclusions.

In this razor-witted comedy, I didn’t expect to find myself in the middle of a minor mystery. The murder victim, however, is Russell’s clairvoyant basset hound. A surprising number of people have motive to kill this sweet old dog.

The spiritual thread is sort of subtle, for lack of a better word. Through most of the book I wondered where Russell Fink’s faith lies. But it was very fitting for the story and for what the character has been through. The conclusion of the spiritual thread matches the tone of the rest of the story.

I admired the craftsmanship of this work. If you take my advice and buy it when it releases, your intellect and your funny bone will thank you.

Burden of Proof

2008-02-11T10:24:00.000-06:00

By Richard Mabry

[red = could be deleted; blue = my comments]

Chapter One

Dr. Matt Newman was running on fumes. His eyes burned. His shoulders ached. His mouth was foul with the acid taste of the coffee. Night call was for someone younger—much younger. But all that was about to change, and he could hardly wait.

As Matt moved from the brilliance of Methodist Hospital’s Emergency Room into the mottled semi-darkness of the path to the parking garage, he felt the weight of responsibility begin to slip from his shoulders. The hissing of the pneumatic doors closing behind him was like an auditory exclamation point. In another few hours, this night on call would end and so would his time in private practice. Then maybe Diane would stop carping at him for the missed dinners, the evenings when an emergency page interrupted a movie. Maybe this would make her happy. Maybe.

It wasn’t hard for Matt to spot his beige Toyota Corolla sitting in the darkest corner of the deserted garage. There weren’t many cars still there at two AM. And soon there would be one fewer [less—fewer sounds like it should refer to more than one]. He fished his keys from the pocket of his white lab coat and thumbed the remote. He was reaching for the door handle when something yanked him backward and cut off his air in mid-breath. He dropped the keys and reached up with both hands, his fingers prying without success at the arm he felt around his neck.

Before he could say a word [His air was cut off. We don’t expect him to be able to speak.], Matt was slammed to the garage floor. He was sure he felt a rib crack. His cheek burned as it scraped across the coarse concrete. The smell of rancid motor oil filled his nostrils. He winced as a knee pinned him to the ground like a butterfly on a specimen board. Fire shot through Matt’s shoulders as his arms were yanked together. He struggled, but the result was more force, more pain. He heard a quick rip of tape. Seconds later, his wrists were bound tightly behind his back. He tried to lift his head to look around, but stopped when something hard pressed against the back of his neck.

[The above paragraph is where everything starts happening. It’s crucial to the story—the inciting incident. But the action doesn’t flow. It feels jerky to me. There are a few problems that I see.

1. The action-reaction sequences are out of order. You have Matt’s reaction (a wince, pain) before we see the action that caused it. The action has to come first to play out logically. But when I rewrote that paragraph simply reversing the order where it was needed, I still didn’t like it. Why?

2. The second problem is sensory overload. For action this fast, Matt is experiencing too many sensory details. It seems logical that panic and adrenaline would numb him to some of the things happening. Plus, there’s a fine line between allowing the reader to get inside the character’s skin so the scene comes alive, and loading action with so many details that it sinks instead of flowing.

3. Phrases like, “He was sure he felt a rib crack” are too detached and analytical.

I haven’t had the time to come up with a version I really like. But this is a beginning to point you in the right direction:

The assailant slammed Matt to the garage floor. He tried to draw breath for a scream, but his lungs were immobilized by the pain exploding along his rib cage. A knee pinned him to the ground and his arms were yanked together. His struggles only tightened the grip and intensified his pain. He heard a quick rip of tape and his wrists were tightly bound. He tried to lift his head to look around, but stopped when cold metal pressed against the back of his neck.

Even if my version isn’t much better, the principals I laid out hold true. Use those as your guidelines to fix this action sequence.]

“Hold still.” The words came out as a low rumble, the menace behind them unmistakable.

Matt figured what he felt was a gun. Finding out for sure could be fatal. [Seems obvious already.] He lowered his face onto the cement and went limp, feeling his hope escape like air from a punctured tire. He lay, submissive, as his ankles were bound together.

There were murmurs above him, the words indistinguishable. [Try “The murmurs above him were indistinguishable,” to avoid starting a sentence with “there were”.] One voice a high-pitched singsong, the answer a harsh rasp.

“Why not here?” There was a faint Hispanic accent to the whining tenor.

[You say that the words were indistinguishable, then go on to tell us what they’re saying. One or the other should be cut.]

“Shut up and do it my way.” The growling bass spat out the words so forcefully that Matt felt spittle spray his neck. He had no idea what was going on, but it couldn’t be good.

Again the shrill whimper. “Okay. What now?”

“Let’s get him into the trunk of his car.”

Matt gave a shrill cry as uncaring hands lifted his head by the hair. [Again, fix the action-reaction.] Three quick turns of tape around his head muffled his voice and turned the world black.

Now Matt couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t speak. [I’d rather hear how this made him feel, instead of just the stark facts.] He strained to hear the murmurs above him. Only the last words came through clearly enough to understand, but they were enough to drive his heart into his shoes. “Get rid of him.”

Matt heard a jingle of keys [Sounds too passive. Instead of just “heard”, have him angle his head to catch the sounds—it’s the only sense he has left, he’s going to try to use it to the full.], two beeps from a security system, followed by a sharp click. Hinges squeaked. He had a momentary sensation of floating as he was lifted, carried, dropped. His head struck something hard. The world began to spin, [He felt as if he were spinning—the world spinning implies sight.] splashes of red flashed behind his closed eyelids, then vanished into nothingness.

Matt struggled back to consciousness like a swimmer emerging from the depths. How long had he been out? Hours? Minutes? A few seconds? At first he had no idea where he was or what was happening. He tried to open his eyes but there was no light. He tried to speak, but his lips were sealed; he cried out, but the result was only a strained grunt. Finally, he heard the faint sound of voices, a menacing rumble and a high-pitched whine. That was when he remembered.

He was on the way to his death. And the trunk of his car was the coffin.

* * *

"Let's get out of here."

Lou slammed the trunk closed, clambered behind the wheel, and started the engine. He had the car moving by the time his companion scrambled in. He reversed out of the parking slot, stopping with a screech of brakes. Then he slammed the gearshift into drive, stomped on the gas and sent the Toyota screaming down the ramp. His rear view mirror showed him a glimpse of parallel strips of black rubber, the only trace of what had just taken place.

Beads of sweat stung Lou’s eyes. He blinked them away and peered into the night. He slowed as he began to navigate the narrow streets behind the hospital, but his mind was working full-speed.

“So what now?” Edgar’s whining words interrupted Lou’s thoughts.

Lou shrugged. He steered the car through a stop sign with only the slightest tap on the brakes. “Next we find the other one.”

Beside him, Edgar fidgeted but, for once, kept silent. [Too many interruptions. It would flow better as, “Beside him, Edgar fidgeted but kept silent. For once.”]

Lou clutched the wheel and stared into the night, following the headlight beams through the warren of dark streets. The lights of downtown Dallas rose up ahead of them, bright in the inky sky. Lou took a sharp left, away from that glare.

The neighborhood’s few functioning streetlights only accentuated the gloom beyond their dim glow. He rolled by bars, strip clubs, hole-in-the-wall stores peddling XXX rated videos, all of them silent now, most secured by burglar bars or steel shutters. The streets were deserted, and rightly so. He figured that nobody in his right mind would be here at this hour of the morning—at least, not without a gun.

He saw the pothole too late to steer around it. The car bounced crazily before settling down on protesting springs.

“Hey, watch it.” He heard a click as Edgar fastened his seat belt.

“Shut up.” Lou slowed and scanned ahead for more holes in the pavement.

“Do you know where we’re going?”

“Yeah, but whoever laid out these streets must have been drunk. Let me concentrate.” Lou squinted to read the street signs in the faint light. Finally, he found the one he wanted and steered the car in a sharp turn. It lurched as one wheel bumped the curb.

“Did you hear something back there?” Edgar asked.

“Relax. He’s not going anywhere. This is his last ride.”

* * *

Interview: Maureen Lang

2008-02-04T07:54:00.000-06:00

Today’s guest is Maureen Lang, whose book I recently reviewed. Her book sparked my imagination so much that I was full of questions when I was done reading. She was kind enough to answer them.

The two timelines mesh so well in this book. They're independent stories, and yet they reflect each other. I'm curious as to how you wrote it. Did you get one story done completely before you started on the next, or did you write back and forth between them?

I had an idea (a rather vague idea, actually!) of both stories before I even began. I’m the typical seat-of-the-pants writer, who has a sort of destination but the journey along the way is full of surprises. I wrote the book pretty much as it appears, alternating stories one chapter after another. I did have to go back and re-read the previous chapter with the same characters, just to make sure the flow was working. But I thoroughly enjoyed going back and forth — there’s no room for wandering attention, sagging middles, or unnecessary rabbit trails. My favorite kind of book to read, and the easiest to write!

I’ll also say that with this story, as with any story I write, there is a theme. Something the reader will (hopefully) remember and associate with that book. For The Oak Leaves it was unconditional love, for On Sparrow Hill it’s servanthood. For my previous books it was loyalty and patriotism, (Pieces of Silver and Remember Me) and for the book I’m working on right now it’s forgiveness (My Sister Dilly, due out later this year from Tyndale). If a book has two storylines, the theme is what holds it all together — it’s what makes it sensible to have two storylines instead of just one inside the same cover.

In the historical thread, Berrie teaches mentally handicapped children. You did an excellent job in describing conditions such as Down Syndrome and Autism that they wouldn't have had the names for back in 1852. Tell me a bit about your research. Were you able to look at hospital records?

First, some of my research comes with my own every day life, living with my son who is cognitively challenged. And, since I’m part of the disability community, I’ve met a larger number of people with disabilities than most people are privileged to meet. A lot of my descriptions of the students at Berrie’s school came from hanging around my son and the other kids he goes to school with. (Which can be a great joy, actually!)

And secondly, as far as the historical research, I read many books about institutions of that time. There was a great philanthropic movement during the Victorian age, and helping the handicapped was emerging as one of the new areas of attention. Up to that point such people were often shut away with criminals and paupers, wherever they could find room in prisons or workhouses. History holds so many sad facts, but this attention was a true step forward in dealing with the mentally infirm.

Some of the books I read did include student records, but they weren’t the actual hospital records. Such books talked about various patients, their treatments, challenges, legalities, and so forth. I found it all fascinating and tried to fit in as much as I could, but of course the story comes first so much of my research is still unused in my notebooks!

I love researching historicals. I can get lost in libraries and, thankfully, my local research librarians are extremely helpful! I normally prefer books to online research, since the books have been scrutinized for authenticity (more so than online sources). But I use the Internet for visuals. For example, the inspiration behind the historic Hamilton/Hollinworth Estate in On Sparrow Hill was taken from a picture of an existing estate in England that I first found in a travel book and then looked up online.

I was horrified to see that Berrie had to answer to something called the "Lunacy Committee". They probably didn't see much difference between being insane and having a disability. So were they able to distinguish between different types of mental disabilities, or did they lump them all together?

According to the research I did, persons with mental retardation were generally looked upon as a result of some sin or wrongdoing by one or both of the parents (but usually they blamed the mother!). Some of my notes indicate that for older people who developed problems (such as those who, as an older child or adult might develop a bi-polar condition) they sometimes blamed the person’s own sin or sometimes the environment (especially if it was considered a sinful environment!). In Victorian times, they were just beginning to understand the possibility of genetics.

One report I read tracked the legitimate versus illegitimate offspring of one highly respected and influential man, and his illegitimate offspring had a much higher percentage of producing children with some sort of deficiency. Sometimes this was due to lack of nutrition or to excessive drinking (what we understand today to be fetal alcohol syndrome), while the legitimate offspring had many more opportunities and were in general more healthy due to the environment.

Initially one of the differentiations made for persons with cognitive disabilities were by age at the onset of problems. They would consider whether or not a person was “sane” at one time and then became “insane”. This was the difference between the legal terms “lunatic” which stood for those who were once sane but “lost” their sanity, or an “imbecile,” someone who never had a mind to lose. Admittedly, when I first came across these terms I chafed. They have such a horrid connotation now. But it occurred to me that our language is always evolving, and one of the reasons is because of the negative uses that develop over the years. Calling otherwise healthy people an imbecile has made that term derogatory, the same way calling someone “retarded” who is otherwise healthy today carries the same insult. So we think of new ways to label the same old condition.

The only other differentiation made during the Victorian times, in general, was whether or not a person was dangerous, to himself or to others.

It was all fascinating to study, but as a parent of a child who is considered profoundly mentally handicapped, I was so grateful to be alive now rather than a hundred and fifty years ago!

You’ve mentioned your son a couple of times now. It wasn’t until reading the author’s note that I learned of your very special inspiration to write The Oak Leaves and On Sparrow Hill. Tell us a bit about how having a son with Fragile X syndrome changed your life.

Thank you for asking! Yes, my son is the inspiration behind both of these books. I had no idea I was a carrier for Fragile X Syndrome, the leading cause of inherited mental retardation. He was the first to exhibit any limitations in my family, even though I’m one of six kids and I had at least a dozen healthy nieces and nephews before he was born. When I spoke to a geneticist he told me the sad statistical truth was my son had only a 10% chance of being born as severely affected as he is. The message was very clear: God wanted my son to be born exactly as he is.

And let me tell you, there are some blessings. He’s very happy, he’s easy to please, and is generally a pleasure to be around if you don’t mind a bit of noise and the occasional diaper change!

But so few people have ever heard of Fragile X, I knew I would write a book about it. I thought it would be something I’d do when I was more comfortable about the whole thing, once I could say thank you to God for this and really mean it. But I felt nudged to write these books before I had it all “together.” And I can honestly say they’ve helped me to put things into perspective. I searched for — and found — many things to be grateful for, to appreciate about living with this challenge. I honestly cannot picture my son any other way than how he is, and with his near constant smile I’m just not sure how I’d react if he were any other way. Not that I wouldn’t accept a cure in an instant; he’s missing out on so much, and I ache for him because of that. But I know, in Heaven, we’ll sit down and talk (something he can’t do here) and we’ll have a great time finally communicating!

Any other thoughts you'd like to share about this book, or writing in general?

I consider myself first and foremost an avid reader. I just write whatever it is I feel like reading. With The Oak Leaves and On Sparrow Hill, (especially with The Oak Leaves) I used some of my own experiences to tell a story.

If you have an event or life experience you think just has to be told, I encourage you to put it in a book. My own choice would be to fictionalize it rather than a memoir, if only because fiction is so freeing. You’re free to imagine and heighten things that would enhance your story, to draw others in more easily and not be bound by what actually happened, but have the freedom to explore what realistically could have happened. Fiction based on fact can be very compelling, especially when we, as the author, are so passionate about the subject. I’ve learned one of the most important things about a successful book is the passion an author brings to the book. If s/he is passionate, it’s easier for others (like agents, editors, sales staff and finally other readers) to get excited about it, too!

In case anyone would like to see a book trailer for On Sparrow Hill, they can visit my website (www.maureenlang.com), scroll down to the first book cover on the homepage, and click on that to play. It’s fun!

Thanks very much for having me, Tina!

And thank you so much for your time. It’s been a pleasure.

Tough times

2008-02-02T08:24:00.000-06:00

I hope to find the time to make a couple of posts next week. I do have some content, but my head is swimming in the midst of a hard time in our family right now.

The first post will be an interview with Maureen Lang. I like this interview because it's the first one I've conducted myself. The others I've posted were pre-done for me out of necessity--I hadn't yet read the book.

But I enjoyed Maureen's book (On Sparrow Hill) so much that I contacted her for an interview, and she graciously answered my questions. I'll try to get that up Monday.

And I actually have a critique to post. I have some finishing touches to do to the critique, but I hope to have that ready this week as well.

In the meantime, if you think of it, say a prayer for the Helmuth family.

National Sanctity of Life Week

2008-01-24T08:23:00.000-06:00

Here's a little something different. I didn't even realize it was Sanctity of Life Week until I received the following press release. It doesn't quite fit in with the theme of this blog, but who cares? I'm here to support my fellow writers in whatever way I can. And honoring the week is something I wanted to do.

HOLLYWOOD MAMA DRAMA

How Babies Have Replaced Bling as the Cool Fashion Accessory and Why You Need to Know What to Do if Your Friend Buys Into This

There's a baby boom in Tinsel Town, and many of its biggest stars are taking part. Already this month, singer Christina Aguilera and her husband welcomed a son, and Nicole Richie, girlfriend of rocker Benjie Madden, gave birth to a daughter. Others are mamas-in-waiting, proudly showing their expanding bellies and giving interviews on when their engagement may take place. Still others allow the media to guess who the father might be.

Popular magazines cover every moment of their pregnancies and likely would have sent reporters into the delivery room if allowed. Designer diaper bags have replaced designer purses as the cool new Hollywood accessory. Baby showers take precedence over wedding showers, and the wedding does not necessarily come before the birth.

It all looks so glamorous and exciting. Who wouldn't want a beautiful bundle of joy to lavish love and kisses on? And yet, sometimes that bundle arrives under circumstances that are not God's best. Take, for example, Jamie Lynn Spears. One moment she was a squeaky-clean teen television sensation and star of Nickelodeon's Zoey 101. The next, she's in the news not for her acting but for being a pregnant teenager. With one decision, her reputation is now in shreds and her television show is under the threat of cancellation. One decision; huge dilemma.

This week is Sanctity of Life week. And because of the Hollywood Mama Drama, it is also a perfect time to understand that mama drama doesn't only happen in Hollywood. Every year nearly 1 million teen girls find themselves pregnant, and unlike Hollywood stars who have the money and fame to carry them, these girls wonder what they should do. Many choose abortion, and because of this they not only sacrifice the life of their child, but this decision also brings heartache they must carry for the rest of their lives. Perhaps YOU can be the one who can make a difference.

Who was the first one Jamie Lynn Spears turned to when she found out she was pregnant? Not her mom. Not her sister. She turned to a friend. What if you were that friend?

As a teen what can YOU do when a pregnant friend comes to you for advice?

Remain calm and loving. Your friend most likely feels alone, frightened and extremely sensitive about her pregnancy. The most important thing you can offer is your continued friendship.

Show God's love and forgiveness. Your friend may have been looking for love by giving herself intimately to a guy. Now she might feel ashamed and unworthy of love at all. Point her to God, who loves her unconditionally.

Celebrate life. She may consider this baby a "mistake"--a barrier between her and "normal" life. Lovingly remind her that no matter how the baby was conceived, he or she is a gift from God.

Be available to share ... and to listen. Your friend has big decisions to make, and although you can't make those decisions for her, you can be available to help her consider her options. Share information you've discovered on fetal development and on the physical and emotional trauma of abortion. Most of all, be willing to listen to your friend's deepest concerns.

Find help. Your friend is most likely in need of more answers than you can give. Visit a local crisis pregnancy center with your friend, or call CareNet for help at 1-800-395-HELP. Encourage her to tell her parents and to seek the counsel of a pastor or youth pastor.

Partner with her to make better decisions in the future. My Life, Unscripted (Thomas Nelson) is a book for teen girls and encourages teens to script their lives instead of being caught up in the drama and emotions of the moment. Read it together. Talk about the importance of making good choices.

Give her a book to help her face her unique issues, such as Life Interrupted: The Scoop on Being Young Mom (Zondervan).

_________________________________

Of course teen pregnancy isn't the only drama young women face. If you or someone you know has made a positive decision as a teen, Tricia Goyer wants to hear about it.

***Video Contest for teens. Watch the video for the contest here!

Here's the scoop!

Attention TEENS! Want to win an iPod?

Yeah, me too! (Just kidding.) Tricia Goyer, author of the teen non-fiction book My Life, Unscripted (Thomas Nelson) is hosting a video trailer contest! My Life, Unscripted uses the metaphor of screen writing to challenge young women to "script" your lives, rather than be blown along by the next emotional drama or temptation! (Been there, done that!) You could be one of three lucky contestants to win an iPod!

All you have to do is make a short (or not-so-short) video trailer sharing concepts shared in the book: My Life, Unscripted ... such as: how you've overcome temptation, or survived peer-pressure, or dumped the Loser boyfriend, or restored a relationship with your parents, or found your strength in Christ!

Be creative ...interview your friends (or even better, make them wear dorky costumes) and add some cool music. Then just post it on GodTube (video must be approved by GodTube before it is broadcasted, which takes a few hours) or YouTube! You also must include three things in your video:

1) the book title: My Life, Unscripted

2) the author: Tricia Goyer

3) and these words: "Check it out!"

After you finish the video, email your name, age, video link, and your address to: bookmarketing@triciagoyer.com

The winning videos will be the top three with the most views as counted on GodTube or YouTube on March 31, 2008 at 11:59 p.m. This contest is open to young women ages 13-19. So go ahead, tell your friends, your teachers, your youth leaders ... and your parents friends to check it out!

***Videos with inappropriate content as decided by Tricia Goyer will be disqualified (G-rated please). For your best chance to win, only upload videos to either GodTube or YouTube. Choose one. We will not add totals from more than one site together.

Three winners will receive an iPod Nano 4G.

Tricia Goyer writes articles for national publications such as Focus on the Family and is a columnist for teen moms through MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) International: (www.mops.org/teen)

For more information, go to: www.triciagoyer.com

Book Review: On Sparrow Hill

2008-01-23T12:25:00.000-06:00

As I said, I'll be doing the occasional book review. So here's the official start to that chapter of my blog.

On Sparrow Hill by Maureen Lang
Publisher: Tyndale

Two eras intertwine in this tale—present day England, and Victorian Ireland.

Rebecca is the commercial manager of Quentin Hollinworth’s estate. The biggest challenge her job affords is trying to forget the childhood crush she had on Quentin. For twelve generations her family had been servants to Quentin’s family. Although class distinctions aren’t supposed to exist anymore, it’s not so easy to forget a history she comes face to face with every day. Besides, as a member of the dying aristocracy, Quentin makes regular appearances in the tabloids. Rebecca’s duty is to protect his reputation, not provide more fodder for the paparazzi.

When an American contacts Rebecca, claiming to be a relative of Quentin, she searches the vault for proof of the connection. There she comes across letters written by Beryl Hamilton in 1852, which lead us to the historic storyline.

In Beryl’s role as headmistress of a school for the mentally handicapped, she faces many obstacles. She has to deal with a justice of the peace who thinks women in general are feeble-minded, a population who thinks her students are beyond help, and the brother of one of her charges who all but accuses her of kidnapping his sister.

The two timelines are placed in alternating chapters. I found this added suspense, and kept each story fresh in my mind. I also appreciated the fact that the two tales were left to unfold independently. What I mean is that only once in the book do we see someone actually sitting down to read a letter. After the first chapter, it’s left to our imagination that Rebecca is finding time to read Beryl’s letters.

I highly recommend On Sparrow Hill. Each storyline was so compellingly told that I started every chapter eager to see where that particular thread would go next. Even though this was a sequel to The Oak Leaves, it stands on its own very well. I haven’t read the first book—yet—but I didn’t feel I was missing a piece of the puzzle. This was a touching and romantic story I won’t soon forget.

Sharon Souza interview

2008-01-18T12:35:00.000-06:00

AN INTERVIEW WITH SHARON K. SOUZA

Author of Every Good and Perfect Gift

About Sharon:

Sharon and her husband Rick have been married 36 years. They live in northern California, and have three children and 6 grandchildren. Rick travels the world building churches, Bible schools and orphanages. Sharon travels with him on occasion, but while Rick lives the adventure, Sharon is more than happy to create her own through fiction.

Your debut novel Every Good & Perfect Gift is releasing this month from Nav Press. Can you tell us a little about the book?

DeeDee and Gabby have been friends since the sixth grade, when headstrong and courageous DeeDee began mapping out their lives. But after twenty years with her husband DeeDee changes her plan. Nearing forty years old, she wants a baby - now! Two years of infertility, prayers, and outrageous behavior finally results in the birth of DeeDee's demand.

Gabby is present for all of it, noting the increasingly strange behavior of her lifelong friend after the baby's birth. Then comes a diagnosis that threatens to shatter their world. Gabby must find the strength and faith to carry DeeDee and herself through the dark unknown, but is she up for it?

What inspired you to write Every Good & Perfect Gift?

I wanted to write a book about a "Jonathan and David" type friendship between two women, knowing that I was ultimately going to tell the story of a young woman who is diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer's. I have a close friend who, at the age of 42, began to exhibit many of the symptoms portrayed in the book. Since completing the book I've learned that another close friend has been diagnosed with EOA. What are the odds?
In determining what course the friendship between Gabby and DeeDee would take, I asked myself: What is the greatest way one woman can express friendship to another? The answer: By helping her have a child if she's unable to, which one character is willing to do if it comes to that.

You've incorporated two major issues in Every Good & Perfect Gift: infertility and Early Onset Alzheimer's. Why not focus on one or the other? Why both?

The theme of Gift is extraordinary friendship. The foundation for the friendship is established between the characters in their childhood, tested through the issue of infertility, and exemplified through catastrophic illness. Infertility was the catalyst to get to that level of friendship expressed because of the illness. One character's growth was accomplished because of infertility, while the other character's growth came as a result of the Alzheimer's.

What are your feelings about egg donation and other modern solutions that help women overcome infertility?

There are some things I might not personally opt for, but infertility was never an issue with me. If it had been I might have been willing to try anything. As it stands, I'm not opposed to in vitro fertilization or sperm donation, things of that nature. I don't find anything in Scripture that would cause me to be against it.

What are your feelings about a couple's decision to intentionally not have children?

Again, that wasn't my experience. I had three babies in quick succession and would not have done anything differently. But not every adult is cut out to be a parent. If an individual or couple realizes that they aren't equipped for parenthood, or if they feel their lives are full as they are, I don't' believe it's a sin not to have children. In fact, I think it's wise. That's not to say a person's feelings may not change in time, like it did for DeeDee. Then it's up to the couple to make the choice that's right for them.

What do you want your readers to take away from this book?

I spent several years in my early adulthood without a close friend. When the first one came into my life, I realized what I had missed and truly saw her as a gift from the Lord. But beyond that, I've experienced the truth of Proverbs 18:24: ". . . there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother." In her darkest moments, Gabby learned that the Lord reaches out to us in compassion, spanning the gap between our need and His provision. That's been the case in my life over and over.

Do you base any of your characters on real people?

The concept of the story was based on a real situation in regards to the Early Onset Alzheimer's. But the characters are not based on real people. I do typically use people I know/have known and then take their personality traits/quirks to extremes--almost like a caricature--in order to make the character as interesting as possible. Almost always my daughters will recognize something of themselves in my make-believe world. It makes for fun conversation.

If the characters are primarily fictional, what about the setting? Is that someplace known to you?

I actually wrote the entire story in a fictional setting, without ever naming it. I just placed the town in the San Joaquin valley. My editor suggested I nail down the location, even a fictitious one. As we talked back and forth, I decided to use my real "home town" of Lodi. I grew up in the Sacramento area, but have lived in or around Lodi since my husband and I got married. There's some debate about whether or not "our" Lodi is the subject of the 1969 Credence Clearwater Revival song, "Stuck in Lodi." Right or wrong, I choose to think it is. But not for a minute do I feel stuck. I love Lodi.

What is your purpose in writing inspirational fiction?

I've had well-meaning friends ask why I write fiction at all. If I want to share the Gospel, why not write "the truth." Two answers come to mind. First, that "burning fire shut up in my bones" (Jer. 20:9) finds its release in fiction. Second, when Jesus wanted to get a heavenly truth across, He didn't deliver a three-point sermon. He told stories. My desire in writing inspirational fiction is that women who read my books will find them easy to share with other women who haven't yet come into relationship with Jesus, and that those women will be directed to the One who loves them with an everlasting love.

Every Good and Perfect Gift

Checking in

2008-01-15T08:27:00.000-06:00

I wrote a little over 300 words yesterday. That doesn't exactly give me bragging rights, but I wrote. It's the start of getting back into the swing of things.

Just this morning I read yesterday's comments, and I appreciate them. Christina Berry gave me the kick I asked for, which couldn't have been easy--she's still recovering from knee surgery.

Some of you may remember that toward the beginning of August, my newly acquired agent sent the proposal for my other WIP to 9 publishers. So far, I've gotten 5 rejections and I'm waiting to hear from the others.

I would have thought by now I'd be running out of patience. But honestly, it's not something that's very much on my mind. I've heard stories of responses taking a year or more. Why fret now? I'm prepared for 4 more rejections, but I'm not discouraged by that at all. Instead, I'm relishing this time of freedom.

Lately I've been focused on eating healthier, which I hinted at in the refrigerator post. (By the way, I had to laugh at some of the comments. The cottage cheese isn't the healthy food in my fridge--it's my junk food! The first week of my new way of eating, I had both produce drawers plus the bottom shelf of my fridge crammed with green vegetables. And we ate all but one thing--I found I didn't care for kale.)

Anyway, that was just an aside to say where the rest of my focus has been lately (other than sick family). And I tend to have a limited ability to focus. One thing at a time for me. But now my eating habits don't require as much attention, so I can turn my focus back to writing.

And I do believe I'll write again today. Imagine that.

My writing

2008-01-14T08:09:00.000-06:00

I was asked in an email how my own writing is going. Well, lately it hasn't been. I was sick all of November with a respiratory infection, or walking pneumonia--don't know exactly what, but it was a cough that hung on for 5-6 weeks. Miserable. That hampered my writing most of the month.

Then December was...well, December. I decided not to even try writing that month. I didn't need any more stress. And it was a good thing. We had many health crises in our family. Between a father with unexplained chest pains, a brother with cancer, and a father-in-law with cancer, it seems like someone has always been in the hospital since mid-December.

In fact, we just celebrated Christmas with the in-laws on Friday because Brian's dad went into the hospital Christmas morning and was only released Wednesday.

Now, those are all convenient excuses. But in reality, writing should have been my pressure valve, my release and getaway.

I've let perfectionism get in my way. My WIP wasn't coming out the way I wanted it to--and I can't think of how it should end--so I stopped altogether. Because of my fears, what used to bring me pleasure is now simply another source of stress.

Will someone kick me please?

To understand more, go to Brandilyn's post for today, if you haven't already. I particularly liked the gem, "The perfect is the enemy of the good." And what it said about quitting is me exactly. In fact, if I didn't have a wonderful agent on my side, it would be so easy to quit. But he believes in me, has invested time in me, and wants to see what I come up with next. Besides that, landing an agent in the first place was God's confirmation to me that He wants me to keep writing.

So off I go. I intend to write today. If I don't write a single word today, I'll have to come back tomorrow and admit it to you. And I really don't want to do that. I want to come back and say I wrote at least 500 words. But even if it's only 5, I can say I got back to it.

See you then.

What's next?

2008-01-10T10:06:00.000-06:00

I apologize to my readers, if I have any left. It's no secret that once the critique requests stopped coming in, I had no idea what to do with this blog. The contest didn't work. Not a single chapter came my way.

I'm turning my attention to reviews right now. I've never been a reviewer, so I'll have to learn how to write a good review as I go. Look for sporadic (at least to start with) reviews to appear here in the near future.

If I can think of anything to say in the meantime, I'll post.

For today, Brandilyn Collins is posting excerpts from a great book called Art and Fear. Today's post resonated with me, so I'm linking to it, even though I suspect most or all of you already read her blog.

What I learned while cleaning out the refrigerator

2007-12-31T11:23:00.000-06:00

It's the end of a year. Out with the old, right? It had been way too long since I cleaned my refrigerator, so I thought this was an appropriate time.

Usually, while scooping dead food out of containers, I hold my breath, try not to look, and get it over with. This time was a little different. Maybe because I'm eating healthier and exercising every day, I find it easier to look at the positive in every situation. Whatever the reason, this dirty job held more fascination for me than ever before. Here's a short list of what I learned:

The mayo in tartar sauce will turn translucent when left to sit long enough.
The plastic wrap placed over a dish of sour cream and salsa dip will harden in places, and fuse directly to the dip in other places.
Cream (real, raw cream directly from the farm) will separate into many distinct layers of color and texture. The top layer was thick and red. Really a brilliant red. Below that was a thin layer of black. Next came a creamy yellow layer--creamy in both color and texture, and the thickest cream I've ever encountered. I could pour out the fourth layer once I reached it. And finally was a white layer that I believe was close to cheese, yet still soft. It smelled like cheese. If I were a braver person, I would have tasted it. (Brave, insane. Either would have worked.)
My husband and I have an inability to finish a container of cottage cheese. I cleaned out five of them, each with precisely an inch and a half remaining.
All in all, there was only one thing I couldn't identify, so I learned that it hadn't really been that long since I'd cleaned out my fridge.

Now wasn't that a treat on this New Year's Eve?

Happy New Year!!

Merry Christmas

2007-12-21T10:24:00.001-06:00

I hope all of you have a wonderful time with friends and family. May Christ's love surround your Christmas celebration.

And the winner ...

2007-12-07T07:05:00.000-06:00

... of Miralee Ferrel's The Other Daughter is:

Cathi Hassan (user name, cathikin)

Congratulations, Cathi. Please contact me with your physical address. My email is in the sidebar.

And don't forget about this contest, which runs through December.

A Date

2007-12-05T07:44:00.000-06:00

For my birthday Monday night, Brian took me to a movie. Normally my birthday treat is going out to eat at a nice restaurant. But I've been having some food sensitivities and until that's all straightened out, it's safer to eat at home.

So I suggested that a movie would be a good birthday date. I love movies. Brian, no so much. Although he's usually game for a good comedy. We decided to see Enchanted. A Disney movie spoofing on Disney animated movies sounded appealing.

And it was. No spoilers here. Suffice it to say we laughed hard during the first half of the movie. But the second half was disappointing. It felt to me like they wrote themselves into a corner. The ending may have been satisfying to some, but to us it felt like the ending of every Disney cartoon. Like they decided they'd better stop making fun of themselves and slip into their old routine.

If they'd used half the imagination at the end that they did in the beginning, it would have been a movie I could heartily recommend. For the sake of the beginning, I'm not sorry I saw it. But my advice to you, if you haven't seen it, wait for DVD.

But it was fun to have a date with my husband. We have no children, so privacy is never an issue. We don't have to go out of our way for time alone. But a night out every once in a while is still special.

Tomorrow will be your last chance to comment here to win Miralee Ferrell's The Other Daughter. Don't miss out!

Happy Birthday to me...

2007-12-03T07:28:00.000-06:00

Yes, I'm shameless, but I like birthdays. I turn 34 today.

In other news, I realized yesterday what a helpless female I am. I got stuck in my driveway when I was heading out for church. We'd gotten a foot or more of snow during the night (jealous, Joy?) and the snow plow always leaves a nice big ridge at the end of our drive. I knew I had to really gun it to get through, but I didn't have enough of a run at it and got high-centered on the snowbank.

Brian, my hubby, is our church's maintenance manager, so he was already at the church plowing the parking lot before our road was plowed. So I was alone. You wouldn't want to write a female character as helpless as I am when it comes to getting unstuck from snow. I was close to tears. I knew myself to be completely incapable of getting out of that snow bank.

I grabbed a shovel and started clearing around the tires. I have a bad back. I should never shovel. After only a few minutes (but long enough to hurt my back) a truck stopped. An older man got out and shoveled my tires clear, but they'd still only spin.

After 25 minutes of shoveling and trying to drive back and forth, it looked hopeless. Then another truck stopped and two young muscular guys got out and pushed from the front while the older man backed out. My car was free.

There's no point to this story, except that I'm praising God for sending someone to my rescue. In that half an hour, those were the only two vehicles on my road. And they both stopped.

I was supposed to be at church early for music practice--I work behind the scenes in the tech room, having no musical ability. I was pretty late, but then so was half the worship team, so I still got there before they started practice.

And despite the inconvenience, I'm grateful for the snow. Last year we had a brown Christmas. This year, everything is beautiful and it looks like even more is on the way.

Win The Other Daughter

2007-11-30T07:18:00.000-06:00

I recently ran an interview with debut author Miralee Ferrell. Now I'm offering you a chance to win her book, The Other Daughter. (I'm just full of contest announcements lately.)

Simply comment on this post to enter. I'll draw a winner next Friday, December 7.

About the book:
When a young girl shows up at Susanne Carson's door, claiming to be her husband's daughter, everything she thought she could trust is thrown into doubt. If her husband had an affair, what does that say about his Christianity?

Susanne and David's marriage had never been ideal. He's a Christian, she's not. She drinks, he believes drinking is wrong. Susanne is often left feeling like the "bad guy" in her marriage. But the presence of the waif on her doorstep speaks of secrets and lies in David's past. This is a blow her already shaky marriage may not survive.

The reader is thrown into the middle of this dilemma from the first page. Miralee Ferrell delivers a strong story with an emotional punch.

Ashberry Lane's Book Givaway

2007-11-28T07:04:00.000-06:00

A special announcement from mother-daughter writing team Sherrie Ashcraft and Christina Berry:

We co-write books about relationships. We are a relationship. We want to dominate the relationship brand. And we want to have at least 500 subscribers to the Ashberry Lane Newsletter by the first of the year. Should we expect you to sign up and work hard at strong-arming your friends to sign up while you get nothing out of the deal? No way!
Compassionate as we are, we've worked up a HUGE new incentive. How better to promote our relational fiction than featuring other fiction that focuses on different types of relationship? Why don't we give our supporters a chance to win EIGHT autographed books? What a great Christmas present that would be! Or what a lot of Christmas shopping done for you!
Without further ado, we present, with a booming voice,

ASHBERRY LANE'S BOOK GIVEAWAY

For the Friend Relationship: Roxanne Henke's After Anne

One of our absolute favorite books. As you watch Olivia and Anne struggle through a difficult challenge, you'll want to be a better friend.

For the Prodigal Relationship: Robin Lee Hatcher's Return to Me
How many of us have walked away from what our father wanted for us? Or away from our Father? This story will remind you that the you can go home again.

For the Marriage Relationship: Robin Jones Gunn's Wildflowers Wildflowers

Married Genevieve falls in love with the man she least expected could win her heart. It's not who you might think ....

For the Sibling Relationship: Lauraine Snelling's Ruby (Dakotah Treasures #1)

In the first of this frontier series, Ruby must deal with her new "inheritance" while protecting her sister from its influences.

For the Man's Perspective on Relationships: James Scott Bell's Breach of Promise

A heart-rending story of a man trying to keep his family together.

For the Supernatural Relationship: Tosca Lee's Demon: A Memoir

Don't let the title of this book scare you away. There is no glorification of the demonic, but an enlightened fresh look at what History means.

For the Relationships Gone Bad: Bette Nordberg's Serenity Bay

A truly terrifying story of woman who married Prince Charming and discovered he wasn't.

For the Single Among the Marriage-Minded: Camy Tang's Sushi for One? (The Sushi Series, Book 1)

You'll laugh. You'll relate. You'll be impressed with this debut novel from up-and-coming author Camy Tang.

EIGHT books. ONE winner. Here are the ways to win:
Current subscriber and previous referrals are already in the hat. Any new subscriber or referral will gain another entry.
Publicize this to your homeys through newsletters: one entry.
Blog about the contest: one entry. (Email us if you need what to post.)
Include it in your Christmas cards: two entries.
Tuck it in the gift bag with the fruitcake you'll be leaving on random doorsteps: five entries.
Subscribe! Spread the word! Flood the blogosphere! Take over the world!

Love Worth Fire

2007-11-26T06:58:00.000-06:00

Camille Cannon (Eide)
EXTREME KEYBOARDING

(This is an excerpt from the middle of the book. We saw an early chapter here.)

No letters were exchanged in the weeks that followed. Maggie didn’t have time. Kirkhaven’s annual summer festival, held in early July this year, was about to take place and she was in a flap to get ready.

Claire, Davy, Jack, Douglas, Callie, and Hannah all arrived Friday before the festival to attend the evening events, which were mainly a barbeque and field games in the village. Claire stayed with Maggie to put the finishing touches on her berry concoctions to sell at the farm stand on Saturday. Callie and Hannah squabbled over who would win first prize in the fancy dress contest.

With a steady summer rain making a mess of the football field, the Friday night games were canceled, bringing Davy and the boys back to the farm with nothing else to do but help pack pies and jam jars into crates. Ian thought Davy was even more disappointed than the boys were. [Establish POV sooner. Although maybe it wouldn’t be an issue if I was more familiar with the characters.]

He was a different man, his brother in law. Ian had spoken to him a number of times since the spring, since he returned home to his family in Glasgow, and each time he thought Davy seemed more at peace, more attentive to his family, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t found steady work for the first several months. Whatever caused Davy’s new outlook, it didn’t seem to be just a passing phase. Ian hoped to get a chance to talk with him at length while he was here.

Saturday morning, the smell of breakfast cooking met Ian as he climbed the drive to the main house. He spent the night at the cottage, giving up his room to Claire and Davy. Maggie’s voice carried above the clamor as he entered the kitchen, calling for someone to find another girdle for her scones. She was nearly bursting, never happier than when she had a houseful to feed.

Ian groaned at the staggering pile of kippers on the table, fried in butter until crisp, and rashers of bacon mounded in another heap on the bunker. Claire stood over a bubbling pot of porridge, stirring with Maggie’s old, blackened spurtle.

“Ian, here—take this over to the bunker. Don’t drop it.” Claire smiled.

He heaved the gurgling pot across the kitchen with a loud groan. “What’s in here, stones? It weighs more than you do. No wonder you can’t lift it.”

“Funny. I wonder where you’d get an idea like that. No, it’s just oats and water this time. Don’t fash yourself; I’ve kept a sharp eye on it.”

Ian chuckled.

Davy sauntered in, hooked an arm around Claire and kissed the top of her head. She looked up at him with a playful frown, then smiled and slipped an arm around his waist. It was good to see that.

Ian turned away. The simple endearment implied an intimacy that tugged at his chest, tugged hard. Without warning, Jamie’s warm eyes and tender smile came to mind.

[I think I’d skip the line “It was good to see that.” To me, it sort of contradicts his turning away. “It was good to see that” leaves a warm, cozy feeling. Then he turns away and the affectionate gesture is tugging hard at his heart. That’s a switch of emotion. Leave it more to the reader to interpret how he felt by his reaction.]

“Ian!” He turned and Davy tossed him the truck keys. “The truck is parked out back, mon. All ready for Maggie’s . . . uh . . .” Davy held up a jar and frowned at the clotted contents, then turned to Ian and mouthed, “What is this stuff?”

Ian grinned. “Jam, I’m almost certain. Let’s load it up then.”

“What’s that?” Maggie whirled around and glared in Davy’s general direction. “No! Not ‘til ye’ve had breakfast. Drop that crate, David Kendal—did ye not hear me?”

How Maggie knew Davy had a crate in his hands was anyone’s guess.

Maggie continued scolding as she scooped the girdle scones into a basket. Only two landed on the floor. Not bad.

Footsteps thundered from the stairs in the hall, growing louder until Jack and Douglas burst in, squeezing through the narrow kitchen doorway at the same time. Jack shouldered his younger brother aside with a laugh and bolted for the bunker where Maggie had a stack of plates waiting. Douglas lunged at Jack, but Claire stepped in and raised the black gooey spoon at Douglas in warning.

“It’s just a joke, ma.” Jack grinned at his scowling brother. “Dougie knows I’m first.”

“Pish! There’s plenty, no need for all that. Eat now, laddies—ye’ve loads to do!”

Claire left to round up the girls. Ian dished up a plate and edged himself in at the table next to his oldest nephew. Jack spied the truck key the moment Ian laid it down and turned to Maggie.

“I’ll drive the truck to the village for you, Grannie,” Jack said around a mouthful of food.

“Och, will ye now?”

Maggie was surprisingly fast for a nearly blind old woman. From the corner of his eye, Ian saw her hand reaching for the key, but another, smaller hand coming from behind him was quicker. The sound of giggling brought Ian spinning around in his seat. The giggling was coming from behind Claire, who dangled the truck key above Ian’s head. Smart woman; she’d learned quickly while Ian was away.

“Ian and Davy can take the truck and Jack and Douglas will ride in the back. Maggie, you and the girls can come with me in the station wagon.”

Maggie planted her fists on her hips. “I’ll go where I fancy. It’s my truck.”

More giggling erupted from Claire’s backside.

Ian winked at his sister and cleared his throat. “I heard there’s some very serious competition at the fancy dress contest this year. It’s a shame there won’t be any faeries.”

Callie slipped out from hiding behind her mom with a giggle and scurried away to get her breakfast, but Hannah emerged in a heartbeat and darted over to Ian. “No, look—I’m a faerie princess, Uncle Ian. Look at me, see?” She twirled in her gown to prove it.

Douglas snorted, and Hannah turned to her brother. “I am a faerie.”

He snickered. “You’re just a wee a lass in a purple frock. What happened to your wings, princess?”

Hannah’s mouth fell open and she turned pleading eyes to Ian. He lifted her to his knee and turned to Douglas. “Where’s your imagination, mon? Now then, I see a bonny faerie princess here who doesn’t need wings. All she needs is some faerie dust—right here and here.” Ian smiled as he drew a circle on each of her round cheeks with his finger.

“Do you have faerie dust, Uncle Ian?” Hannah asked, eyes growing wide.

Jack and Douglas hooted.

“No, but I know where you can get some. They have some very special faerie dust at the face painting booth, just for you.”

Claire, who had been watching this exchange with a smile, cocked her head at Ian.

“Is it purple and sparkly?” Hannah asked.

“Aye, extra sparkly.” he said with a chuckle. Above his niece’s head, Claire’s eyes glistened.

“Well I’ll get my face painted too then,” Callie chimed in. “But no sparkles—I’m a pirate.”

[Some cute moments there. But I have to ask, does this scene move the story forward? You can answer better than me. It’s hard to judge, cutting into the middle. But it seems like a few incidents without much focus.]

The entire family helped get Maggie’s booth set up and ready for business, then they found a spot near the fountain in the center of the village and watched the parade together. The girls waved and giggled. Their excitement was contagious and Ian wondered how Jamie would like this. He’d watched her with her students, and knew she would have as much fun seeing the awe and delight bubbling out of these girls as he did.

The girls would adore her. They all would, actually.

After the parade, Jack and Douglas checked out all the food booths while they waited for the next round of field games to begin. Ian joined Claire and Davy as they took the girls around to the different game booths in the school yard. Claire let Hannah and Callie talk her into getting her face painted along with them.

As he and Davy waited for the girls, Ian’s thoughts returned to Jamie. It was so easy to picture her here, a part of this quirky, loving family. It was also easy to imagine her with kids of her own.

Their own.

He tried to listen to what Davy was saying, but the stirring image wouldn’t leave, suddenly wouldn’t let him breathe.

That’s what I want. To share a life with Jamie. To give her the family and everything else her heart desires. That’s all I want, Lord. She’s all I want.

What did Jamie want? What were her feelings for him? There had been a number of times when a hint, a promise of something very tender in Jamie’s eyes gripped his heart and held him fast.

At that moment, he’d give anything to see that look again. Just once.

“Hey! Didn’t you hear me?” Davy grinned at him. “You’re somewhere else. Aye—I know the look.”

Ian frowned. “What?” He glanced at his watch. It was 4:00am in Oregon.

Davy chuckled. “You’re trolling across Loch Lomond, or casting off the banks of the Forth.” He leaned back against a tree. “Whenever you want to go fishing, just say the word. I’ll go with you. The boys too.”

“The boys go fishing with you now?” Ian asked.

“Aye. Every time.”

Ian nodded.

Davy leaned closer and spoke low. “Neither of them catches much. I don’t know why they keep wanting to go.”

“Don’t you now? I think maybe you do.” Ian turned his gaze to the booth where Claire, Callie and Hannah were. They were all giggling at Claire’s new tiger face, which she was viewing through a small mirror.

Davy turned and studied at Ian’s face for a moment, and then said, “Aye, all right, I suppose I do. You were right about that.” He shook his head. “Kids—they don’t care what their da brings home; they only care that he comes home.” He turned to watch his wife and daughters and his voice dropped, low and strained. “That was hard, at first. Without a job, I hated to look them in the eye.” He squirmed, shifted his position against the tree. “I didn’t think they needed me. But I realized I was wrong, that was selfish. I was wrong, mon, about a lot of things.”

“Wrong about what? You finally figured out what a tiger you married then?” Claire asked as she and the girls joined them. She snarled, wrinkled her little black nose and whiskers, and planted a full nose-to-nose kiss on her husband.

The girls giggled.

[Again, I enjoyed what I read, but I can't see what it's doing to move the story along. Just some thoughts of the love interest. The structure isn't very much like a scene. Nothing really happens--it's over before it begins. No hook to the next scene. It needs to continue so it can tie into something bigger.]

My absence

2007-11-21T07:58:00.000-06:00

I’m sorry for the lack of posts this week. I actually have things to post, but I was sick as a dog all weekend, and so far this week. Right now I’m seeing things through a mental fog. I can only pray I’m making sense.

Below you’ll see the rules for my contest. I not only wanted to expand and clarify them, but I wanted a separate post to refer to in later weeks.

Since tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I’m still sick, let’s just call it a week. I’ll come back Monday—Lord willing—strong as ever.

May your Thanksgiving be a time of blessing with friends and family.

Contest

2007-11-21T07:56:00.000-06:00

I’m giving away a brand new copy of “Self Editing for Fiction Writers” by Browne and King. If the winner already has a copy, the prize will be a $10 Amazon gift certificate.

Here’s how to enter:

Refer someone to this blog. If they leave a comment on any post, between now and December 31, you’ll receive an entry.
Anyone new who sends me a chapter for critique—this is anyone I haven’t critiqued before—will receive one entry. Plus, if you referred this person, you’ll receive another entry.
And, why not… Even if I have critiqued you before and you send another chapter or excerpt for critique, you’ll get an entry.

The contest ends December 31, and I’ll be announcing the winner January 2.

And I didn't even enter

2007-11-16T08:14:00.000-06:00

I won a foreign lottery. Can you believe it?

I think it's wonderful that Ireland has so much money that they can pick an email address at random and give away over a million pounds sterling. Now, a normal lottery works by having people put money into it. But someone in Ireland is so prosperous they can just give away huge amounts of money to strangers. From other countries.

My troubles are over. I haven't figured the exchange rate, but it still has to be a lot of money. Published? Who needs to be published? I'm rich. Think of all the things I can do now.

If you didn't catch the sarcasm in my starry-eyed rambling, you don't know me very well. I think I'm intelligent enough to know that this was a scam, even if I hadn't read an article about it just the week before. It's illegal to participate in foreign lotteries, as far as I know. Which is probably why this email stated that my address was selected at random.

The email didn't ask for any information that would immediately arouse suspicion--if it hadn't already been aroused. But I know that if I had responded, they would have asked me for a check to cover some fees. Then, I could have sent them a legitimate check for $5,000 or so, and they'd have sent me their bogus check for over a million pounds.

I forwarded the email to spam@uce.gov. If you receive any kind of email scam, please do the same.

The part that really makes me mad is that they sent it to this email address. The one I reserve solely for this blog, and the contacts I make through critiquing.

Dream of Peace, part 2

2007-11-14T07:39:00.000-06:00

By Bonnie Way
http://thekoalabearwriter.blogspot.com

(red = can be deleted; blue = my additions and comments. I liked this scene so well I formatted my comments differently. Only two are in the body, the others are marked with a number and appear at the end. I wanted to keep the flow of the piece intact for the most part.)

The chief sheathed his knife again and held up his hand for silence. When it came, he pointed to the sky, then swept his hand over his head. His face was now calm, devoid of any hatred, as he spoke, and pointed straight up before letting his hand fall to his side again. The warriors waited a second, but the chief had finished his speech. They resumed their dance, their cheers and screams louder than before.

Raisa backed away from the square, creeping along the house. Once she was out of sight of the circle, she paused to think about what she had seen. The chief was calling his warriors to war. They would attack tomorrow, at noon. She listened to a loud voice rising over the tumult of the war dance. She didn’t need to know Karki to hear the anger in the voice.

A hand closed over her mouth and strong arms pinned her arms to her side. Her heart leapt to her throat, but the hand over her mouth was unnecessary; she didn’t have enough breath to scream. Then her fear spurred her to action and she fought, kicking her feet, struggling to get her arms free. Warm breath tickled her ear as a voice whispered, “Do not struggle. I will not hurt you.”

All the fight went out of her upon hearing her own language spoken. For a moment the person holding her waited. Then he picked her up and carried her away from the long houses, into the darkness. Fear knotted in her stomach. She shuddered and tried to struggle again. Her captor put her down, but didn’t let go of her arm. His hand was firm and gentle on her wrist as she jerked away. She turned to face him, twisting her wrist in an attempt to free it.

His bare chest was a shock to her and she moved her eyes upwards, to his ivory medallion. Her eyes widened as she realized that this was a Karki prince. Then her gaze met his. His eyes were dark brown, watching her steadily, but there was no anger or hatred in them.

Neither of them said anything as they looked at each other. [1] Raisa’s heart pounded as she studied his face. She made herself breathe evenly, think deeply. Then he glanced up at the sky, for the clouds were shifting, sliding away from the moon.

She lunged at him, raking her free hand down his face. He jerked away, releasing her wrist as he raised his arm to protect himself. She turned and ran as hard as she could. By the light of the crescent moon, she could see well enough. Silence no longer mattered; her fear gave her feet wings, though she’d always been a fast runner.

Footsteps pounded beside hers. She swerved without slowing her pace, darting around a tree. He followed her easily. She dashed through more trees, dodged and turned back the way she had come. He was right behind her. Her breath came in fast gasps. Then her foot landed in a hollow in the ground, twisting under her. She pitched forward, landing hard, and lay like a fish on dry land, gasping for breath. Vaguely she knew that he was beside her, waiting.

She was scared. Slowly her breathing returned and she sat up, looking at him warily, noticing that while she was breathing hard, his breathing was as even as though he’d only been out for a relaxed walk.

“You are a fast runner,” he broke the silence. Raisa was so surprised to hear her language spoken by a Karki that she didn’t notice the note of admiration in his voice. [2] Her eyes darted to his face, waiting for a moment when his guard would be down. Though his posture was relaxed and easy, he was tense, ready to spring should she try to escape.

“So are you,” she returned breathlessly. What did he want with her? She pushed that thought away. Fight, run, her mind screamed. Her fear rose as she tried to think. She swallowed hard, wishing she was as calm as he looked. She mustn’t show him how scared she was.

“You are Oren,” he said. She said nothing, [1] dropping her hands to her side to hide their trembling. They brushed the ground. He opened his mouth to say something. Before he could speak, she flashed her hand forwards, spraying his face with sand. As she did so, she leapt to her feet and ran.

Suddenly she found herself flat on her back, her breath knocked out of her for a second time. The Karki warrior stood above her, looking down at her. She gasped for air as she stared at him. He dropped to one knee beside her and drew his knife, pressing it against her throat. She froze.

[Give us some indication of how she fell. Did he grab her? Trip her? How did she end up on her back?]

“I do not want to hurt you,” he spoke slowly, his eyes on hers. “I want to talk. When I have said what I want to say, you will be free to go.”

What did he mean? She remained where she was, unable to move. Her eyes met his for a moment. Then she rolled to the side, jumped to her feet, and backed away. He stood and faced her, sheathing his knife. The moon slid back behind a cloud, leaving them in darkness again.

“I only want to talk,” he repeated. She stood where she was, watching him. If he wanted to talk, he could talk. If not, she would fight.

“I am Karki,” he said, his words slow and measured. “You have been to our village and know we are planning an attack.”

She didn’t respond, [1] but kept her eyes on his face, straining to see his expression in the darkness. Everything in her shouted that she shouldn’t listen to him. A quieter feeling told her she could trust him.

“I do not want a war,” he went on.

Her mind went blank in surprise, and she blurted out the first thing she thought of. “The Karki are warriors.”

“Yes. They cry for war and they will have it, unless something is done to stop them. I know only one way to stop them.” He looked at her. Even in the darkness she felt the intensity of his look. She knew what he meant and looked away.

“Tell me,” he said. Her eyes flickered to his face and away again. “Do you want a war between my people and yours?”

She looked at him, then at the ground. She knew he would know the answer even before she shook her head. She glanced at him again as she answered, not trusting him enough to keep her eyes off him.

[A little too much movement of her eyes throughout this dialog. It became a distraction to me. Trim a couple of those and think of another action to show what she’s feeling.]

“No.” Somehow she felt as though she had just cast aside all the age-old traditions of her people and was now a partner [3] with this Karki. For as long as all time, there had only been hatred between the Oren and the Karki. Yet here she was, admitting to a Karki prince that she wanted peace, not war.

“Then will you help me? Will you warn your people, so that they will leave before our warriors can attack?”

“If you let me go back to them.”

She heard amusement in his words as he spoke. “I said I only wanted to talk, and then you could go. But first, you must know what to tell them. You reached our village; what did you find out?”

“That you’re to attack our camp tomorrow at noon.”

“You are smart. Yes. The warriors want prizes. Fifty warriors are to attack from the south and lead the Oren warriors away from the camp. Another fifty warriors are to attack the camp itself, while it is unprotected.”

A wave of horror swept over her at his words before another thought occurred to her. “How do I know that you aren’t lying to me?”

There was a moment of silence. “You do not. You will have to trust me. I swear by Tilon that I speak the truth.”

Raisa frowned, puzzled.

“I forget. Tilon is the god of peace and winter,” he explained.

“El Shaddai is the only God.”

“No.” The prince shook his head. “Tilon is the god of the Karki, and El Shaddai is the God of the Oren.”

“El Shaddai is the God of all people,” she argued.

“Perhaps that is what you believe, but I believe in Tilon,” the warrior said. “If you do not like that, I shall swear by the stars in the sky that all I say is true. Leave it at that,” he added, [4] seeing that she did not approve of this either. “Go back to your camp and tell your people. Tell them what you know. I speak the truth. I do not want a war.”

Raisa looked at him, wondering if he meant what he said. He stepped back. She turned and walked a few steps, then broke into a run.

[1] When you give a character an action instead of dialog, it isn’t necessary to tell your reader they didn’t say anything, or didn’t respond. It’s obvious.

Also, you have the prince speaking, and Raisa’s actions in the same paragraph. I think only the speaker’s actions should be in the same paragraph as his words. When you shift to her, start a new paragraph. That’s not an absolute rule to follow, but a good guideline.

[2] Since we’re firmly in her head, if she didn’t notice something, we shouldn’t know about it. You can say that both the language and the admiration in his tone surprised her.

[3] Partner might be too strong a word at this point. It states a level of trust I don’t feel yet. Maybe say they had a common goal, or leave this sentiment until later.

[4] Dialog tags. You’re too good to let something like this weaken your writing. When you say explained or argued, those things were already obvious from the context of the dialog. “Said” is invisible. Said should be used when it’s needed. An action beat is even better when you can slip one in inconspicuously. In other words, don’t have your characters making all sorts of odd gestures just so you can avoid said. But if an expression or movement can deepen the emotion during dialog, put it in.

For example: where I marked the 4, instead of “he added” you might try something like this. “…all I say is true.” He raised his hand, seeing that she didn’t approve of this either. “Leave it at that. Go back…”

Those things are all easy fixes. If the rest of the book holds up as well as this first chapter, I for one hope to see it in print in the near future. I was even more impressed when Bonnie told me she wrote this ten years ago, when she was 14.

Those "ing" sentences...and a contest

2007-11-13T07:26:00.000-06:00

I wasn't planning a post for today, but Jack asked what to avoid when using -ing sentences.

First, that particular construction stands out because years ago hack writers used it to death. So sentences like, "Straightening his tie, he entered the office for his job interview." have become less desirable. "As" does the same thing. "As he entered the office, he straightened his tie."

There's nothing wrong with those sentences. If they're not overused, they're perfectly fine. It's mostly overusing them that causes a problem, for two reasons.

First, variety. Sentence structure should vary to keep it from feeling repetitive. This avoids putting your reader to sleep. Variety makes the writing lively and interesting--makes it sing.

Second, these sentences have dependent clauses in them. That makes part of the sentence less important than the other. The fact that this guy straightens his tie could be a character trait--such as being a perfectionist--or it could show that he's nervous. Put into an -ing construction, that fact becomes incidental. The force of the sentence lies with entering the office for the interview.

So if it's not very important, the sentence is fine. But if you want to emphasize it, "He took a moment to straighten his tie before entering the office" will give it more impact. And because these are dependent clauses, too many of them will weaken the writing. Half of what you're saying isn't really important. It's just a minor fact you can relegate to a dependent clause.

Another problem often comes up, mostly with beginning writers. An -ing sentence is meant to show two things happening simultaneously. But sometimes it'll slip into a sentence that's meant to show a progression of events.

"Climbing the stairs, he entered the house." How can he enter the house if he's still walking up the front steps? "Putting the hat back on the shelf, she walked through the rest of the store." She'd have to have a mighty long arm to walk through the whole store while she's still putting a hat on a shelf. That's the number one thing to look for. Are these two actions something that can happen at the same time?

I think I covered all the bases.

I used to overuse -ing sentences. It was my favorite way to build a sentence. Mostly because it was an easy way to avoid starting every sentence with "he" or "she". And because it was such a problem for me, I paid special attention when I read this in "Self-Editing for Fiction Writers". So I was able to give all these reasons without consulting a book. I absorbed the information.

As in everything, moderation is the key. Putting the -ing word in the middle of the sentence will help disguise it so it doesn't stand out so much. But even at the beginning, it's fine every once in a while.

Now, on to the contest. This question made me think of how valuable I've found the book I mentioned above. It's something every writer should have. And so I'd like to give away a brand new copy of "Self-Editing for Fiction Writers" by Renni Browne and Dave King.

How can you enter? Refer people to this blog. If they leave a comment telling me you sent them, you'll receive one entry. And if the person you refer sends me a critique request, you'll get another entry. If a new person--someone I've never critiqued before--sends a chapter, they'll get their name in the drawing. I'll run this contest through the rest of November and December. I'll announce a winner January 2nd.

If you win, and already have a copy of the book, I'll let you choose a different book of comparable price.

Dream of Peace, part 1

2007-11-12T07:04:00.000-06:00

By Bonnie Way
http://thekoalabearwriter.blogspot.com

(red = can be deleted; blue = my additions and comments)

Chapter One - The Warning

The Oren camp lay in silence and darkness. A few stray dogs roamed between the tents, searching for bits of meat or an extra bone. One or two fires burned outside tents, created spots of light. Smoke rose from other fires inside the tents, drifting in steady streams up into the dark, cloudy sky.

Raisa walked down a path between the tents, her bare feet silent in the hard-packed dirt. She paused for a moment on the edge of the camp, her eyes sweeping through the darkness. Then she slipped away from the tents, dodging among the bushes like a shadow. She knew where the sentries were posted and avoided them. Once she was past them, she relaxed, moving swiftly and silently.

She didn’t know the land on this side of the Karki River, but that didn’t stop her. The clouds shifted across the sky, but she didn’t need the scarce light of the moon and stars to find her way. Her eyes were adjusted to the darkness, and her feet felt the way in front of her. She waded across a small stream, pausing to let the cold water wash the dust and weariness from her feet. Then she pattered out on the other side and slipped through a stand of trees. A pair of deer on the far side of the meadow started, and she watched them go bounding [bound] away.

The wind brought a sound to her, and she stopped, listening. A slight frown creased her face, and she stood, looking around. [Be careful of descriptions that sound out of POV. She can’t see her face creasing.] She knew where the camp was, for even if her sense of direction wasn’t unerring, she could smell the smoke from the fires and see it rising against the sky. [This is a dark, cloudy night. I don’t think there would be enough light for her to see the smoke. The light would have to come from the fire itself, and if she could see the firelight, she wouldn’t need to mention the smoke.] Having assured herself of that, she crept forwards again, more quietly and stealthily this time. It didn’t take her long to find the Karki village. She crouched in a clump of bushes and stared out at it. The huge fire burning in its center lit up all the long houses.

She’d never seen a Karki village before, but she knew it, and she knew the war cry. Her hands clutched the branches in front of her as her mouth grew dry and her palms sweaty. She had heard this war cry before and knew what it meant.

Fighting. Death. Everything she hated.

It had been during a battle with the Karki that Her father had been killed during a Karki battle. [Word economy and avoiding repeated “had been”.] He had stood nearly a head taller than all the other warriors, and his knife had been sharper, his arms faster. He had been older, smarter, and stronger. But though she waited for him after the battle, he hadn’t returned. Her last memory of him was watching his back as he strode away from her, a four-year-old girl held in her mother’s arms so that she couldn’t run after him.

Now, she lay listening to the tribe who had killed him. If their tribes hadn’t been fighting, her father wouldn’t be dead. She scowled at the village. The war cry meant more fighting, but not if she could help it. [You already stated what the cry meant. Just stick with the idea that there wouldn’t be more fighting if she could help it.] If her tribe knew of the attack, they’d cross the river, back to their own territory, and the Karki would leave them alone. She knew that. Jubal had said they would only stay here if it was safe to do so, if the drought really hadn’t affected the Karki and the Karki weren’t in a war-like mood. But apparently they were.

With that thought, she pushed herself forward. The clouds shifting across the sky provided her with a cover of darkness. She placed each step carefully, staying crouched over and moving slowly as she felt her way through the darkness. Trees stood like dark sentinels against the clouds, and she paused, wondering if there would be sentries posted about the village.

Fear caught in her throat and left her crouched beside a log, her brown eyes darting over the shadows around her. Was there a sentry hidden there? She shrank back against the log. She shouldn’t be here. This was enemy territory; she should never have ventured this far away from camp. She would go back, tell Jubal about the war cry, let him worry about the attacking Karki.

Even as that thought came to her, she dismissed it. Her brother would never believe she’d gone this far from the camp. He’d laugh at her, say she was making up stories, that if the Karki really were chanting the war cry the sentries would hear it. But the sentries couldn’t hear it; she was way past the sentries.

She stayed where she was, her eyes darting from the village in front of her to the comforting darkness behind her. She’d heard all the stories of the Karki, how they hated her people. She knew that the only reason her tribe had crossed the river into Karki territory was because of the drought. Now her fears were coming to life; the Karki would attack the Oren for trespassing and more warriors would die. Perhaps even Jubal.

That thought spurred her forward. Jubal might not listen to her, might mock her and tease her, but he was her brother, and she wouldn’t lose him to the Karki as she’d lost her father. She’d come this far; she could go further. She’d gotten past the Oren sentries; she could get past the Karki sentries – if there were any. She made a careful survey of the land around her, studying each shadow. A tree branch bobbed gently in the wind, but it was just a tree branch. Maybe all the Karki were dancing around the bonfire and no sentries had been posted.

She lifted her hand to her throat, to a necklace her father had made for her. He had died fighting the very Karki she now approached, but he had faced them boldly, to protect his clan, and so could she.

She slid her foot ahead without making a sound and moved to the cover of another tree. She used her hands as well as her feet to keep from being seen or heard. She inched forward, never running. Jubal had taught her how to walk without making a sound. He had also taught her that if she ran, anyone sitting or lying on the ground would feel her footsteps and know of her approach. Step by slow step, she approached the village. The war cry pounded in her ears, growing louder with each step she took, making her heart pound to the same rhythm.

She held her breath and took the last few steps, then pressed her body against the wall of the long house. The rough walls were firm and strange, the shadows dark and protecting. She waited, her eyes darting about. She had reached the village without being discovered. Now what?

She had to learn something of the attack. She couldn’t understand a word of Karki, if that was what the warriors were shrieking. She’d have to get close enough to see their gestures, to decipher their sign language. Her hand strayed to her neck again and she peered around the corner of the long house. At the end of the long dark street between the houses, she saw the glowing fire and the Karki warriors. Fear filled her at the sight of the wild dance, making her breath come in shallow gasps, but she had to go on.

[When you say fear filled her, you’re telling when it’s not necessary. You show it quite well. Shorten to “Her breath came in shallow gulps at the sight of that wild dance, but she had to go on.”]

Falling to her knees, she crawled down the street, keeping close to the long house. She reached the edge of the shadows and dropped to her stomach, pressing herself against the ground. She watched the feet pounding around the fire, the fur-clad legs jerking, propelling the warriors through the dance. She tilted her head back. Sweat glistened on the warriors’ bodies, for most were clothed only from the waist down.

[That paragraph contains a lot of –ing sentence structures. Most can be eliminated. “She fell to her knees and crawled down the street, close to the long house. At the edge of the shadow, she dropped to her stomach and pressed flat against the ground. The warriors’ feet pounded the earth, their fur-clad legs jerking, propelling them through the dance.”]

She forced herself to study the dance, to try to find any gestures that would tell her what they were planning. Fierce faces and harsh expressions swirled in front of her, sending her shrinking back into the shadows. The stamp of their feet and the pitch of their shouts gave her a headache, but she had to stay there, to watch. She had to find out what she wanted to know.

A motion beyond the warriors attracted her attention and she watched as a man rose to his feet. The warriors stopped their crazed dance and turned to face him, waiting for him to speak. In the sudden silence, Raisa found herself holding her breath. She studied the man, sensing the respect the warriors held for him.

His face was lean and leathery, his eyes hard. His shoulders were stooped slightly. An ivory medallion hung on a cord around his neck, accompanied by many teeth, stones and carved bones. Raisa had seen medallions such as that brought back in prizes after battles. Jubal said that the chiefs wore special medallions, and the teeth and bones were symbols of bravery.

Her eyes returned to his face as he began to speak. His words were harsh and quick, his hands jerking in rapid gestures. She couldn’t understand the words, but she saw the effect they had on his warriors. He was stirring them, awakening the battle lust in them. His right arm extended, pointing to the east, to the Oren camp. She was glad she couldn’t hear whatever accusations he was bringing against her tribe. [That sentence breaks the mood and doesn’t seem necessary.] With his other hand, he drew his knife, slashing it through the air. A cheer burst from the warriors’ lips, drowning the chief’s words for a moment.

A word about “she knew” sentences. Mostly they aren’t necessary. We’re in her head, so she can simply state the things she knows as facts, skipping the phrase “she knew.” Also, something I didn’t bother breaking in to point out—when you say the stamp of their feet and the pitch of their shouts gave her a headache, it falls flat. First of all, it’s telling. You could show it by saying her head pounded in rhythm, or each shout knifed through her skull. But this is a tense scene, so I think it would add more to the tension by showing what it’s doing to her nerves.

Putting aside the technical, the story and emotion of the piece carried me away. Most of the suggestions I made were things I found on a second and third read-through. I can see a lot of talent in the writing. It just needs some polishing.

I’ll have part two posted Wednesday.

Seasons in the Mist, #5

2007-11-09T07:46:00.000-06:00

By Deborah Kinnard

The new-minted Lady Jessica slept that night, when she slept at all, in a wall chamber adjoining Lady Alys’s solar. Though Alys’s serving maids slept wherever they could squeeze their pallets on the solar floor, Alys had not allowed Jess to do so. She insisted that a “highborn” guest must occupy a guesting chamber. Thus it was that Jess found herself stuffed naked into a cupboard bed built into the chamber wall. The room itself felt dank with moisture from the thick stone walls of the manor house. A well-banked fire in the small hearth provided welcome warmth and its own aroma to add to many others. Her tick smelled of straw and past occupants. Though the linen sheets seemed clean, they abraded her skin. She turned and turned on the goose feather pillow, covered in the same scratchy linen as the sheets. Sleep would not come, not that she had expected any. At odd times she fought rising hysterical laughter, remembering feeling jet-lagged twenty-four hours ago, and now staring at a rising fourteenth- century sliver moon outside a wood-shuttered casement.

The atmosphere in her chamber warmed slowly, gradually stopping her shivering. Though at times she shuddered from purest fear, Jess realized she must make the best of her situation. And carefully, too. She must watch every word, and never, no matter how dire her need, tell any of these fanciful, credulous people the truth.

The truth would smack of sorcery. She’d have to walk the thinnest possible tightrope. Surely, surely this experiment wouldn’t last long. After a few days, something would happen and she’d be back at the Mossock she knew—or even home. She wanted only to return to her own time and figure out how to incorporate her bizarre experience into her research. She nearly moaned in anticipation at the possibilities, but until she went home, she had no desire to run afoul of their sensibilities.

Father God, why did You pick me? David Graber or the Millards know this era. Any of them would’ve been a better choice than me. This isn’t even my time period. Not that I know what year this is. I’ll have to find some way to ask without asking…

She turned over and tried to punch the pillow into a different shape. It resisted and gave off a faintly dry smell as air puffed out. Panic surged up again. She beat it down with as little effect as she’d had on the pillow. If finding out what year she’d landed in were her only problem…if only. She could foresee a dozen, a score, a hundred different pits into which she could fall, a stranger in this strangest of lands. Her hair was too short. Her attempts to speak the language were off-base, if Alys’s occasional puzzled expressions were any indicator. Her teeth were too straight, thanks to Dr. Banks and expert orthodonture. Heaven forbid anybody should glimpse her lone filling. What would they make of her appendicitis scar?

“That’s nothing,” she could see herself blurting out. “Just modern surgery.”

They’d tie her to the stake and hurry off for kindling.

She rolled again onto her back. Like any avid historian, at times she’d speculated on what it would be like to live in the Middle Ages. The reality, at least the first twenty-four hours, was nothing like her romanticized version. She’d never imagined the hardships, the dust, the lack of conveniences, the everyday odors they all apparently took for granted. Even Lady Alys, higher-born and cleaner than the rest, smelled of skin and sweat.

For Lady Jessica de Lindstrom, one-hundred percent liar and fraud, the smell of fear.

***

Sounds. She awakened to the manor beginning to bustle. Grainy-eyed, Jess stretched and yawned. Then found herself without sleep shorts or tee shirt, and remembered. A sick feeling socked her in the gut like a fist. Yesterday she’d been in England, modern-day, excited and rubbernecking. Today she was here, groping for new ways to cope. To try to fit in where she most assuredly did not belong.

She sought water to wash, and found it in a small basin on a stand near the door. Very little water. She did her best, splashing her face many times and furiously scrubbing her teeth with a finger and the hem of her undergown. Donning her single outfit took no time at all, but pulling the tangles out of her hair with her fingers defeated her, and she went downstairs to the hall as she was.

Alys, already up, greeted her warmly. “Maude, bring my second best comb.” She did Jess’s hair while chatting about the day’s plans. Mass first, of course, and then sewing. Alys had some stuff they would make up into a gown just Jess’s size. After fastening the linen coif over Jess’s braids, Alys handed over the comb.

“It is made of sandalwood,” she said. “It will impart its aroma.”

“Lady, no, I can’t take your comb.”

Gently, firmly, Alys closed her hand around it. “It is my gift to you. Do not say me nay.”

The manor folk trooped after Jess and Alys out the big main gate and across the road to the village church. Jess found it unnerving to have the villagers bow to her or tug their bangs—no, forelock, she reminded herself. A sign of respect for the gentry of whom she made no part. She tried not to gape at the village that lay just beyond the round-towered church. The homes looked like hovels and smelled worse, each one low to the ground and thatch-roofed. From some of the house windows, a sheep or a placid ox peered out.

Mass, then. Jess felt equally challenged not to rubberneck the interior of the building. Older than Mossock, its architecture called the eleventh century to mind, rather than the thirteenth. Round-headed arches formed the doors and tiny, high-set windows. Two great candles smoked with a vaguely sour smell, competing with wisps of smoke from a censer the priest jerked through the air like a pup on a leash.

The villagers stood aside until Alys, Jess and the manor household filed into church. The church held neither bench nor chair, so everyone stood to hear the service. Children whispered, shushed by their parents. Whitewashed walls instructed the faithful with brightly colored paintings of the Virgin, Christ Triumphant, several anonymous and uncomfortable-looking saints, and the harrowing of hell.

The mass, at least, she understood. She’d learned medieval Latin well enough to say the mass herself, and the priest’s chanting sounded almost familiar. His rusty brown robe showed many mended spots, and short brown curls around his tonsure jiggled when he moved his head. Alys whispered, “Father Stephen. He is new here, and I do not know him well, but he seems a good man.”

The good father ran through the liturgy quickly, enunciating without inflection. Overall, he didn’t appear to be in a good mood. She took an instant disliking to his small, alert eyes. His stomach made most irreverent hungry rumbles, like Jess’s own.

After mass Maude served breakfast, consisting of another jug of wine, some stewed fruit and a large meat pie. Too hungry to worry about cholesterol or the strangeness of pie for breakfast, she consciously aped Alys’s table manners and dug in.

Before they’d finished, Maude returned with the aggrieved expression Jess had already noticed. She didn’t seem to approve of Mossock’s house guest. Or was it her own paranoia, since she was truly not what she seemed? Maude and Alys had a quick exchange in the tongue Jess didn’t understand. Cornish? English, but a dialect they didn’t teach us? I can’t get a word of it.

Maude finished up, gave a stiff little bow and left them alone. “Good news,” said Alys. “Kei—my husband’s master-at-arms—has returned this morn. My husband is but a day’s ride away. By vesper time tomorrow he will be home.”

Jess smiled approval, though she felt only trepidation. What would Sir Geoffrey de Tallac make of her? Would he offer her the simple, open-hearted hospitality Lady Alys gave? Or would he demand a better story, a more plausible explanation of how a woman had come to be lost and alone? Would he look skeptically on her half-story of untruths?

She lifted another bite of pie on her borrowed eating knife and prayed heartily for Sir Geoff’s horse to throw a shoe.

***

I like the scene where Jess is lying in bed and reflecting. It again shows her fears, as well as how uncomfortable the era was. Everything scratchy and rough, cold and damp. I can feel it.

From the time she wakes up, though almost the whole scene is an ongoing summary. Nice description of the church, but it doesn’t feel like a scene. Not much was in the moment. I'd like to see more interaction with others in the second scene, especially after a scene that’s pure reflection.

Other than that, finish this quickly, Deb and get it published.

Seasons in the Mist, #4

2007-11-08T07:44:00.000-06:00

By Deborah Kinnard

“Where is it?” she whispered. She grabbed a fold of skin at the back of her hand and pinched, hard. Nothing changed. She wasn’t dreaming. Where is Mossock?

A woman—not Sheila—emerged from a doorway adjacent to the hall. Jess gaped some more. She wore long tunic-over-tunic garment in a grayish blue color, and its fit showed the lines of early pregnancy. Her hair was hidden, wrapped in a dun cloth. Unlike the oaf with the barrow, she wore scuffed soft leather shoes. Lifting her skirts, the woman picked her way between the hens and through the ruts to approach Jess.

“God, help. This can’t be happening,” she whimpered under her breath

She hated whimperers.

The woman stopped several feet short of Jess, inclined her head with lifted brows, and said something quick and questioning in an unfamiliar language. Jess made a two-handed gesture she hoped communicated, I don’t understand you.

The woman frowned more deeply and repeated her question in French.

Middle-French.

Jess gulped a breath that didn’t have enough air in it. Her brain would not produce words, so she answered as best she could. “Je suis perdu.” I’m lost. She hoped her approximation would do, for she could not think or remember, or feel anything but terror.

The woman clucked her tongue. “You poor thing. And such clothing! How did you come to be lost?” Though Jess understood the archaic language, she couldn’t produce an answer. The woman scanned her up and down and appeared to reach a decision. “Come inside,” she said in a tone of command. “Mossock has ever offered its welcome to those in need. You must take wine, refresh yourself, and tell me what has befallen you.”

Apparently thinking her tongue-tied, shocked or stupid, she led Jess by the wrist as if reluctant to touch “such clothing.” Jess followed, mute, fighting rising nausea.

This isn’t Mossock. Well, it must be—the great hall looks the same. But so different. This is Mossock, but not the house I saw last night.

Indeed, the hall had changed. Where last night it had stood empty, populated only by dust-motes and sorrow, today the hall bustled with people. In the enormous corbelled hearth, a merry fire snapped and sent high flames up the chimney. Along one wall, plainly dressed men set up a long trestle-table. With impatient gestures, a middle-aged woman urged them to haste. Across the end of the room near the fireplace, a second, shorter table had already been set up and covered with white cloths. To this table the woman tugged her. “Maude! Bring sweet wine.”

The older woman left off harrying the men and hurried to obey. Jess sank down upon a long bench. Lord, help me. These people wear medieval clothing. They’re setting up a great hall for a morning meal, and they’re going to bring me wine, not coffee. This lady who greeted me isn’t Sheila. She isn’t anyone I know. She belongs here, and this is her time, not mine.

Oh, Lord, I’m going to faint.

Jessica closed her eyes and got ready. But that easy way out didn’t happen. Muttering under her breath in sharp disapproval, the woman Maude brought a goblet of white metal with carving on the bowl. Jess sipped, more to gain time than because she wanted anything with alcohol in it. The wine, however, tasted light and sweet, and it refreshed her. The younger woman, sitting at her side and watchfully waiting, apparently saw she was doing better.

“First,” she said kindly, “your name, s’il vous plait.”

“Jessica.” Her voice had no tone, so she tried again. “Jessica Lindstrom.”

The woman tried it. With the soft French J her name sounded foreign and somehow comforting. “Unusual. How did you become lost?”

“I wish I knew.”

That caused another frown. Jess tried again. “You’re very kind. I thank you for the wine, but I should go and try to find my—” She choked. My what? My people? My own century? How on earth do I find that, when I can’t guess how I got here?

The woman apparently saw her distress. With a kind pat on the hand, she began to speak in the low, soothing tones one uses to a frightened child. “You must not worry. You will bide here, in safety. When Geoffrey returns, he will send to ask after your husband and family.”

“Geoffrey?”

“My husband,” the woman explained patiently. “Geoffrey de Tallac. Surely you have heard of him. Forgive me—I did not give you my name. I am Alys de Tallac. We hold Mossock and many other honors. My husband is vassal to Lord Michael Veryan, who is highly respected at court.”

Jess grabbed for her goblet and drank, more deeply this time. The wine-buzz permeated into the shock flooding her mind. At court. Whose court? Not Elizabeth the Second’s, that’s for sure. “Are you the Gray Lady?” She bit her lip in consternation. Where had that come from?

Alys let out a chirp of laughter. “Not unless my hair has turned color in the night.” From under her workaday headdress she pulled a thick dark braid and held it out for inspection, then tucked it back away. “Not yet, it would seem.”

“Forgive me. I mis-spoke. It seems I heard a tale…”

Alys’s eyes widened in what could only be delight. “This night, while we and the maids sew, Lady Jessica de Lindstrom, you will tell us this tale.”

Jess gulped. “I know but part of a tale, not the whole. I do not know the ending.”

“Even better. We will tell it in the manner of a round-tale, and make one.” Alys clapped her hands. “Now, come above. We must have you properly dressed.”

Upstairs in a busy solar, Jess endured the open-mouthed stares of Alys’s maids. Alys reprimanded them in stern tones, telling them they must serve her guest, Lady Jessica, as they would their mistress. Though Alys pulled gown, undergarment, and soft leather shoes out of her own wardrobe trunk, Jess insisted on a private chamber to replace her own “strange clothing” with Alys’s. The last thing she wanted were questions about her zipper, Reeboks or bra. In these superstitious times, it might be one short step from stranger to witch.

“Your hair,” Alys said. “Where is your veil?”

Jess poked at her curling light-brown do. What once had seemed a stylish layered cut, falling just below her shoulders, now seemed garishly out of place. “I must have lost it.”

Forgive me, Lord. Help me. I’m way out of my depth here. I’m a historian, but I have no clue what to say or do. Just help me fit in as best I can, ‘til I can find a way to get home. Her eyes filled.

Seeing, Alys offered a quick and bracing hug. “Do not weep. You are frightened, naturally. You miss your people, but for sure your husband will soon come for you.” She put a finger under Jess’s chin. Miserable, Jess raised her eyes. “Such odd coloring, and yet so fair. I am sure he misses you sore, and will make all haste to find you.”

Do I tell her I’m single? At my age? Girls married young in these times, and I’ll be an anomaly. “I have no husband.”

Alys winced in consternation. “Ah. The mortality. I understand, and I will speak of it no more.”

The mortality? I came to a year sometime after 1349? No, Lord, that’s not my period of study. Jess cast her eyes down, hoping silence would let her hostess draw her own conclusions. Alys chattered of domestic issues, praising the rich curling mass of Jess’s hair, as she sat her down and began to braid. Jess’s hair, never obedient, was no match for a determined medieval matron, however, and Alys soon had it tamed and hidden under a starched white coif. “There. You must feel much better.”

If I must, I must. “Thank you.” Jess scanned Alys’s solar for a mirror, and found none. The off-white chemise itched, and fit too big in the chest and too long in the hem. The shorter overtunic, cut away at the sides to show the chemise, was a dark mossy green in color. Apparently an everyday garment, it lacked ornamentation and was twin to the one Alys wore. She gave a shrug. If Alys was pleased, she must look normal. Whatever a twenty-first century historian was to make of that…

Unbidden, anticipation bubbled under the fear. However this happened, I’m here. I didn’t ask for this, Lord, despite what Sheila thinks. I’m scared spitless, but if You want me in this century for some reason of Your own—let’s accomplish it, together, as fast as we can.

* * *

Good scene showing her shock and fear. I like the descriptions and the way a clue is given as to the approximate time period. It’s nice to be acquainted with someone who knows what a trestle table is. :o) I like the bit of humor where Jessica gets ready to faint.

The only thing I’ll pick on is, even though she’s in shock, a couple of the thoughts feel repetitive—this isn’t Mossock, and that’s not Sheila. I realize she’s repeating things to herself in disbelief, but it still stood out to me. I also think it would be a nice touch, as long as she mentions Elizabeth the second, to add to the thought—not even Elizabeth the first’s court. But that’s just me—the Elizabethan age is what I’ve researched.

Intermission

2007-11-07T07:59:00.000-06:00

Today I'm taking an intermission from Deb's story. Thursday and Friday I'll post the last two segments. Then we'll all have to wait until the book is published to read the rest.

I want to update you on my October goal. I didn't make it. I was trying to finish a 50,000 word rough draft, and only made it to 42,000. The end just wasn't ready to be told. In fact, that's where I'm still sitting.

But I don't feel bad for not hitting my target dead center. Setting that goal in the first place spurred me to write 42k on a draft that had been sitting for a year with only 2 pages completed.

My final goal hasn't changed. I want to have a decent manuscript by the end of February. One that's at least ready to show my agent.

The last two months have taught me why it took me so long to get started on this project. First, the family situation. This is based on a true story--an aunt all my relatives admired. I'm afraid when they read it, they'll be expecting my character to be Elsie.

I named my character Emma, and Emma may do some things and make some choices that Elsie never would have. But Emma has successfully become a character to me. I'm finding out what issues Emma has to deal with. I don't yet know her as deeply as I should, but I'm getting to know her.

So I have to put thoughts of disappointed relatives aside and think of a larger audience.

My second problem is that the time period spans more than three years. Large chunks of that first year have to be skipped over to move to story along. The last two years includes a romance. When I had the idea for this book, I didn't know it involved a romance, but I'm happy it does. This is set in a prison camp and a romance will add a hopeful element--something for Emma to look forward to each day.

But look at the typical romance formula: Meeting, conflict and friction, and finally realizing their love. I don't want to make this overly formulaic, but it's a pattern to follow. How do I stretch that out over two years so that they aren't in conflict for too long, and they're not all cozy and romantic for too long?

So you can see I have a lot of work to do. I don't have all the plot points figured out yet, but I'm a lot closer than I was two months ago. Now, off I go to plug away at it again.

Seasons in the Mist, #3

2007-11-06T15:01:00.000-06:00

By Deborah Kinnard

(I’m sorry for the late post. My internet connection has been down all day.)

“This way, then. Mind your step. These stairs are old, and not in the best repair.” From a pocket of her slacks, Sheila removed a huge cast-iron key and tried the lock. Jess expected the heavy iron-hinged door to creak in protest, but it swung open silently as if kept well-oiled. Sheila flipped a wall switch. “It’s not very well lit, either. We’ve neglected this part of the house. A pity, but family fortunes don’t grow on trees, do they?”

Jess followed her into a narrow passage that opened onto a large, high ceilinged room. Walls of the local gray stone formed bays along each side, with pointed arches framing doorways into other parts of the wing. A fireplace that could have cooked an entire ox took up one end of the room, its mantelpiece a narrow, angular funnel with carved corbels as trim. The roof beams, dim in the late afternoon light, appeared be hewn from tree trunks. Vagrant beams of sun slanted, dancing with dust motes, through narrow leaded glass windows. “Wonderful,” she breathed. “It’s the great hall, isn’t it?”

“Yes. The oldest remaining part. We think this range might have been a fortified manor house, but that portion’s long gone.”

“Those high windows look defensive.” Jess pointed. “Before they were glazed. And those squarish holes, up high on the wall? See the ones I mean? They could have held beams for a second story. That would be the solar, if this dates back as far as I suspect it does. ”

“My word,” Sheila said on a chuckle, “you are the genuine article, aren’t you?”

“I’ve lived and breathed the middle ages since I learned to read.” Jess turned three-sixty, taking it all in, breathing, getting the feel of the old hall deep into her bones. And yet the experience wasn’t entirely pleasant. Like a roller coaster—scary and exhilarating, and vaguely unnerving because it must end all too soon. “How can you bear to leave it unlived in? Not to use it?”

“Well, there’s a reason.” Sheila’s expression changed, took on a sorrowful air. “It looks long-abandoned because it was. Bertie’s ancestors had the money to restore it. They didn’t want to.”

She looked a question at her hostess. Sheila continued. “They feared the places in this wing where one can sense something.” The dog gave a fretful whine and Sheila reached to scratch her huge bristly head. “There now, Wenna. That’s the girl.”

The dog’s unease triggered Jess’s. “Something unpleasant?”

“Worse, I’m afraid. All these old piles have their ghost, their cold room—call it what you like. I almost think we English would be disappointed if they didn’t. As for Mossock’s, it’s no Victorian ghost. Ours goes back many generations. The tales Bertie’s grandmother threatened him with! That old harridan. She put fear into that boy, let me tell you. She warned him if he were rude, she’d let him spend some time in the old hall with the ‘Gray Lady.’” Sheila scratched the dog’s ears, making it sidle closer.

“What? Who was she?”

“Nobody now knows. But she’s called gray for good reason. Nobody’s ever actually seen an apparition, mind you. It’s more sensed than visualized. Those who report her presence call it an overwhelming feeling of displacement. As though she’s lost somehow, and grieves for someone. Yes, grief. Soul-deep and almost too much to bear.” Sheila’s eyes clouded and Jess wondered why, but in a second the look vanished. “According to legend, the Lady first appeared in the Trevorgas’ time. They held the manor in the sixteenth century. The Lady wouldn’t make herself known to just anyone. Only those of the family—and sensitives—could feel her.”

“Sensitives?”

“People like me, luv. And like you.”

“I’m not.” Jess took a step back. “There are no such people.”

“No, of course not. You’re a modern woman. Practical. Such stories are no more than rubbish, aren’t they? Feelings, impressions, these have no root in fact.”

Something motivated Jess to whisper, “And yet—I’ve always had the strongest possible desire to come here. To visit England. To do my work. To learn the stories forgotten long ago, and tell them.”

“Yes.” Sheila sounded unsurprised. “You were called, maybe by the Lady herself. Maybe, in time, she will tell you why.”

A link clicked shut. “You spoke of passion, and how it’s not always easy.”

“I spoke on impulse, but it’s true. Even before you were stranded at Heathrow, I felt our paths would cross again.” She gave a grin almost impish. “My foolishness doesn’t always make sense, even to me. What your journey entails, I can’t say. But I do feel that in time, you’ll know.”

“God brought me here,” Jess said quietly.

“You’re a believer?”

“Yes.”

“Well, He has many mysterious ways,” Sheila replied. “Past finding out.” The dog gave a higher, more insistent whine. “But that’s a conversation for another day. Come, the old stables are out this way. Wenna wants to show you her new litter of puppies.”

* * *

Despite the “Gray Lady” and Sheila’s enigmatic words, Jess slept well that night. The disturbance of her inner clock meant that she snapped full awake at four AM. Raking her hands through her hair, she went to the deep window seat and opened the casement. The air smelled of dawn and kelp, seawater and anticipation, with a faint and unfamiliar floral tang. Below the window, birds heralded the morning, foreign English—Cornish?—birdcalls, gentle and insistent.

The ocean muttered accompaniment below the cliffs. It waited to be explored, and she felt its pull as it beckoned. After a hasty shower, she pulled on jeans and a sweater—she’d already learned that here they were called jumpers—and went to make her own discovery of a Cornish morning.

Almost without intention, she strolled down the garden toward the ancient hall. All around her, wildflowers, colorful annuals and plants she didn’t recognize bloomed in a lush profusion of color and scent. Behind her, a premature sun crept over the horizon. This puzzled her until she remembered England lay at a higher latitude than Chicago, making for shorter nights at this season. The damp-spangled richness of early dawn added its peculiar luster to a trip that already seemed surreal.

Dew wet her sneakers from the thick grass near the old hall. Jess wished she’d brought her notebook to jot impressions as she strolled its perimeter. The architecture strongly reminded her of photos she’d seen. Mid- to late-thirteenth century, she calculated, not later. The long-and-short corner detail, the shape of the arched doorways, the slender semi-defensive window apertures—all these features shouted of its early date.

She stepped across the ruin of a stone wall to approach the hall more closely. Beyond one corner, a worn dirt path led to an area she hadn’t explored. Funny, how this path alone looked ungroomed, lacking the fastidious upkeep of Mossock’s other areas. Jess shook the dew off her sneakers and followed the dirt trail round the corner of the building.

Set exactly at the wall’s midpoint in the building lay an ironbound oak door. Smaller than the others, this door almost looked out of place. Jess tried the handle and it swung smoothly inward. She tiptoed in, afraid it might lead to an ancient privy or something equally uninviting. She looked around a cool stone corridor, as yet untouched by the warmth of morning. Faint, dust-laden dawn beams served as its only illumination. Though the passage obviously wasn’t often visited, it seemed tidy and maintained. Jess took a step away from the door.

Between one heartbeat and the next, the narrow hallway went cold. Mind-numbingly cold. Jess gasped and reached for support, her hand landing on the stones of the wall. She found it almost icy. No help here. The sensation lingered and deepened, and another overlay it.

Grief. A woman’s sorrow, too deep for tears.

She almost cried out, so overwhelming was the sensation. Around her something shifted and went dark. She felt consciousness ebb. Though she’d never felt faint in her life, the sensation was unmistakable. She sagged against the wall, both hands flat against it, searching for handholds the surface didn’t offer, afraid she’d go down.

She did not.

Instead, the blackness ebbed. Her head quit whirling and the wall stopped quivering. Her world righted itself into a normal Cornish early morning. Outside the open door she heard the birds’ random twittering. The impression of sorrow had fled, and the passageway’s cool was only the expected chill of a shaded stone building. Jess sighed. Wiping her clammy hands on her jeans, she strode back down the passage and out the door.

The man in the garden hadn’t been there a moment before. She stared, and the man stared back, his jaw hanging open. He looked a mess—tangled dark hair hanging onto the shoulders of a dirty loose shirt, slacks ending just below the knee, and bare, grimy feet. On his head sat a shapeless cap, looking like a chair cushion emptied of its stuffing. In his big, gnarled hands he pushed a crudely constructed wooden wheelbarrow with no sides. It overflowed with small wood and bare branches.

It cost nothing to be courteous. “Good morning,” Jess said.

The man jumped as if she’d thrown a rock at him. He gabbled something in a tongue she didn’t recognize, made a hasty sign of the Cross at his chest, dropped the barrow which dumped its contents, and ran.

She gaped after him. He ran as though he wouldn’t slow down ‘til London.

“Well!” she muttered, taken aback. It cost nothing to be polite, but apparently that small courtesy was beyond him.

Shaking her head, she rounded the building’s corner. And stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart sped up alarmingly and she thought again she might faint.

Mossock—the Mossock she’d slept in—wasn’t there.

In its place, she saw several ancient stone buildings attached to the great hall. Two-story ranges in the same architectural style straggled to the right, including a high, round tower with arrow-slits in place of windows. A single-story range off to the left backed onto wooden outbuildings with roofs of slate or thatch. The ruined stone wall over which she’d stepped had morphed into a wall higher than her head, enclosing a garden fragrant with herbs and undersized, richly aromatic roses. To her right, a horse stamped and blew through its nose in a wooden stable. The aroma of the stalls almost overwhelmed that of the garden.

She took another step forward, her heart hammering. Smoke rose lazily from the wooden outbuildings, carrying a scent of cooking food. Hens scratched, loose in the rutted yard. A rooster greeted both Jess and the morning in the usual way.

But this was not the morning that should be.

Again, I think the pace is good. There’s a good balance between description and action. And this twist at the end will push things forward nicely.