A Prisoner of Hope

I need a break

2012-01-17T13:53:00.003-07:00

I so appreciate your willingness to listen to me blather on post after post, but I feel I need a break from blogging for the time being.

No, there's nothing bad going on. I'm just going to use this time, guilt free, to get my writing projects on track.

The photo of an aspen grove is a favorite of mine. I took it a few years ago when my hubby and I spent some time in Aspen. It's a gorgeous place, you really should consider taking a vacation there.

Writing as a diet plan?

2012-01-10T11:07:00.003-07:00

That sounds crazy, but it might just be the nudge some writers need to stay productive.

That is if you care about what you're writing.

A recent study found that people who write about what they valued lost weight. Apparently experts have concluded making ourselves happier acts as an appetite suppressant. I guess it's the other side of the spectrum of people eating when they're depressed.

So hustle over to your keyboard or notebook, and get writing!

For more information, check out an article about the study here.

Resurrecting Your Dream Passion

2011-12-29T04:56:00.003-07:00

I'm happy to welcome Gina Conroy to my blog today. In just a few days (on January 1st!) Gina's novella Cherry Blossom Capers will debut! Today she discusses pursuing your passion:

Our dreams can be like a familiar childhood friend.

They're often something we've grown up with and treasured in our hearts since we were little, but for one reason or another we've drifted away from.

We all go through seasons where our dreams need to be grounded so we can focus on other things in our lives, but there is a time to resurrect our dreams.

I struggled for years with figuring out when the time was right for me to pursue writing full time. After ten years of focusing on family, I thought it was time to resurrect my dreams. Looking back, it might have been easier to let them sleep a little longer, or if I slowly worked toward my goals those ten years. I'll never know, but here are some thing I've learned along the way.

Identifying Your Dream Passion

Sometimes it's been so long since we let ourselves dream, that we've forgotten what our passions are. Think back to when you were little. What were the things that brought you joy? Did those same activities extend to your high school and college years? Did you lose your passion in the busyness of family rearing and life? Still stumped at identifying your passion? How about the things you did that you felt God's smile of approval or presence in? Ask God to stir up a passion inside of you for His glory. Then expect him to! Here's a peek at one of my childhood dreams...fulfilled!

Pray Before You Leap

It seems so simple, but why don't we do it? For me, it's because I'm driven and I see others with the "prize" and I think "I can do that." But I've learned that no matter how hard I try or how talented I think I am, God's the one in control, not me. I can strive all I want (and I believe in working toward my goals,) but ultimately God knows when I'm ready to take that leap toward my dreams. I've learned the hard way not to rush it. Don't make the same mistake.

Banish the Naysayers

Sometimes our biggest dream killers are our inner voices that tell us our dreams are too impractical or unrealistic. That's why they're called dreams! While some seasons of dreaming might have to be practical like having a steady job or bigger home, I believe inside everyone is a dream that connects with our soul that if left to sleep too long with eve

ntually die, killing your spirit as well! Allow yourself to wake the dream!

If you feel that now is your time to resurrect your dream, you might be terrified. But how scary is it to live without the pursuit of our passions? To live with the doubt of never knowing if you might have succeeded because your never even tried or gave up too soon.

I don't want to live with those regrets.

Do you?

You can find Gina online here.

Divine Humanity

2011-12-16T09:24:00.004-07:00

For as long as I can remember, my mother put this reproduction antique post card on the table next to our nativity set each Christmas season. The nativity set was passed on to me several years ago. In the box was the post card with a sentiment written by Phillips Brooks, a man known as the greatest American preacher of the 19th century and author of the Christmas hymn, O Little Town of Bethlehem.

Each year when I read the post card, a thrill of joy bubbles up from my heart. At this beautiful time of year, I wish you a similar thrill of joy. . .

“Lift up your eyes to the great meaning of the day, and dare to think of your humanity as something so divinely precious that it is worthy of being made an offering to God.

Count it as a privilege to make that offering as complete as possible, keeping nothing back; and then go out to the pleasures and duties of your life, having been truly born anew into His divinity, as he was born into our humanity on Christmas Day.”

Since I was a very young woman, I have given myself, heart and soul, to my Lord. I offer each of my days to Him. And in a most humble way, I think of my writing as something so divinely precious that it is worthy of being made an offering to God as well.

*This is a re-post of previous years, but I love it so much I trot it out every holiday season.

I won't be posting again until January so that I can enjoy my family while we gather to celebrate Emmanuel. Merry Christmas, friends.

Mankind should be our business!

2011-12-13T13:38:00.010-07:00

One of my favorite Christmas movies is A Christmas Carol. I think I've seen just about every movie version of this gem.

During each Christmas season, I think of at least one person that needs to be visited the ghosts of Christmas. Some days, it's myself that needs that visit. In the hustle and rush of the holiday our focus can get lost. Too many events, too many parties, too many gifts to purchase and wrap.

One of my favorite lines from the movie comes early in the film. It's when Marley visits Scrooge and says, "Mankind should be our business!" In the 21st century lingo: "It's not about you!"

With that sentiment in mind, please consider donating to a fundraiser for an author I know. Sandi Rog is struggling with stage four T-cell lymphoma.

Every donation helps. If you're feeling generous, please go here to make a donation online. The money being raised will help with the significant medical expenses she's facing as she pursues a treatment that is not covered by insurance.

There's also a raffle you can participate in when you give a donation. Here's the link to that site.

It's Christmas--the season of perpetual hope. Please, open your heart and your wallet to help restore Sandi's health and return her to her family and her author's keyboard.

Debut author Camille Eide

2011-12-08T05:48:00.001-07:00

I'm happy to welcome Camille Eide to my blog today. She's a colleague of mine as we're both represented by the WordServe Literary Agency.

Camille's first book, Savanna's Gift, is a novella that is a contemporary Christmas romance.

Camille, which compliment related to your writing has meant the most and why? I recently received this from a multi-published author and critique partner: “You have an amazing talent for writing scenes and wrenching out the emotion.” Means a lot because I feel I’m more of a wordsmith by nature than a storyteller, so scenes and emotion, which are critical to get right in order for the reader to enjoy the experience, take a lot of work for me. To hear this (unsolicited) means some of that hard work is beginning to show.

When did you first discover that you were a writer? See, the thing is I really never discovered this. I’ve always loved words and had been writing many kinds of things over the years but figured that was normal. (HA! Writers are a lot of things, but normal is not one of them!) Then several years ago, my pastor’s wife bullied me into writing a novel for her. No, that’s a full out lie. She’s really very sweet. We got to collaborating on a story idea one day and we decided I’d write the book. But I thought everyone could write. It didn’t occur to me it was something I needed to get all serious about until I’d gotten halfway through my first novel and discovered it was going to take a ton of staggering, heartbreaking work, and also realized it was work I really wanted to do. But I still didn’t call myself a writer. I think it took completing a novel and getting some unexpected attention for it that I started using the “W” word, and then only in tones barely above a whisper.

What other books have you written, whether published or not? Like There’s No Tomorrow is the contemporary love story of a young Scottish widower who discovers his pen pal is not the kind-hearted, white-haired American spinster he’d pictured, but a lovely young woman. He also discovers his second chance at love means a bigger test to his healed heart and renewed faith than he ever thought he’d have to face.

My Father’s House (2011 Genesis Winner, Women’s Fiction) is also a contemporary love story. Sue Quinn, surrogate mom to a mismatched bunch of outcast teens, is desperate to save the group home she's worked hard to build in Oregon’s outback. Her only hope lies with the last person she'd want help from: a beefy handyman with a guitar, a questionable past, and a God he keeps calling Father.

Both of these books are stand-alones in a 2 book “Love Never Fails” series and are currently seeking a loving publishing home.

What is your favorite food? Lindor White Chocolate balls. But for health reasons, I’m on a no-carb diet pretty much until I die, which will probably be soon since I have to live without chocolate. (Sorry, twisted sense of humor alert. Was that too morbid?)

What is the problem with writing that was your greatest roadblock, and how did you overcome it? Realizing something I’ve written is mediocre or derivative or just plain crud, especially when I compare it to better writing, can be very debilitating to me. I wail to family & friends, “I suck! What on earth made me think I could do this, huh?” (I may have even gone back to the Pastor’s wife and given her a piece of my mind . . . ) But looking back at how far we’ve come (an important exercise I need to remember to do) can help put things into perspective, help us realize growth has happened and will continue to happen. Great writers sucked at one time, I’m almost certain. I had to learn to give myself permission to be where I am today and keep writing. The only writers certain to fail are the ones who quit.

What would you like to tell us about the featured book? Savanna’s Gift is a contemporary Christmas Romance, a novella (eBook), just the right size for the busy holidays. It’s a story about lost love, second chances and recognizing God’s gifts to us, set in an elegantly adorned, rustic ski lodge in the beautiful evergreen Oregon Cascades. And it’s a sweet treat at only $1 thru Dec 24.

Summary: Forced to return to the ski lodge where she once worked, Savanna Holt is reminded of one special Christmas and how ambition led her to make the worst mistake of her life: Leaving Luke Nelson. Stunned to discover Luke never left, but worked his way up from lift operator to manager, Savanna sees the opportunity as a gift from God. She’s determined to win Luke back. But Luke wants no reminders of his past hurt, or a relationship with the woman who put ambition before love. Can Savanna convince Luke she’s changed and her interest isn't because of his position? And when her dream job beckons, will she sacrifice her dream for a second chance at love?

How can readers find you on the Internet?

Website: www.camilleeide.com

Blog: Extreme Keyboarding

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/camille.eide

Twitter: @CamilleEide

Savanna’s Gift can be found at:

At White Rose Publishing: http://www.pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/savanna-s-gift

AMAZON (Kindle) http://t.co/pzIHy8kG

F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire

2011-12-06T05:52:00.001-07:00

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author & illustrator is:

M. C. Pearson

and the book:

F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire

FIRST Wild Card Press (December 5, 2011)

***Special thanks to M. C. Pearson of FIRST Wild Card Press for sending me a review copy.***

I don't often read fantasy, and this book was a welcome surprise. An imaginative and adventurous page turner, I loved the illustrations sprinkled throughout. Thumbs up!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

M. C. Pearson graduated from San Jose State University with a B. A. in art, served as a multi-media illustrator in the United States Army, earning the rank of sergeant, and spent four years as a house parent for at-risk youth. Now married over 20 years, she homeschools her two children, volunteers with her church youth group, and runs a book review blog alliance (FIRST Wild Card Tours) while writing and drawing. F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire is her first novel.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

Unwittingly chosen to join an army of fairies, who fight for the Light of the One, a teenaged girl learns about spiritual warfare as she attends a military academy with fantastical beings.

FROM THE BACK COVER:

Here lies a most precious treasure,

Awaiting one Chosen to deliver.

Seek out the red cousins in the East,

For on this your greed mustn't feast.

The wealth of a species now in your hands,

Do with it as the light demands.

Give them your gift to unite,

For it is the darkness we all must fight.

EDITORIAL REVIEWS:

"Imagination runs wild in F.A.I.R.I.E.S. Pearson brings young readers through a looking glass and into a world bursting with adventure, heroism, and fascinating creatures. Readers will be inspired to be true to the One and left with anticipation of more to come."
--Jill Williamson, award-winning author of
By Darkness Hid, and other books

"Sprinkled with delightful illustrations, and brimming with a full bestiary of magical creatures, F.A.I.R.I.E.S. is a fun, clever romp through the alternate landscape of the most magical world of all, our own. Read, and take up the call: 'Defend and Emancipate!'"
-- D. Barkley Briggs, author of
The Book of Names, and other books

"F.A.I.R.I.E.S. will appeal to readers who love the interplay of fantasy and reality. A rich cast of eccentric characters and exotic settings make this a fun addition to the folklore of the battle between good and evil."
--Mike Hamel, author of
YA fantasy series: MATTERHORN THE BRAVE

"F.A.I.R.I.E.S. is one of those rare gems I want to tell everyone about. It's highly imaginative, packed with adventure, and full of hope. A must read for kids and for kids at heart. Even better than Narnia! I was thinking about Pearson's wonderfully memorable characters for days."
--C.J. Darlington, author of
Thicker than Blood

"Ms. Pearson's extravagant and imaginative F.A.I.R.I.E. kingdom will surely delight the young and the young-at-heart in this tale of good and evil, light vs. darkness. The fantasy-loving reader will not be disappointed!"
--Linore Rose Burkard, award winning author of
Before the Season Ends, and other books

Product Details:

List Price: $17.99
Paperback: 482 pages
Publisher: FIRST Wild Card Press (December 5, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0615530222
ISBN-13: 978-0615530222

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Four thousand seasons shall pass while our swords grow rusty.

Where once one chose to divide, another shall be chosen to unite.

One changed the past, the other shall change the future.

One must emancipate the other to allow the light its dominion.

The realm, now torn, allows the shadow to abide, as humanity lies blind to its peril.

The bond of friendship must endure, for the army of shadows awaits another tear.

Dust off your swords.

Unite the realm.

Destroy the strongholds.

Foretelling of Didasko Gnome Digdeep

†

PART ONE

MANY ARE CALLED

BUT

FEW ARE CHOSEN

†

CHAPTER ONE

Off and Running

t was an accident!” Mellie yelled, not caring who heard or stared. Tears streaked her face as she fled down the Santa Cruz coastline, away from her family.

You don’t need them, a voice hissed in her ear, Escape. Run away.

Scorching sand burned at her feet and bitterness ate at her heart. Mellie pumped her legs as fast as they would go. Her feet pounded with the rhythm of her emotions, beating a tempo with the crashing waves. Run-a-way. Run-a-way. Run-a-way. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins, quickening her step.

Why did I have to be the youngest? Only 12 years old. Never smart enough. Never athletic enough. I just wish they loved me.

Once, just once, she wanted to do something that would make her sisters see that she wasn’t the stupid, awkward, ugly, little baby sister.

As she ran, she wiped away some tears with the palm of her hand. Her fingers settled on her large nose, a gift from her dad’s Hungarian ancestry.

Chelsea got the ski-slope shaped nose. I had to get Half-Dome. It just isn’t fair.

Her hand dropped to her side and she pinched at her stomach. It still had some of its baby fat.

Ugh, why are my sisters so perfect? What happened to me?

Pushing her short bangs from her forehead in disgust, she mumbled, “Maybe I’ll find treasure. I’ll be the rich one, and then they’ll have to accept me.” But she knew better. California didn’t hold any more undiscovered treasures.

The sand, hot and coarse, cut at her feet. I wish I had remembered my shoes. She wore only a black, one-piece swimsuit and a San Jose Sharks sweatshirt tied tightly around her waist.

Breathing rapidly, she began to tire. She slowed her pace to a walk and looked back across the beach. The sand was so hot that waves of heat rose from it and blurred her view. A lone seagull screeched overhead.

Her sisters were nowhere in sight.

Man, I thought for sure that Chelsea was going to chase me down and kill me.

She had to admit that it was a little gratifying to see the sand fly from her foot, covering Chelsea’s sub-sandwich and freshly oiled stomach. Grinning slightly, the tears stopped flowing. She rubbed her eyes.

Mellie looked in the direction of her sisters. “You guys can never take a joke.” Flipping her golden hair, she turned her head back toward her chosen path. She no longer smiled as she stomped her feet in the cold surf, remembering the hateful words that had been said.

“Oh, waa waa, you stupid cry baby! Go tell mommy! Maybe she’ll feel sorry for her ugly, fat baby. Why don’t you grow up? We don’t want you near us. Can’t you understand English? You are so dumb. Look at her mouth open. Oh wait, here she goes…come on, baby…cry!”

Mellie knew she couldn’t go back. They would only ridicule and torment her further. Her mom would never believe it was Chelsea’s fault. No, the evidence was on Chelsea’s side. Who was the one with the sand all over her oily, coconut-smelling body? Who was the one who had a sandwich full of sand? Mellie walked on.

After her temper finally cooled, it occurred to her that she had never walked so far alone.

How far have I gone?

A shadow passed over her, and she looked up. Nothing was there. A cool breeze from the ocean created a stark contrast to the scalding sand. She shivered but kept walking, lost in her loneliness.

Not until she stubbed her toe on a large broken clamshell did she look at the beach. A chill snaked up her back. Nothing appeared familiar. The sounds of the surf were still there, yet something was decidedly different. She felt dizzy. Looking around, she could not quite pinpoint the change. Then it struck her.

No people.

Where did everybody go?

Even though she could see no one, Mellie could swear that she felt eyes staring at her.

She looked inland across the sand, saw movement near some eucalyptus trees, but decided that the wind must have caused it.

Trees? So close to the beach?

Something shook the trees again, causing goosebumps to stand out on Mellie’s arms. Alarmed, she checked the skyline. The sun was close to setting. She hoped that the police weren’t out looking for her.

Suddenly cold, she pulled at the arms of the sweatshirt still tied around her waist. It fell to the sand. Bending to pick it up, she once again saw a blur of movement, except this time it came from a rocky outcrop by the waves. She shook the sand out of the sweatshirt and hurriedly tugged it over her head.

“Okay, I’m seeing things.” Mellie yanked at her hair, pulling it out of the sweatshirt. She stared at the sinister rocks. “Hel-lo?” Her voice cracked as she spoke louder. “Is someone the-ere? Hello?” No answer. The shadowy rocks seemed to quiver with excitement, beckoning her closer.

Hmm…probably just a seagull.

Even if it was a bird, she did not want to see it.

There’s no way I’m going over there.

The wind picked up and blew her hair into her eyes. The sand spun with the wind.

Yes, definitely time to move. I need to find a road.

She turned back toward the sweet smelling, oddly placed trees.

Mellie arrived at the base of the first, colossal eucalyptus tree. Without warning, one of the branches fell in front of her, then seemed to get up from the ground and pose its bottom stems in a military-like stance.

Mellie screamed and jumped back. “Branches don’t stand.”

“They do if they are walking sticks.” The eucalyptus branch chuckled, stretching to its full height, considerably taller than Mellie’s meager five feet.
She gasped, grabbed the branch, and threw it like a javelin, as hard as she could.

As she took off running, she heard a bark and halted. Turning, she saw a golden retriever bounding toward her with the stick in his mouth. The dog dropped it at her feet. She watched the dog run into the grove of trees and disappear before she fearfully turned back to the possessed stick.

It had already gained its footing again and stood over her. Mellie was too frightened to move this time.

A face emerged from the skinny twig and took on the characteristics of a male human, but none like Mellie had ever seen. He had hair made up in rolls as if it were a powdered, green-silver wig, the same color as the leaves that grew all around his skinny body. His face was long and his forehead high. The twiggy man smiled and said in a distinctly British, albeit breezy, accent, “Do not worry, you are safe.”

Mellie couldn’t answer.

“Ahh…I love new recruits. They are so easily addled.”

Feeling more confused than threatened, Mellie found her voice. “What? What do you mean, new recruits?” She rubbed her eyes, shaking her head. “Okay, I’m talking to a stick now. Yes, I have lost it. I have gone totally mental.”

“Oh, I say, am I to understand that I am the first to be revealed to you?” With round, leathery leaves, the branch resembled a toddler toy with rings stacked on one another.

She dropped open her mouth and nodded.

“Well, let me do this properly, then. Ahem. Mortal, made of clay, you have been Chosen to join the Fantastical, Aerial, International, Reasonably Inconspicuous, Emancipation Squads.”

“What? What are you? You look like a stick…but you can talk.”

“Yes, child,” the stick replied with a sigh. “But, I think we are quite past that by now. Have you not heard me? You have been Chosen.”

Mellie opened her mouth wider, closed it, frowned, and opened it once more. “Chosen? For what?”

“You did wish to be different? To change who you were? ’Twas an especially strong desire, yes?” The branch crossed its arms and tapped its twiggy foot.

“Umm…”

“Dear me, this is highly unusual. You made a choice to run away from a miserable life and asked to be set free? Correct?”

“Well, I, ah…yeah. I guess so. What did you say about recruit for some squad?”

“Humph. I see that I was not understood. Yes? Let me elucidate. The Fantastical, Aerial, International, Reasonably Inconspicuous, Emancipation Squads , or shall I say F.A.I.R.I.E.S.? have accepted you into their organization. You asked. You were answered.” The branch attempted a smile, but looked impatient instead.

“Fairies? I don’t believe in fairies.” Mellie winced, half expecting him to fall down and writhe in pain until she clapped her hands.

“Quite right. You are not supposed to. If humans truly believed we existed, we would never get anything accomplished.”

Mellie laughed and looked around for a hidden camera, thinking this must be a joke. “Right. Ah…heh…okay, bud, brilliant costume,” she said, imitating the branch’s accent. “Where’s the zipper?” She reached toward him and touched a soft leaf.

The branch slapped her hand away and stamped its foot with a loud cracking noise. “I beg your pardon. I have not been a bud for over 800 springs!” He paced, his leaves crumpling, mumbling to himself about humans and why, in the One’s name, did he listen to that confounded gnome who told him that he needed to stand gate duty. With his rank!

“I’m sorry I upset you. Please, I’m very confused. I’m lost, and I just want to go home.” Mellie bit her lip.

The branch stopped mid-pace. “Home? Earlier, did you not wish for a new life? And riches? I know you wished for treasure, hmm?”

“How do you know that?” Mellie furrowed her brow. “Have you been reading my mind?”

The twig man didn’t answer her questions, asking his own instead. “Ahh, so, you admit this, yes?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but…well, this really isn’t what I had in mind.”

The branch threw up its twiggy fingers. “Oh, well, of course you did not have this in mind. After all, we are reasonably inconspicuous, especially to humans. How could you have this in mind? However, is it not superior of the One to think that this is what you would have chosen had you known about us? Anyway, ’tis irrevocable now. So, if you would just follow me, we shall get you signed in and enrolled for training.”

The branch marched off between the trunks of two large eucalyptus trees.

Mellie slid uncontrollably after the walking stick. She planted her feet firmly, refusing to budge, but she slid after him anyway. Grasping at branches of nearby trees, she panted heavily as she struggled to resist following the branch. Some kind of invisible tie connected her to him. He seemed to pull her along with his every step.

Mellie thought about her sisters and how mad they were at her. I’m dead meat if they find me. Mellie quickly gave up her battle and ran after the eucalyptus branch, barely keeping up with his stride.

†

The sand changed to coarse dirt, with pebbles and sticks. More and more trees filled Mellie’s vision. Bushes scraped against her bare legs and slapped her face as she moved deeper inside a forest of eucalyptus and redwood trees. She winced in pain as a razor-sharp rock sliced her foot. Stopping to nurse it, she wished once again for her forgotten shoes.

“Excuse me, sir?” Mellie looked around. She could not see the branch anywhere.

“Do not call me ‘sir’, I work for a living.” The branch peeked out from around one of the gigantic trees. “And please, try to keep up. We need to reach the gateway.”

Mellie limped up to him. “Sorry, sir…I mean…umm, what should I call you then?”

“Oh, well, we did skip that. Did we not? Yes, all right, an introduction then.” The branch man seemed to enjoy formal etiquette for he gave an elaborate wave and bowed. “My name is Regnans, family of Myrtaceae, born member of the F.A.I.R.I.E.S., Britannia Wing, rank of Master Nymph Dryad.”

“Nice to meet you, Reg…Reg?” Mellie chewed on the inside of her mouth. Never good at remembering names, she knew she would offend him with her lack of manners.

Sure enough, the dryad raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Regnans.” He gave a hurt sniff, then drolly sneered. “If you find that a difficult name, you should meet the rest of my family, all seven-hundred thirty-four of them.”

“Sorry, I just…well, it is a lot to remember. It’s a nice name, though. My name is Maryellen Goodwin of Bret Harte Middle School, San Jose, California. But everyone calls me Mellie.” She stuck out her hand, intending to shake. Regnans stared at her.

“That is a strange curtsy. However, I guess ’twill do. We must get moving now. The shadows abound, you know.” Regnans made an about face and marched off faster than before.

Another hour passed, and still they strode along the forest floor. Mellie’s feet were now cut, blistered, and bleeding. She kept up as best she could with Regnans’s long stride. Whenever she tried to stop, he would pull her on with that invisible force of his.

Stupid, pompous, magical Star Wars freak.

She whimpered as she limped. Darkness and mist now covered the woods. As she was about to plead for a break, Regnans stopped. Except for her heavy gulps of air, all seemed quiet.

Regnans stiffened even more than usual. Nothing on him moved, apart from his eyes, which darted around quickly.

“All is safe, we may proceed.” He held up a twiggy finger to his woody mouth. “Please do not speak, and try not to breathe so abominably loud.”

Mellie nodded with a disgusted frown. Sweat dripped from her bangs. She tried to calm her breathing, even though her vision blurred, and her legs wobbled. Her blisters had popped by now and oozed wetness.

Regnans moved again, yet this time he took slow, deliberate steps, all the while scanning his surroundings. He walked up to a massive redwood tree and stroked its bark.

A breeze stirred up, rattling the leaves, sounding almost like spoken words. Mellie thought herself crazy again. However, the longer she stood there, the more she sensed that it really was the tree’s language, as if she had never listened to trees properly before. It said, “If you love, you will say the one true love that leads the way.”

Regnans whispered in a leaf rustling voice, “Ah-gaw-pay.”

A loud grumbling sound, as if someone awakened after a long sleep, shook the grove. The redwood tree opened two eyes, each the size of Mellie’s head, and blinked. A great fissure erupted below the eyes in the shape of a crescent, and redish-brown wooden teeth emerged. A long, knobby branch pushed its way out above the mouth and inhaled deeply.

The tree chuckled. Instead of the whispering leaves, a low, rumbling utterance of human speech came from the redwood tree. “Regnans? What brings you to my neck of the woods?” He blinked again. “And who is this? A new recruit? A human? A Chosen?”

Mellie knew she looked silly, standing there with her mouth in an ‘O’ shape, but she couldn’t move. This was simply impossible. There is no such thing as fairies!

“Yes, yes. Please open the gate, we must not dawdle here…they may be watching.” Regnans looked agitated.

A deep laugh resounded from the redwood. “Oh, Regnans. There are none who watch here.”

Regnans mumbled something about hamadryads and their pride, then proclaimed in a slightly louder voice to the tree, “We must be sober, be vigilant, because the shadow walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom it may devour.”

The hamadryad looked chagrined. “You speak true, dryad. Forgive me for acting like an arrogant seedling.” He glanced at Mellie, and with a lowered voice asked, “And what is your name, little human?”

Mellie managed to squeak out, “Mellie Goodwin.”

“Ah, ’tis always nice to have a Good Wind.” The hamadryad laughed heartily.

“Sorry to interrupt this lovely tete-a-tete,” Regnans said, “but would you please open the gate? I left Westside completely unguarded.”

An annoyed creak came from the base of the redwood, followed by a sigh. “Yes, Regnans. Agape you said, and agape it is. Go with the light, my friends.” The large, joyous eyes closed, and the hamadryad whispered in his leaf rustling voice, “Until we meet again, Good Wind.” His face disappeared, and his roots lifted and pulled apart, exposing a tunnel within his trunk.

Regnans grabbed Mellie’s hand with his rough, wooden one, and pulled her inside the opening. The tree closed itself abruptly and left them in total darkness.

Regnans cleared his throat and said, “Let there be light.”

A burst of dazzling brightness sparkled from the tunnel’s wall. Mellie glanced around and noticed a long, winding stairwell leading down into the ground.

“Shall we, then?” Not waiting for a reply, Regnans started down the steps.

Available at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com.

Buy books for Christmas gifts!

2011-12-01T09:42:00.006-07:00

Have you started your Christmas shopping yet? Don't hate me, but I'm nearly finished with my shopping.

May I make a suggestion? ---- Give books as gifts.

I've always loved to gift books. It feel more personal than a sweater or a wallet. Whenever I pick out a book for someone I take in account their taste in books, fiction or non-fiction, their life stage, their interests, their personality, etc. There's always something you can find that will be appropriate for that person on your list.

Now we have more choices than ever. You can purchase a book, an audio book, or an eBook. I know some people who are buying eBook readers for older folks because they can make the text any size necessary to read easily.

Do you have a favorite author? Introduce your friends to his/her books. If you're unsure of what kind of book someone might like, buy a gift card for books. Here are some links to purchase gift cards:

We did our Christmas shopping last weekend. While buying the books we're gifting, I came up with a great idea for bookstores--they should supply shoppers with those grocery carts. By the time I was checking out, my arms were numb from holding so many books!

Do you buy books for your Christmas gift giving? What kind? Which authors?

Novel Ideas

2011-11-29T04:06:00.001-07:00

Before a writer sits down to write a novel, they've got to have an idea of what they want to write. But where do ideas come from?

I've heard other authors say they might see an article in the news, and they'll take it one step further by asking,"what if?" Some writers take a family story and embellish the details and create a new plot. Some writers stumble across an idea overhearing strangers talking.

My book that's currently being shopped around was birthed by a writing prompt: Unidentifiable antique, the scent of pipe tobacco and the drizzle of rain – make a scene.

The prompt was part of an online interview to promote Out of Her Hands, and the scene I created haunted me. It was shrouded in mystery -- possibilities unexplored. One day during my lunch break the first paragraph of The Lady in the Locket dropped into my mind. I quickly wrote it down, and I was off. Of course then I had to figure out the mystery and create a plot. By the way, the scene that inspired the book doesn't appear until the end of the first third of the book.

The photo above was part of the inspiration for my wip (work in progress). About 23 or so years ago, my Aunt Kathryn gave me this picture on one of her visits. It was taken in March 1913 during a flood that impacted much of the Capitol District of New York State. This particular photo was taken in South Troy, where my family lived. Somewhere along the line, the idea to write a time travel historical novel began to dance around my imagination. When I was pondering the era to transport my character into, I recalled the photo and began to research the flood, Troy, NY, and the beginning of the last century. I marinated the plot for a while, and now I'm about half finished with The Journey's of Margaret Caruso.

Writers, can you share how you land on an idea? Readers, what do you think would be a good plot to a novel?

Thankful for other stuff, too.

2011-11-24T06:14:00.003-07:00

Since it's Thanksgiving, I thought I'd share some random thoughts on thankfulness. I could run down the list of faith, family and friends, but then my list would look like a thousand other lists. Don't get me wrong, I'm abundantly blessed and have wonderful family and friends, but that's not the point here.

I'm thankful for happy memories that make me cry. They illustrate the depth of love that I've experienced.
I'm thankful for the difficulties I've encountered. They've helped me persist and keep moving forward with renewed optimism.
I'm thankful for the people in my life who have betrayed and rejected me. They've made me more sensitive to the people I love and cherish, and they've helped me to understand that I'm not entitled to kindness, no one is. They've also instilled in me a spirit of thankfulness for kindnesses shown to me.
I'm thankful that Mary Gleeson Minehan (pictured on the right) carried a delicious dressing recipe with her when she came from Ireland to NY 100+ years ago and handed down the recipe to her daughter who handed it her daughter who handed it to me. She's my great grandmother. :)
I'm thankful publishing hasn't been an easy journey for me. That way I continue to improve my craft and I'm even more grateful for any success I enjoy.
I'm thankful for the memory my daughter shared today: For several years before he passed away, my Dad joined us for Thanksgiving. He loved to cook. One year my daughter watched him put the turkey in the oven and asked, "What do we do now?" My Dad smiled and said, "We dance!" And they did, to an old Louis Armstrong CD. I love remembering that day. Dad took turns dancing with me and my daughters. Another happy memory that makes me tearful.
I'm thankful that not all my goals have been met. It keeps me dreaming of the future.

What are some things you're thankful for?

When Characters Introduce Themselves

2011-11-22T05:30:00.001-07:00

My husband often gets a kick out of the people (strangers) who strike up a conversation with me. Last year a lady came up and said, "Want to know what your problem is?" Of course I said yes.

I must have one of those faces, because strangers often feel comfortable talking with me.

On Saturday I was in Hobby Lobby buying floral stems to put into my vintage basket. Since having the inside of the house painted I needed to re-do the arrangement in the basket. (See the photo to the right.)

But I digress. Anyway I was holding some pussy willow branches, and a lady came over and chatted with me. After our brief conversation, I'm convinced she's one of my future characters. Such a charmer!

"Excuse me," she said. "I noticed you had artificial pussy willow branches in your hand, and I wonder if you realize that you can get the real thing in the Naturals aisle."

I thanked her for sharing that info, and I explained that this was going to be in a long-term arrangement, so artificial was probably best.

She nodded her agreement, glanced at the pussy willows, and smiled. "You know I've always loved pussy willows, they remind me of Germany and an incident in my childhood."

"Really?" I stepped closer, avoiding being run over by a loaded shopping cart barreling down on us. "What?"

"We lived in Germany when I was four. One day my sister and I were playing by pussy willows. I don't know why, but I decided to stuff one up my nose. I started to get upset because I couldn't get it out, then my sister told me to push it up farther. So I did."

Now, isn't this an interesting conversation? How often do strangers come up to you and discuss wedging plant life up their nose?

"Anyway," she said, "a nice, young marine--we lived on a military base--asked why I was crying. My sister explained. He squatted in front of me and told me to hold my other nostril closed and blow hard. Of course that pussy willow shot right out of my nose!"

We both laughed and she went on her way. I knew when I got home I'd write that snippet of conversation down because somehow at sometime I've got to write a character into a novel with a similar story.

It's just plain fun when a character appears out of nowhere begging to be immortalized. Don't you think? Writers, when has this happened to you?

Writers Must Be Readers

2011-11-17T10:30:00.003-07:00

If you've been in the publishing community for more than ten minutes you've heard that writers must be readers. We need to read in and out of our genre, and we also should read books and magazines on the craft of writing.

This month I've got an article in Christian Fiction Online Magazine. CFO Magazine is a wonderful resource to keep up to date on the inspirational market, you should check it out.

My contribution is one of The Well Writer articles, called Writers--Be Refreshed! The article discusses the fact that to best access your creativity, you have to take good care of yourself. I also detail several methods to maintain and refresh your creativity.

Check it out, it might be just what you need to give yourself a creative lift.

Write on, friends!

A Sound Among the Trees -- and -- book giveaway!

2011-11-15T04:30:00.003-07:00

Today's Wild Card author is:

Susan Meissner

and the book:

A Sound Among the Trees

WaterBrook Press (October 4, 2011)

***Special thanks to Laura Tucker of WaterBrook Press for sending me a review copy.***

Susan gives the reader a beautifully written story. This gentle, somber story draws you in, and just when you think you know where the plot's going, everything changes. I loved this book so much I was resentful when life intruded on my reading time. You won't be disappointed with this skillfully written, beautiful story.

***Book Giveaway!

Leave a comment about A Sound Among the Trees or any other of Susan's books to enter a drawing for a copy of A Sound Among the Trees. I'll draw the winner on Saturday!

CONGRATULATIONS, Charise -- the winner of the book!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Award-winning writer Susan Meissner is a multi-published author, speaker and workshop leader with a background in community journalism. Her novels include The Shape of Mercy, named by Publishers Weekly as one of the Best Books of 2008. She is a pastor’s wife and a mother of four. When she's not writing, Susan directs the Small Groups and Connection Ministries program at her San Diego church.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

A house shrouded in time. A line of women with a heritage of loss. As a young bride, Susannah Page was rumored to be a Civil War spy for the North, a traitor to her Virginian roots. Her great-granddaughter Adelaide, the current matriarch of Holly Oak, doesn't believe that Susannah's ghost haunts the antebellum mansion looking for a pardon, but rather the house itself bears a grudge toward its tragic past.

When Marielle Bishop marries into the family and is transplanted from the arid west to her husband's home, it isn't long before she is led to believe that the house she just settled into brings misfortune to the women who live there.

With Adelaide's richly peppered superstitions and deep family roots at stake, Marielle must sort out the truth about Susannah Page and Holly Oak— and make peace with the sacrifices she has made for love.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 336 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (October 4, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0307458857
ISBN-13: 978-0307458858

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Excerpt

The bride stood in a circle of Virginia sunlight, her narrow heels clicking on Holly Oak’s patio stones as she greeted strangers in the receiving line. Her wedding dress was a simple A-line, strapless, with a gauzy skirt of white that breezed about her knees like lacy curtains at an open window. She had pulled her unveiled brunette curls into a loose arrangement dotted with tiny flowers that she’d kept alive on her flight from Phoenix. Her only jewelry was a white topaz pendant at her throat and the band of platinum on her left ring finger. Tall, slender, and tanned from the famed and relentless Arizona sun, hers was a girl-nextdoor look: pretty but not quite beautiful. Adelaide thought it odd that Marielle held no bouquet.

From the parlor window Adelaide watched as her grandson-in-law, resplendent in a black tuxedo next to his bride, bent toward the guests and greeted them by name, saying, “This is Marielle.” An explanation seemed ready to spring from his lips each time he shook the hand of someone who had known Sara, her deceased granddaughter. His first wife. Carson stood inches from Marielle, touching her elbow every so often, perhaps to assure himself that after four years a widower he had indeed patently and finally moved on from grief.

Smatterings of conversations wafted about on the May breeze and into the parlor as received guests strolled toward trays of sweet tea and champagne. Adelaide heard snippets from her place at the window. Hudson and Brette, her great-grandchildren, had moved away from the snaking line of gray suits and pastel dresses within minutes of the first guests’ arrival and were now studying the flower-festooned gift table under the window ledge, touching the bows, fingering the silvery white wrappings. Above the children, an old oak’s youngest branches shimmied to the tunes a string quartet produced from the gazebo beyond the receiving line.

Adelaide raised a teacup to her lips and sipped the last of its contents, allowing the lemony warmth to linger at the back of her throat. She had spent the better part of the morning readying the garden for Carson and Marielle’s wedding reception, plucking spent geranium blossoms, ordering the catering staff about, and straightening the rented linen tablecloths. She needed to join the party now that it had begun. The Blue-Haired Old Ladies would be wondering where she was.

Her friends had been the first to arrive, coming through the garden gate on the south side of the house at five minutes before the hour. She’d watched as Carson introduced them to Marielle, witnessed how they cocked their necks in blue-headed unison to sweetly scrutinize her grandson-in-law’s new wife, and heard their welcoming remarks through the open window.

Deloris gushed about how lovely Marielle’s wedding dress was and what, pray tell, was the name of that divine purple flower she had in her hair?

Pearl invited Marielle to her bridge club next Tuesday afternoon and asked her if she believed in ghosts.

Maxine asked her how Carson and she had met—though Adelaide had told her weeks ago that Carson met Marielle on the Internet—and why on earth Arizona didn’t like daylight-saving time.

Marielle had smiled, sweet and knowing—like the kindergarten teacher who finds the bluntness of five-year-olds endearing—and answered the many questions.

Mojave asters. She didn’t know how to play bridge. She’d never encountered a ghost so she couldn’t really say but most likely not. She and Carson met online. There’s no need to save what one has an abundance of. Carson had cupped her elbow in his hand, and his thumb caressed the inside of her arm while she spoke.

Adelaide swiftly set the cup down on the table by the window, whisking away the remembered tenderness of that same caress on Sara’s arm.

Carson had every right to remarry.

Sara had been dead for four years.

She turned from the bridal tableau outside and inhaled deeply the gardenia-scented air in the parlor. Unbidden thoughts of her granddaughter sitting with her in that very room gently nudged her. Sara at six cutting out paper dolls. Memorizing multiplication tables at age eight. Sewing brass buttons onto gray wool coats at eleven. Sara reciting a poem for English Lit at sixteen, comparing college acceptance letters at eighteen, sharing a chance letter from her estranged mother at nineteen, showing Adelaide her engagement ring at twenty-four. Coming back home to Holly Oak with Carson when Hudson was born. Nursing Brette in that armchair by the fireplace. Leaning against the door frame and telling Adelaide that she was expecting her third child.

Right there Sara had done those things while Adelaide sat at the long table in the center of the room, empty now but usually awash in yards of stiff Confederate gray, glistening gold braid, and tiny piles of brass buttons—the shining elements of officer reenactment uniforms before they see war.

Adelaide ran her fingers along the table’s polished surface, the warm wood as old as the house itself. Carson had come to her just a few months ago while she sat at that table piecing together a sharpshooter’s forest green jacket. He had taken a chair across from her as Adelaide pinned a collar, and he’d said he needed to tell her something.

He’d met someone.

When she’d said nothing, he added, “It’s been four years, Adelaide.”

“I know how long it’s been.” The pins made a tiny plucking sound as their pointed ends pricked the fabric.

“She lives in Phoenix.”

“You’ve never been to Phoenix.”

“Mimi.” He said the name Sara had given her gently, as a father might. A tender reprimand. He waited until she looked up at him. “I don’t think Sara would want me to live the rest of my life alone. I really don’t. And I don’t think she would want Hudson and Brette not to have a mother.”

“Those children have a mother.”

“You know what I mean. They need to be mothered. I’m gone all day at work. I only have the weekends with them. And you won’t always be here. You’re a wonderful great-grandmother, but they need someone to mother them, Mimi.”

She pulled the pin cushion closer to her and swallowed. “I know they do.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “And I…I miss having someone to share my life with. I miss the companionship. I miss being in love. I miss having someone love me.”

Adelaide smoothed the pieces of the collar. “So. You are in love?”

He had taken a moment to answer. “Yes. I think I am.”

Carson hadn’t brought anyone home to the house, and he hadn’t been on any dates. But he had lately spent many nights after the children were in bed in his study—the old drawing room—with the door closed. When she’d pass by, Adelaide would hear the low bass notes of his voice as he spoke softly into his phone. She knew that gentle sound. She had heard it before, years ago when Sara and Carson would sit in the study and talk about their day. His voice, deep and resonant. Hers, soft and melodic.

“Are you going to marry her?”

Carson had laughed. “Don’t you even want to know her name?”

She had not cared at that moment about a name. The specter of being alone in Holly Oak shoved itself forward in her mind. If he remarried, he’d likely move out and take the children with him. “Are you taking the children? Are you leaving Holly Oak?”

“Adelaide—”

“Will you be leaving?”

Several seconds of silence had hung suspended between them. Carson and Sara had moved into Holly Oak ten years earlier to care for Adelaide after heart surgery and had simply stayed. Ownership of Holly Oak had been Sara’s birthright and was now Hudson and Brette’s future inheritance. Carson stayed on after Sara died because, in her grief, Adelaide asked him to, and in his grief, Carson said yes.

“Will you be leaving?” she asked again.

“Would you want me to leave?” He sounded unsure.

“You would stay?”

Carson had sat back in his chair. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to take Hudson and Brette out of the only home they’ve known. They’ve already had to deal with more than any kid should.”

“So you would marry this woman and bring her here. To this house.”

Carson had hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”

She knew without asking that they were not talking solely about the effects moving would have on a ten-year-old boy and a six-year-old girl. They were talking about the strange biology of their grief. Sara had been taken from them both, and Holly Oak nurtured their common sorrow in the most kind and savage of ways. Happy memories were one way of keeping someone attached to a house and its people. Grief was the other. Surely Carson knew this. An inner nudging prompted her to consider asking him what his new bride would want.

“What is her name?” she asked instead.

And he answered, “Marielle…”

Excerpted from A Sound Among the Trees by Susan Meissner Copyright © 2011 by Susan Meissner. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

A good read -- Yesterday's Tomorrow

2011-11-10T04:02:00.001-07:00

Yesterday's Tomorrow by Catherine West is a bittersweet tale set in the chaos of the 1960s. Young journalist Kristin Taylor travels to Vietnam in search of truth and discovers much more. Her raw and honest reporting stirs up trouble both for her and the man she's falling in love with.

I love that this novel is set in a time period underserved by publishing. The 60s was a time that shaped our future, a time people grappled with ideas of war and peace and equality.

The writing was beautiful, and the story was captivating. Yesterday's Tomorrow kept me turning pages, and in the end, wishing for more.

Here's the book trailer:

Mercy Come Morning

2011-11-08T05:08:00.000-07:00

Today's Wild Card author is:

Lisa T. Bergren

and the book:

Mercy Come Morning

WaterBrook Press; Reprint edition (August 16, 2011)

***Special thanks to Laura Tucker of WaterBrook Press for sending me a review copy.***

I absolutely LOVED this book. Lisa crafted a haunting story with beautiful language and breathtaking imagery. This book tugs at your heart and takes the reader on an emotional journey with Krista that is both scary and tender. Mercy Come Morning is a sweet tale of forgiveness -- something we all need to master. I highly recommend this lovely story.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

LISA BERGREN is the best-selling, award-winning author of more than thirty books, with more than two million copies sold. A former publishing executive, she now splits her time working as a freelance editor and writer while parenting three children with her husband, Tim, and dreaming of the family’s next visit to Taos.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

There are no second chances. Or are there?

Krista Mueller is in a good place. She’s got a successful career as a professor of history; she’s respected and well-liked; and she lives hundreds of miles from her hometown and the distant mother she could never please. It’s been more than a decade since Alzheimer’s disease first claimed Charlotte Mueller’s mind, but Krista has dutifully kept her mother in a first-class nursing home.

Now Charlotte is dying of heart failure and, surprised by her own emotions, Krista rushes to Taos, New Mexico, to sit at her estranged mother’s side as she slips away. Battling feelings of loss, abandonment, and relief, Krista is also unsettled by her proximity to Dane McConnell, director of the nursing home—and, once upon a time, her first love. Dane’s kind and gentle spirit—and a surprising discovery about her mother—make Krista wonder if she can at last close the distance between her and her mother … and open the part of her heart she thought was lost forever.

“A timeless tale, to be kept every day in the heart as a reminder
that forgiveness is a gift to self.”
—PATRICIA HICKMAN, author of The Pirate Queen

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 240 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press; Reprint edition (August 16, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0307730107
ISBN-13: 978-0307730107

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

“She’s dying, Krista.”

I took a long, slow breath. “She died a long time ago, Dane.”

He paused, and I could picture him formulating his next words, something that would move me. Why was my relationship with my mother so important to him? I mean, other than the fact that she was a patient in his care. “There’s still time, Kristabelle.”

I sighed. Dane knew that his old nickname for me always got to me. “For what? For long, deep conversations?” I winced at the harsh slice of sarcasm in my tone.

“You never know,” he said quietly. “An aide found something you should see.”

“What?”

“Come. I’ll keep it here in my office until you arrive. Consider it a Christmas present.”

“It’s December ninth.”

“Okay, consider it an early present.”

It was typical of him to hold out a mysterious hook like that. “I don’t know, Dane. The school term isn’t over yet. It’s a hard time to get someone to cover for me.” It wasn’t the whole truth. I had an assistant professor who could handle things on her own. And I could get back for finals. Maybe. Unless Dane wasn’t overstating the facts.

“Krista. She’s dying. Her doctor tells me she has a few weeks, tops. Tell your department chair. He’ll let you go. This is the end.” I stared out my cottage window to the old pines that covered my yard in shadows. The end. The end had always seemed so far away. Too far away. In some ways I wanted an end to my relationship with my mother, the mother who had never loved me as I longed to be loved. When she started disappearing, with her went so many
of my hopes for what could have been. The road to this place had been long and lonely. Except for Dane. He had always been there, had always waited. I owed it to him to show. “I’ll be there on Saturday.”

“I’ll be here. Come and find me.”

“Okay. I teach a Saturday morning class. I can get out of here after lunch and down there by five or six.”

“I’ll make you dinner.”

“Dane, I—”

“Dinner. At seven.”

I slowly let my mouth close and paused. I was in no mood to argue with him now. “I’ll meet you at Cimarron,” I said.
“Great. It will be good to see you, Kristabelle.” I closed my eyes, imagining him in his office at Cimarron Care Center. Brushing his too-long hair out of his eyes as he looked through his own window.

“It will be good to see you, too, Dane. Good-bye.”

He hung up then without another word, and it left me feeling slightly bereft. I hung on to the telephone receiver as if I could catch one more word, one more breath, one more connection with the man who had stolen my heart at sixteen.

Dane McConnell remained on my mind as I wrapped up things at the college, prepped my assistant, Alissa, to handle my history classes for the following week, and then drove the scenic route down to Taos from Colorado Springs, about a five-hour trip. My old Honda Prelude hugged the roads along the magnificent San Luis Valley. The valley’s shoulders were still covered in late spring snow, her belly carpeted in a rich, verdant green. It was here that in 1862 Maggie O’Neil single-handedly led a wagon train to settle a town in western Colorado, and nearby Cecilia Gaines went so
crazy one winter they named a waterway in her honor—“Woman Hollering Creek.”

I drove too fast but liked the way the speed made my scalp tingle when I rounded a corner and dipped, sending my stomach flying. Dane had never driven too fast. He was methodical in everything he did, quietly moving ever forward. He had done much in his years since grad school, establishing Cimarron and making it a national think tank for those involved in gerontology. After high school we had essentially ceased communication for years before Cimarron came about. Then when Mother finally got to the point in her descent into Alzheimer’s that she needed fulltime institutionalized care, I gave him a call. I hadn’t been able to find a facility that I was satisfied with for more than a year, when a college friend had shown me the magazine article on the opening of Cimarron and its patron saint, Dane McConnell.

“Good looking and nice to old people,” she had moaned. “Why can’t I meet a guy like that?”

“I know him,” I said, staring at the black-and-white photograph.

“Get out.”

“I do. Or did. We used to be…together.”

“What happened?” she asked, her eyes dripping disbelief.

“I’m not sure.”

I still wasn’t sure. Things between us had simply faded over the years. But when I saw him again, it all seemed to come back. Or at least a part of what we had once had. There always seemed to be a submerged wall between us, something we couldn’t quite bridge or blast through. So we had simply gone swimming toward different shores.

Mother’s care had brought us back together over the last five years. With the congestive heart failure that was taking her body, I supposed the link between us would finally be severed. I would retreat to Colorado, and he would remain in our beloved Taos, the place of our youth, of our beginnings, of our hearts. And any lingering dream of living happily ever after with Dane McConnell could be buried forever with my unhappy memories of Mother.

I loosened my hands on the wheel, realizing that I was gripping

it so hard my knuckles were white. I glanced in the rearview mirror, knowing that my reverie was distracting me from paying attention to the road. It was just that Dane was a hard man to get over. His unique ancestry had gifted him with the looks of a Scottish Highlander and the sultry, earthy ways of the Taos Indians. A curious, inspiring mix that left him with both a leader’s stance and a wise man’s knowing eyes. Grounded but visionary. A driving force, yet empathetic at the same time. His employees loved working for him. Women routinely fell in love with him.

I didn’t know why I could never get my act together so we could finally fall in love and stay in love. He’d certainly done his part. For some reason I’d always sensed that Dane was waiting for me, of all people. Why messed-up, confused me? Yet there he was. I’d found my reluctance easy to blame on my mother. She didn’t love me as a mother should, yada-yada, but I’d had enough time with my counselor to know that there are reasons beyond her. Reasons that circle back to myself.

I’d always felt as if I was chasing after parental love, but the longer I chased it, the further it receded from my reach. It left a hole in my heart that I was hard-pressed to fill. God had come close to doing the job. Close. But there was still something there, another blockade I had yet to blast away. I would probably be working on my “issues” my whole life. But as my friend Michaela says, “Everyone’s got issues.” Supposedly I need to embrace them. I just want them to go away.

“Yeah,” I muttered. Dane McConnell was better off without me. Who needed a woman still foundering in her past?

I had to focus on Mother. If this was indeed the end, I needed to wrap things up with her. Find closure. Some measure of peace. Even if she couldn’t say the words I longed to hear.

I love you, Krista.

Why was it that she had never been able to force those four words from her lips?

Excerpted from Mercy Come Morning by Lisa Tawn Bergren Copyright © 2011 by Lisa Tawn Bergren. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Language Fun for NaNo participants

2011-11-03T04:05:00.000-06:00

In honor of NaNoWriMo here's a post about about some of the words in the English language. In case you're not familiar with NaNo, it's a yearly challenge for professional and amateur writers to write 50,000 words of a novel in the month of November.

This post serves no purpose other than to allow people a moment to say, "Hmm." And sometimes that's a good thing.

Enjoy!

'Stewardesses' is the longest word typed with only the left hand.

And 'lollipop' is the longest word typed with your right hand.

No word in the English language rhymes with month, orange, silver, or purple.

'Dreamt' is the only English word that ends in the letters 'mt'.

The sentence: 'The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog' uses every letter of the alphabet. (Do you remember typing that in typing class?)

There are only four words in the English language which end in 'dous': tremendous, horrendous, stupendous, and hazardous.

The words 'racecar,' 'kayak' and 'level' are the same whether they are read left to right or right to left (palindromes).

There are two words in the English language that have all five vowels in order: 'abstemious' and 'facetious.' (Yes, admit it, you are saying, a e i o u)

TYPEWRITER is the longest word that can be made using the letters only on one row of the keyboard.

A 'jiffy' is an actual unit of time for 1/100th of a second.

Another good book: Lethal Remedy by Richard Mabry, M.D.

2011-11-01T04:03:00.000-06:00

Today's Wild Card author is:

Richard L. Mabry, MD

and the book:

Lethal Remedy

Abingdon Press (October 2011)

***Special thanks to Julie Dowd (Abingdon Press) for sending me a review copy.***

I love to read different authors and different genres, and this is the first book I've read by Mabry. Lethal Remedy is sharp, fast, and intriguing. This author is skilled in weaving a tight, compelling plot. Don't take my word for it -- read it yourself. :)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Richard L. Mabry, MD, is a retired physician and medical school professor who achieved worldwide recognition as a clinician, writer, and teacher before turning his talents to non-medical writing after his retirement. He is the author of The Prescription for Trouble Series, one non-fiction book, and his inspirational piesces have appeared in numerous periodicals. He and his wife, Kay, live in North Texas.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

An epidemic of a highly resistant bacteria, Staphylococcus luciferus, has ignited, and Dr. Sara Miles' patient is on the threshold of death. Only an experimental antibiotic developed and administered by Sara's ex-husband, Dr. Jack Ingersoll can save the girl's life.

Dr. John Ramsey is seeking to put his life together after the death of his wife by joining the medical school faculty. But his decision could prove to be costly, even fatal.
Potentially lethal late effects from the experimental drug send Sara and her colleague, Dr. Rip Pearson, on a hunt for hidden critical data that will let them reverse the changes before it’s too late. What is the missing puzzle piece? And who is hiding it?

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 288 pages
Publisher: Abingdon Press (October 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1426735448
ISBN-13: 978-1426735448

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

No one knew the man’s name. White male, probably in his late seventies, found unresponsive in an alley about two o’clock in the morning and brought to the emergency room. Just another homeless derelict, another John Doe.

“Pneumonia, late stages,” the intern said. He yawned. “Happens all the time. Drank himself into a stupor, vomited, aspirated. Probably been lying in that alley for more than a day. Doesn’t look like he’ll make it.”

“Labs cooking? Got a sputum culture going?”

“Yeah, but it’ll take a day or two to get the results of the culture. The smear looks like Staph. Guess I’ll give him—”

“Wait. I’ve got access to an experimental drug that might help. Let me start him on that.”

The intern shrugged. It was two in the morning. He’d been on duty for more than twenty-four hours straight—why’d Johnson’s wife have to go into labor today?—and he was bushed. The bum probably didn’t have a snowball’s chance of surviving anyway. Why not? “You’ll be responsible?”

“I’ll take it from here. Even do the paperwork.”

“Deal,” the intern said, and ambled off to see the next patient.

Three hours later, John Doe lay on a gurney in a corner of the ER. An IV ran into one arm, a blood pressure cuff encircled the other. Spittle dripped from his open mouth and dotted his unshaven chin. His eyes were open and staring.

“Acute anaphylaxis, death within minutes. Interesting.” He scratched his chin. “Guess I need to make some adjustments in the compound.” He picked up the almost-blank chart. “I’ll say I gave him ampicillin and sulbactam. That should cover it.”

* * *

The woman’s look pierced Dr. Sara Miles’ heart. “Do you know what’s wrong with Chelsea?”

Chelsea Ferguson lay still and pale as a mannequin in the hospital bed. An IV carried precious fluids and medications into a vein in her arm. A plastic tube delivered a constant supply of oxygen to her nostrils. Above the girl’s head, monitors beeped and flashed. And over it all wafted the faint antiseptic smell of the ICU.

Chelsea’s mother sat quietly at the bedside, but her hands were never still: arranging and rearranging her daughter’s cover, twisting the hem of her plain brown skirt, shredding a tissue. Sara decided that the gray strands in Mrs. Ferguson’s long brunette hair were a recent addition, along with the lines etched in her face.

Sara put her hand on the teenager’s head and smoothed the matted brown curls. The girl’s hot flesh underscored the urgency of the situation. Since Chelsea’s admission to University Hospital three days ago, her fever hadn’t responded to any of the treatments Sara ordered. If anything, the girl was worse.

“Let’s slip out into the hall,” Sara said. She tiptoed from the bedside and waited outside the room while Mrs. Ferguson kissed her sleeping daughter and shuffled through the door.

Sara pointed. “Let’s go into the family room for a minute.”

“Will she be—?”

“The nurses will check on her, and they’ll call me if anything changes.” Sara led the way into the room and eased the door closed. This family room resembled so many others Sara had been in over the years: small, dim, and quiet. Six wooden chairs with lightly upholstered seats and backs were arranged along three of the walls. Illumination came from a lamp in the corner. A Bible, several devotional magazines, and a box of tissues stood within reach on a coffee table.

This was a room where families received bad news: the biopsy was positive, the treatment hadn’t worked, the doctors weren’t able to save their loved one. The cloying scent of flowers in a vase on an end table reminded Sara of a funeral home, and she shivered as memories came unbidden. She shoved her emotions aside and gestured Mrs. Ferguson to a seat. “Would you like something? Water? Coffee? A soft drink?”

The woman shook her head. “No. Just tell me what’s going on with my daughter. Do you know what’s wrong with her? Can you save her?” Her sob turned into a soft hiccup. “Is she going to die?”

Sara swallowed hard. “Chelsea has what we call sepsis. You might have heard it referred to as blood poisoning. It happens when bacteria get into the body and enter the bloodstream. In Chelsea’s case, this probably began when she had her wisdom teeth extracted.”

I can’t believe the dentist didn’t put her on a prophylactic antibiotic before the procedure. Sara brushed those thoughts aside. That wasn’t important now. The important thing was saving the girl’s life. Sara marshaled her thoughts. “We took samples of Chelsea’s blood at the time of her admission, and while we waited for the results of the blood cultures I started treatment with a potent mixture of antibiotics. As you can see, that hasn’t helped.”

“Why?”

Sara wished the woman wouldn’t be so reasonable, so placid. She wished Mrs. Ferguson would scream and cry. If the roles were reversed, she’d do just that. “While we wait for the results of blood cultures, we make a guess at the best antibiotics to use. Most of the time, our initial guess is right. This time, it was wrong—badly wrong.”

“But now you know what’s causing the infection?” It was a question, not a statement.

“Yes, we know.” And it’s not good news.

Hope tinged Mrs. Ferguson’s voice. “You can fix this, can’t you?”

I wish I could. “The bacteria causing Chelsea’s sepsis is one that . . .” Sara paused and started again. “Have you heard of Mersa?”

“Mersa? No. What’s that?”

“It’s actually MRSA, but doctors usually pronounce it that way. That’s sort of a medical shorthand for methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, a bacteria that’s resistant to most of our common antibiotics.”

Mrs. Ferguson frowned. “You said most. Do you have something that will work?”

“Yes, we do. Matter of fact, when Chelsea was admitted I started her on two strong antibiotics, a combination that’s generally effective against MRSA. But she hasn’t responded, because this isn’t MRSA. It’s worse than MRSA.” She started to add “Much worse,” but the words died in her throat.

Sara paused and waited for Mrs. Ferguson to ask the next question. Instead, the woman crumpled the tissue she held and dabbed at the corner of her eyes, eyes in which hope seemed to die as Sara watched.

“This is what we call a ‘super-bug,’” Sara continued. “It used to be rare, but we’re seeing more and more infections with it. Right now, none of the commercially available antibiotics are effective. These bacteria are resistant to everything we can throw at them.”

Mrs. Ferguson’s voice was so quiet Sara almost missed the words. “What do you call it?”

“It’s a long name, and it’s not important that you know it.” Matter of fact, we don’t use the proper name most of the time. We just call it “The Killer.”

“So that’s it?”

“No, there’s a doctor at our medical center doing trials on an experimental drug that might work for Chelsea.” No need to mention that Jack is . . . No, let it go.

“Can you get some of this? Give it to Chelsea?”

“I can’t, but the man who can is an infectious disease specialist on the faculty here at the medical center. Actually, he helped develop it. Notice I said ‘experimental,’ which means there may be side effects. But if you want me—”

“Do it!” For the first time in days, Sara saw a spark of life in Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes, heard hope in her voice. “Call him! Now! Please!”

“You realize that this drug isn’t fully tested yet. It may not work. Or the drug may cause problems.” There, she’d said it twice in different words. She’d done her duty.

“I don’t care. My little girl is dying. I’ll sign the releases. Anything you need. If this is our only chance, please, let’s take it.”

Lord, I hope I haven’t made a mistake. “I’ll make the call.”

“I’m going back to be with my baby,” Mrs. Ferguson said. She stood and squared her shoulders. “While you call, I’ll pray.”

* * *

“Mr. Wolfe, you can come in now.” The secretary opened the doors to Dr. Patel’s office as though she were St. Peter ushering a supplicant through the Pearly Gates.

Bob Wolfe bit back the retort he wanted to utter. It’s Doctor Wolfe. Doctor of Pharmacology. I worked six years to earn that Pharm D, not to mention two years of research fellowship. How about some respect? But this wasn’t the time to fight that battle.

He straightened his tie, checked that there were no stains on his fresh white lab coat, and walked into the office of the head of Jandra Pharmaceuticals as though he had been summoned to receive a medal. Never let them see you sweat.

Dr. David Patel rose from behind his desk and beamed, gesturing toward the visitor’s chair opposite. “Bob, come in. Sit down. I appreciate your coming.”

Not much choice, was there? Wolfe studied his boss across the expanse of uncluttered mahogany that separated them. Pharmaceutical companies seemed to be made up of two groups: the geeks and the glad-handers. Patel typified the former group. PhD from Cal Tech, brilliant research mind, but the social skills of a tortoise. Patel had been snatched from the relative obscurity of a research lab at Berkeley by the Board of Directors of Jandra Pharmaceuticals, given the title of President and CEO, and charged with breathing life into the struggling company. How Patel planned to do that remained a mystery to Wolfe and his co-workers.

Patel leaned forward and punched a button on a console that looked like it could launch a space probe. “Cindy, please ask Mr. Lindberg to join us.”

Steve Lindberg ran the sales team from an office across the hall. Lindberg could memorize salient scientific material and regurgitate it with the best of them, but Wolfe would bet the man’s understanding of most of Jandra’s products and those of its major competitors was a mile wide and an inch deep. On the other hand, Lindberg had his own area of expertise: remembering names, paying for food and drinks, arranging golf games at exclusive clubs. No doubt about it, Lindberg was a classic glad-hander, which was why he had ascended to his current position, heading the marketing team at Jandra.

Wolfe hid a smile. Interesting. The President of the company and the Director of Marketing. This could be big. The door behind Wolfe opened. He deliberately kept his eyes front. Be cool. Let this play out.

“Hey, Bob. It’s good to see you.” Wolfe turned just in time to avoid the full force of a hand landing on his shoulder. Even the glancing blow made him wince. Lindberg dragged a chair to the side of Patel’s desk, positioning himself halfway between the two men. Clever. Not taking sides, but clearly separating himself from the underling.

Wolfe studied the two men and, not for the first time, marveled at the contrast in their appearance. Patel was swarthy, slim, and sleek, with jet-black hair and coal-black eyes. His blue shirt had a white collar on which was centered the unfashionably large knot of an unfashionably wide gold-and-black tie. Wolfe wondered whether the man was five years behind or one ahead of fashion trends. He spoke with a trace of a British accent, and Wolfe seemed to recall that Patel had received part of his education at Oxford. Maybe he wore an “old school” tie, without regard to current fashion. If so, it would be typical of Patel.

Lindberg was middle-aged but already running to fat—or, more accurately, flab. His florid complexion gave testimony to too many helpings of rare roast beef accompanied by glasses of single malt Scotch, undoubtedly shared with top-drawer doctors and paid for on the Janus expense account. Lindberg’s eyes were the color of burnished steel, and showed a glimmer of naked ambition that the smile pasted on his face couldn’t disguise. His thinning blond hair was combed carefully to cover early male pattern baldness. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled halfway to his elbows. His tie was at half-mast and slightly askew.

Patel, the geek. Lindberg, the glad-hander. Different in so many ways. But both men shared one characteristic. Wolfe knew from experience that each man would sell his mother if it might benefit the company, or more specifically, their position in it. The two of them together could mean something very good or very bad for Bob Wolfe. He eased forward in his chair and kicked his senses into high gear.

Patel leaned back and tented his fingers. “Bob, I’m sure you’re wondering what this is about. Well, I wanted to congratulate you on the success of EpAm848. I’ve been looking over the preliminary information, especially the reports from Dr. Ingersoll at Southwestern Medical Center. Very impressive.”

“Well, it’s sort of Ingersoll’s baby. He stumbled onto it when he was doing some research here during his infectious disease fellowship at UC Berkeley. I think he wants it to succeed as much as we do.”

“I doubt that.” Patel leaned forward with both hands on the desk. “Jandra is on the verge of bankruptcy. I want that drug on the market ASAP!”

“But we’re not ready. We need more data,” Wolfe said.

“Here’s the good news,” Patel said. “The FDA is worried about The Killer bacteria outbreak. I’ve pulled a few strings, called in a bunch of favors, and I can assure you we can get this application fast-tracked.”

“How?” Wolfe said. “We’re still doing Phase II trials. What about Phase III? Assuming everything goes well, it’s going to be another year, maybe two, before we can do a rollout of EpAm848.”

“Not to worry,” Patel said. “Our inside man at the FDA assures me he can help us massage the data. We can get by with the Phase II trials we’ve already completed. And he’ll arrange things so we can use those plus some of our European studies to fulfill the Phase III requirements.”

Lindberg winked at Wolfe. “We may have to be creative in the way we handle our data. You and I need to get our heads together and see how many corners we can cut before the application is ready.”

Wolfe shook his head. “You say this drug will save us from bankruptcy. I don’t see that. I mean, yes, it looks like we may be in for a full-blown epidemic of Staph luciferus, but we won’t sell enough—“

Lindberg silenced him with an upraised hand. “Exposure, Bob. Exposure. If we get this drug on the market, if we’re the first with a cure, our name recognition will skyrocket. Doctors and patients will pay attention to our other drugs: blood pressure, cholesterol, diabetes. Our market share will go through the roof in all of them.”

Wolfe could see the salesman in Lindberg take over as he leaned closer, as though to drive home his point by proximity. “We’re preparing a direct-to-consumer push on all those drugs, ready to launch at the same time we release Jandramycin.”

The name didn’t click with Wolfe for a moment. “I . . . Well, I’ll certainly do what I can.”

“Do more than that,” Lindberg said. “Jandra Pharmaceuticals is hurting. We’re staking everything on Jandramycin.”

That was the second time Wolfe had heard the term. “What—“

“Stop referring to the drug by its generic name,” Patel added. “From now on, the compound is Jandramycin. When people hear the name Jandra Pharmaceuticals, we want them to think of us as the people who developed the antibiotic that saved the world from the worst epidemic since the black plague.”

Lindberg eased from his chair and gave Wolfe another slap on the shoulder. “This is your project now. It’s on your shoulders. The company’s got a lot riding on this.”

And so do I. “But what if a problem turns up?”

Patel rose and drew himself up to his full five feet eight inches. His obsidian eyes seemed to burn right through Wolfe. “We’re depending on you to make sure that doesn’t happen. Are we clear on that?”

* * *

Sara leaned over the sink and splashed water on her face. The paper towels in the women’s rest room of the clinic were rough, but maybe that would put some color in the face that stared back at her from the mirror. Her brown eyes were red-rimmed from another sleepless night. Raven hair was pulled into a ponytail because she could never find time or energy for a haircut or a perm. Get it together, Sara. She took a deep breath and headed for the doctor’s dictation room, where she slumped into a chair.

“Something wrong, Dr. Miles?”

Sara turned to see Gloria, the clinic’s head nurse. “No, just taking a few deep breaths before I have to make a call I’m dreading.”

Gloria slid into the chair next to Sara. The controlled chaos of the internal medicine clinic hummed around them. The buzz of conversations and ringing of phones served as effectively as white noise to mask her next words. “Is it one of your hospital patients? Got some bad news to deliver?”

“Sort of. It’s Chelsea Ferguson.”

“The teenage girl? Is she worse?”

“Yes. The cultures grew Staph luciferus.”

Gloria whistled silently. “The Killer. That’s bad.”

“The only thing that seems to be working in these cases is that new drug of Jack Ingersoll’s.”

“Oh, I get it. That’s the call you don’t want to make.” Gloria touched Sara lightly on the shoulder. “When will you stop letting what Ingersoll did ruin the rest of your life? I can introduce you to a couple of nice men who go to our church. They’ve both gone through tough divorces—neither was their fault—and they want to move on. It would be good for you—”

Sara shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m not ready to date. I’m not sure if I can ever trust a man again.”

Gloria opened her mouth, but Sara silenced her with an upraised hand. No sense putting this off. She pulled the phone toward her and stabbed in a number.

* * *

Dr. John Ramsey found a spot in the Visitor’s Parking Lot. He exited his car and looked across the driveway at the main campus of Southwestern Medical Center. When he’d graduated, there were two buildings on the campus. Now those two had been swallowed up, incorporated into a complex that totaled about forty buildings on three separate campuses. Right now he only needed to find one: the tall white building directly across the driveway at the end of a flagstone plaza. The imposing glass façade of the medical library reflected sunlight into his eyes as he wove past benches where students sat chatting on cell phones or burrowing into book bags. He paused at the glass front doors of the complex, took a deep breath, and pushed forward.

There was a directory inside for anyone trying to negotiate the warren of inter-connected buildings, but John didn’t need it. He found the elevator he wanted, entered, and punched five. In a moment, he was in the office of the Chairman of Internal Medicine.

“Dr. Schaeffer will be with you in a moment.” The receptionist motioned him toward a seat opposite the magnificent rosewood desk that was the centerpiece of the spacious office, then glided out, closing the door softly behind her.

John eased into the visitor’s chair and looked around him. He’d spent forty years on the volunteer clinical faculty of Southwestern Medical Center’s Department of Internal Medicine. For forty years he’d instructed and mentored medical students and residents, for forty years he’d covered the teaching clinic once a month, and today was the first time he’d been in the department chairman’s office. He swallowed the resentment he felt bubbling up. No, John. You never wanted to be here. You were happy in your own world.

John couldn’t help comparing this room with the cubbyhole he’d called his private office. Now he didn’t even have that. The practice was closed, the equipment and furnishings sold to a young doctor just getting started. John’s files and patient records were in a locked storage facility, rent paid for a year.

He wondered how many of his patients had contacted his nurse to have their records transferred. No matter, she’d handle it. He’d paid her six months’ salary to take care of such things. What would happen after that? He didn’t have the energy to care. Things were different now.

For almost half a century he’d awakened to the aroma of coffee and a kiss from the most wonderful woman in the world. Now getting out of bed in the morning was an effort, shaving and getting dressed were more than he could manage some days. Since Beth died . . . He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs that clogged his brain. The knowledge that he’d never again know the happiness of having a woman he loved by his side made him wish he’d died with her. What was the use of going on?

But something happened this morning. He’d awakened with a small spark of determination to do something, anything, to move on. He tried to fight it, to roll over and seek the sleep that eluded him. Instead, he heard the echo of Beth’s words: “You’re too good a physician to retire. People need you.” He remembered that conversation as though it were yesterday. She’d urged, he’d insisted. Let’s retire. I want to get out of the rat race and enjoy time with you. Retirement meant the travel they’d put off, the time to do things together. Only, now there was no more together.

This morning, he’d rolled out of bed determined that today would be different. It would be the start of his rebirth. As he shrugged into a robe, as he’d done each day since her death he looked at the picture on their dresser of him and Beth. She’d been radiant that spring day so many years ago, and he wondered yet again how he’d managed to snag her.

He’d shaved—for the first time in days—with special care, and his image in the mirror made him wonder. When did that slim young man in the picture develop a paunch and acquire an AARP card? When had the thick brown hair been replaced by gray strands that required careful combing to hide a retreating hairline? The eyes were still bright, although they hid behind wire-rimmed trifocals. “You’re too old for this, John,” he muttered. And as though she were in the room, he heard Beth’s words once more. “You’re too good a physician to retire. People need you.”

Fortified with coffee, the sole component of his breakfast nowadays, he’d forced himself to make the call. He asked his question and was gratified and a bit frightened by the positive response. John dressed carefully, choosing his best suit, spending a great deal of time selecting a tie. He’d noticed a gradual shift in doctors’ attire over the past few years. Now many wore jeans and golf shirts under their white coats. But for John Ramsey, putting on a tie before going to the office was tantamount to donning a uniform, one he’d worn proudly for years. And he—

“John, I was surprised when I got your call. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dr. Donald Schaeffer breezed into the office, the starched tails of his white coat billowing behind him. He offered his hand, then settled in behind his desk.

“Donald, I appreciate your taking the time to see me. I was wondering—”

“Before we start, I want you to know how sorry we all are for your loss. Is there anything I can do?”

Perfect lead-in. See if you can get the words out. “As you know, I closed my office four months ago. Beth and I were going to enjoy retirement. Then . . .”

Schaeffer nodded and tented his fingers under his chin. At least he had the grace not to offer more platitudes. Ramsey had had enough of those.

“I was wondering if you could use me in the department.” There. Not the words he’d rehearsed, but at least he’d tossed the ball into Schaeffer’s court.

“John, are you talking about coming onto the faculty?”

“Maybe something half-time. I could staff resident clinics, teach medical students.”

Schaeffer was shaking his head before John finished. “That’s what the volunteer clinical faculty does. It’s what you did for . . . how many years? Thirty? Thirty-five?”

“Forty, actually. Well, I’m still a clinical professor in the department, so I guess I have privileges at Parkland Hospital. Can you use me there?”

Schaeffer pulled a yellow legal pad toward him and wrote a couple of words before he pushed it aside. “I’m not sure what I can do for you, if anything. It’s not that easy. You have no idea of the administrative hoops I have to jump through to run this department. Even if I could offer you a job today—and I can’t— I’d have to juggle the budget to support it, post the position for open applications, get half a dozen approvals before finalizing the appointment.” He spread his hands in a gesture of futility.

“So, is that a ‘no’?”

“”That’s an ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Afraid that’s the best I have to offer.” Schaeffer looked at his watch, shoved his chair back and eased to his feet. “Coming to Grand Rounds?”

Why not? John’s house was an empty museum of bitter memories. His office belonged to someone else. Why not sit in the company of colleagues? “Sure. I’ll walk over with you.”

As the two men moved through the halls of the medical center, John prayed silently that Schaeffer would find a job for him. With all his prayers for Beth during her final illness, prayers that had gone unanswered, he figured that surely God owed him this one.

Brain food for writers (Really!)

2011-10-27T05:10:00.001-06:00

To be more productive, should writers chew gum, drink coffee, and nibble on chocolate?

I never heard a writer crave chewing gum, but there’s a lot of talk out there about drinking coffee and snacking on chocolate while in the midst of the creative process.

A study found chewing gum was associated with higher alertness, reduced anxiety and stress, and improvement in overall performance on multi-tasking activities.

As far as “smart foods,” science has endorsed the idea that some food can indeed play a role in your cognitive abilities. Anything with caffeine will help boost energy level, help you to focus, and aid in concentration. Sugar (glucose) enhances alertness, fish with omega 3 fatty acids enhance memory, and avocados, rich in monounsaturated fat, contributes to healthy blood flow and helps to fire up brain cells. Walnuts contain antioxidants that increase memory. We are warned though, that too much caffeine or sugar will backfire and actually make you jittery (and perhaps overweight).

So tomorrow when you sit down to write, consider chewing gum, drinking coffee, and snacking on chocolate. And for lunch have some salmon with a few slices of avocado, a handful of walnuts, and a glass of orange juice. Then maybe you’ll pen that breakout novel.

A Novel Beginning

2011-10-25T05:57:00.003-06:00

I’m a sap for a good first line or a good beginning to a story. As a reader, if I’m not captured in the first two pages, I usually don’t finish the book.

Just for fun, I’m going to occasionally write a story’s beginning. Not that it’s a story I’m working on, or a story that will ever go further than a few paragraphs. Just a new beginning—for the fun of it. Here’s my first just-for-the-fun-of-it novel beginning:

Love’s meant to be tested, right?

The rising sun squatted beneath the car’s visor, piercing her eyes with painful brilliance. Judith sipped tepid coffee from a paper cup and punched down on the accelerator. The late model sedan roared with power, turning the prairie landscape outside her window to a blur of warm gold and soft green. No matter how fast she drove, it wasn't fast enough. The tires ate up the miles of pavement separating them, carrying her back to him—back to a life she had never wanted to leave.

She’d thought of Ken often and of their last day together—the way the sun emphasized the gentle planes of his face, the way the breeze lifted his hair, the fire in his eyes when she told him she must leave.

“Return to me, next week, next year, next decade, in 30 years, just return.” He'd said.

She’d nodded her agreement, too emotional to trust her voice to speak what was really on her heart—the desire to stay—in his arms, in his life.

She braked the car, avoiding an antelope sprinting across the highway. A sigh seeped from her lungs. She adjusted her sunglasses and prayed it wasn’t too late. After all, a lot can happen in seventeen years.

***

Well, any thoughts on where this story may be heading? Would you read on? You can be truthful, I've got thick skin.

Photo credit: johngard from morguefile.com

New Agent in Town!

2011-10-20T04:52:00.000-06:00

You'd have to be deaf not to hear all the buzz about the new literary agent that's making a big splash in publishing--Barbara Scott with WordServe Literary.

Barbara has been a book editor for 13+ years and has more than 30 years of publishing experience, ranging from newspapers and magazines to books. Among her many published works, Barbara is the co-author of best-selling novel Sedona Storm, as well as the sequel Secrets of the Gathering Darkness, both published by Thomas Nelson.

Because I have an "in," (I'm also represented by WordServe, a client of Rachelle Gardner), I was able to wrangle an interview with Barbara:

What’s the best way for a writer to connect with you?

The best way to contact me is with a short 250- to 500-word query sent to my e-mail address at barbara@wordserveliterary.com. However, I strongly advise writers to attend writers conferences where they can meet and network with published authors, editors, and agents. Face-to-face appointments are terrific because you have an agent’s attention for 15 minutes. Since in the last month I’ve received hundreds of e-mail queries, many of which I haven’t yet read, you can see how advantageous it would be to meet someone in person.

What do you look for in a query letter?

I need to know what kind of book you’re pitching. I recommend using the subject line to let me know whether you’re pitching a contemporary romance or a speculative novel. For instance, the subject line would read: QUERY – “Man in the Moon” (title) – romantic comedy (genre).

Craft your letter to appeal to my emotions in that first sentence or two. Ask yourself, “What makes my book exciting, unique, romantic, suspenseful? How can I convey that in a way that is memorable?” Agents want to find a gem among the stones. Make me want to read more and ask for your proposal. You might want to browse through a bookstore and read the back cover copy on a number of books. Those descriptions are what make me want to read a book.

What’s your ideal fiction client? Non-fiction client?

That’s an interesting question that I answered yesterday for a fiction writer I’m signing to our agency. Here’s the answer I gave to her: “My dream author is someone who has a heart for God, whether they write in the general markets or the Christian market. That author is teachable, dependable, creative, and has a sense of humor. I like to have fun in my work, but I take it seriously and work hard. Life is too short for constant conflict.” Of course, they also need talent. These days, publishers want fiction authors to write blogs and be actively engaged in social media like Facebook and Twitter. The number of followers you have makes an impression.

Non-fiction writers not only need to express their ideas with clarity and by using interesting stories, but they also need a platform. They should be a well-known speaker or an expert in their field. Non-fiction authors should be comfortable giving media interviews and know how to communicate the essence of their books. In other words, they should be able to play a key role in marketing their books.

How do you know if an agent is a good fit for you? Don’t be afraid to ask questions. Is the agent a good communicator, or do you feel intimidated? Agents get 15% of a book’s sale, so they need to be more than a salesperson. Will that person help you to grow your career? Are they willing to brainstorm book ideas with you? Will they give you advice on how to craft a proposal? Is that person experienced and well-connected? I’ve known some authors who haven’t heard from their agents in a year. Just because someone offers you a contract doesn’t mean that they’re a good fit for you.

What’s the best advice you’d give a writer looking for an agent? Network. Network. Network. Join writers organizations and read trade magazines. Talk to other writers, especially published ones. Read your favorite writers’ blogs and find out who agents them. If you can afford to spend $20 a month, get a membership to Publishers Marketplace (www.publishersmarketplace.com) where every deal made is posted and you can search agents by name or search genres for agents who have sold something that might be a perfect fit.

What’s the best advice you give to your clients? Writing is a marathon, not a sprint. If you know that you know that you know you’re meant to write, don’t stop. As an editor I acquired writers who had written five or six novels before they were published. Work at your craft constantly and trust God that He will open the doors for you to publish at the right time.

True Confessions of a Word Lover

2011-10-18T05:15:00.004-06:00

I think it's time to fess up. Sometimes I'll Twitter or Facebook a phrase or idea to see how it's received, and then I'll use it in one of my novels. Yup. I do stoop to that level.

I play word games by myself all day long. If I see/hear/smell/taste/touch something, I often try to come up with the best words to describe whatever it was I heard/smelled/tasted/touched. (Truly, it's silly, crazy, word-loving madness in my brain.)

Here are some tidbits that may find their way into my fiction:

It's so windy in SE Denver today. Grit is flying through the air, and tumbleweeds are bouncing across the street like giant cotton balls.

Pondering one of life's mysteries-- like why we meticulously iron anything made of linen.

The world is turning a soft shade of gold here in Colorado. Today as I drove down my street burnished leaves floated around my car and danced across the road.

The wind is distracting company today. It's howling down my chimney, rattling my windows, & pounding the walls. Even my aspen's trembling.

Windy, windy, windy! Pounding the house and whistling down the chimney. Feels like an uninvited guest just showed up.

Just peeked outside to see winter's cold glare glancing my way. It looks like snow's about to fall.

I love the way the autumn light slips through the leaves of my maple tree and dances across my wall.

The garbageman just went down our street tossing trash cans on their sides here and there like a grumpy toddler pitching a tantrum.

And I can't put my finger on the original text for this one, but it's already been incorporated into my wip: A delicate dusting of snow lay on what appeared to be a Victorian city. The sparkling white powder looked like confectioner's sugar passed through a sieve and sprinkled over the world.

It pleases me when friends notice my phrases and enjoy them. I keep a file of "pretty words," and I occasionally look through them and select one for a scene. Right now I'm thinking how my character will be ironing one day and wonder why she's so meticulous about ironing linen . . .

Image credit: linesfromthewire.blogspot.com

What do you think of fairies?

2011-10-13T05:58:00.001-06:00

Lately I've been thinking about fairies.

Really.

I'm always marinating a story idea. It takes me a while to ponder a plot or the beginning of a book before I actually start writing it. And I'm intrigued with the idea of writing about fairies. I always loved fairy stories as a child.

Here's my jumping off idea: Juliet is delighted to inherit Aunt Lucy’s home. But when she moves in, she discovers she’s not alone. Those house fairies Aunt Lucy claimed cleaned up the messes weren’t the crazy ramblings of an eccentric lady—they’re for real!

I've got a few wrinkles to iron out, and a few more ideas to flesh out the plot, but I'm excited to wander into that fictional dream. I think Aunt Lucy's house fairies can teach Juliet a thing or two about love, acceptance, and contentment.

I was checking out some quotes about fairies. They tickle me. Take a look:

Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,
For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame.
~William Butler Yeats, "The Land of Heart's Desire," 1894

Fairies are invisible and inaudible like angels. But their magic sparkles in nature. ~Lynn Holland

Spread your wings and let the fairy in you fly! ~Author Unknown

Nothing can be truer than fairy wisdom. It is as true as sunbeams. ~Douglas Jerrold

So? What do you think?

Weird commercials bug me!

2011-10-11T05:05:00.001-06:00

Is it just me, or is anyone else creeped out by the Toyota Prius Family commercial? They call it the People Person, but the mutant/human giant creeps me out. Do you realize the giant's nose is actually someone's butt? The lips are a pair of legs.

Aren't commercials supposed to create desire within the consumer? To be honest, it caught my attention, but not in a positive way. When I mentioned the commercial to a friend, she claims she saw it, but thought it was a commercial for some kind of nasal issue. Ha, ha!

Take a look and tell me what you think.

Is it ever okay to butt in?

2011-10-06T16:39:00.002-06:00

Do you ever think there's a good reason to butt into a situation? With family? With strangers?

Today I was shopping in a large department store. A young woman about 60 -70 feet away from me was calling out for Lily. I glanced at her--she had an infant in a carrier on her chest and was going through a rack of clothes. There was no immediacy or alarm in her voice.

After about 10 seconds I abandoned looking through the rack and turned around to see if perhaps Lily was near me. Sure enough, one aisle over, a toddler (maybe three-years old) was admiring a jewelry display. I approached and asked if she was Lily. She gave me an adorable smile and nodded. I called out to Mom that Lily was over here. Then the grandma came over took Lily's hand and walked away.

I went back to the clothing rack I'd been looking through, and another shopper caught my eye and raised her eyebrows. I told her I'd have at least thanked someone if they found my child. Her response was she'd never allow her toddler to walk away.

It ended well. Lily was reunited with her mother. Although about five minutes later I heard Mom calling for Lily again.

I left the store feeling a sense of unease. Should I have said something to Lily's mom and grandma? Nothing bad happened. But in today's world it could have. Bad things occur and change lives in a second.

A long, long time ago I was shopping with my three children -- all preschoolers. It was a stressful grocery trip. I apparently told one of my kids if they didn't behave I'd killed them. Of course that was simply an expression -- an expression borne of frustration. Have you ever shopped with three children four and under??

An older, well-meaning woman overheard me. She paused and put her hand on my cart, stopping our progress. With a light in her eye and a soft smile, she gently said, "You know, dear. They put people in prison for killing their children."

She sure stopped me dead in my tracks! I hadn't realized how irritated I'd become, and I was grateful for someone stepping in and giving me a gentle rebuke and a good chuckle.

What do you think? Does it really take a village? Should you on occasion become a buttinski?

Photo credit: jeltovski from morguefile.com

Sequels – it’s never too late.

2011-10-04T05:00:00.001-06:00

Apparently so.

The first three episodes of Star Wars were released between 1977 and 1983. And then the next three episodes came out between 1999 and 2005.

Now Stephen King has announced that he’s writing a sequel to his 1973 bestseller The Shining. He’s calling it Dr. Sleep, and it features Danny Torrance, the little boy from the original novel. Apparently Danny is 40 years old now, and he works as a hospice orderly, but his real vocation is to help patients make the journey from this world to the next using his special powers. King also includes The Tribe, a traveling group of psychic-energy-sucking vampires.

Here are some clips of King discussing Dr. Sleep and reading from the unpublished book:

What favorite characters from novels would you like to live again through a sequel?

Be Faithful!

2011-09-29T19:33:00.003-06:00

The following post is a repeat from August of 2008.

Again I'm striving for publication with a manuscript currently on the market and I'm writing another novel. Despite the nagging fears that nip at the heels of all authors, I'm going to remain faithful.

1 Corinthians 4:2

Moreover it is required in stewards, that a man be found faithful.

I'm very mindful of the blessings the Lord has given me, among them the talent He's given me for writing. I still don't know where God and I are heading in this writing gig, but I'm impressed upon during my prayer times again and again to be faithful. All along I've said it's not my thing, it's God's.

How about you? Do you strive to be faithful in whatever He's given you? What gifts do you cherish? Please share -- I think it's a pity that so many people hide their gifts. That wasn't the reason the Giver gave it to you, you know.

BTW, the above photo is the view from my hammock. I like to pray there.

Here's another view from the hammock.

Psalm 139:14
Marvelous are Your works, and that my soul knows very well.

Award-Winning Fiction

2011-09-27T05:00:00.000-06:00

This past week the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) held their yearly conference. The highlight of the event is the award’s banquet where contest winners are announced: the Genesis contest for unpublished authors and the Carol Awards for the best Christian fiction published by traditional publishing houses in the previous calendar year. Here’s a list of the 2011 Carol Awards winners:

Debut Author

Crossing Oceans by Gina Holmes (Tyndale Publishers)

Long Contemporary

Never Say Never by Lisa Wingate (Bethany House)

Long Contemporary Romance

Plain Paradise by Beth Wiseman (Thomas Nelson)

Long Historical

Sons of Thunder by Susan May Warren (Summerside Press)

Long Historical Romance

Love Finds You in Homestead Iowa by Melanie Dobson (Summerside Press)

Mystery

The Camera Never Lies by Elizabeth Goddard (Barbour)

Novella

A Trusting Heart by Carrie Turansky (Barbour)

Romantic Suspense

The Silent Order by Melanie Dobson (Summerside Press)

Short Contemporary Suspense

Night Prey by Sharon Dunn (Love Inspired Suspense)

Short Historical

Her Healing Ways by Lyn Cote (Love Inspired)

Speculative Fiction

König’s Fire by Marc Schooley (Marcher Lord Press)

Suspense/Thriller

Predator by Terri Blackstock (Zondervan)

Women’s Fiction

Beaded Hope by Cathy Liggett (Tyndale Publishers)

Young Adult

Anything But Normal by Melody Carlson (Revell)

Congratulations to the winners of other awards also presented:

Mentor of the Year: Bonnie Calhoun

Agent of the Year: Rachelle Gardner – my agent!

Editor of the Year: Andrea Doering

Lifetime Achievement Award: Tracie Peterson

Writing Goals

2011-09-23T13:43:00.005-06:00

If you want to accomplish any task, you must set goals for yourself. Whether it's writing, cleaning the house, losing weight, saving for vacation--it won't happen if you don't plan for success.

As an author I encounter many people who say that someday they'll write a book. That's a nice goal, but you've got to start writing to attain it.

If you want to make your dreams come true, the first thing you have to do is wake up. ~J.M. Power

Now that you've established your goal, you must get going. Set a deadline: a page a day, 500 words a day, 1,000 words a day, or even 3,000 words a day. Figure out what you're comfortable doing--and what won't overwhelm you--and get started.

A deadline is negative inspiration. Still, it's better than no inspiration at all. ~Rita Mae Brown

Deadlines are a fact of life in many occupations. Get over your aversion to one. When you hit your final deadline and write "the end," it's time to celebrate. Each day when you hit your daily deadline you get to go to bed at night satisfied that you've done your best, and you're on schedule.

God gives us dreams a size too big so that we can grow in them. ~Author Unknown

I've dreamed of writing novels since I was a little girl. It took many years of hard work and deadlines, but thank God, I've been able to attain my dream.

Sometimes the journey was difficult, daunting even, but that's no reason to give up. I had a fire inside me to push on and not give up. I set deadlines and met them.

What about you? What keeps you going? What deadlines do you set for yourself?

Advice from a pro: Novel Beginnings (and Other Beginnings)

2011-09-20T21:30:00.007-06:00

I'm sorry this Tuesday's post is late. I want to discuss novel beginnings, but I've been sidetracked by another new beginning -- my granddaughter's. She was born last Wednesday, and I'm visiting California getting to know her preciousness.

And now on to novels:

I've been told that most novelists end up deleting the first two or three chapters to make them publishable. Their first few chapters contain the dreaded backstory. Backstory can derail your story before it even gets started. Often it's not necessary to the novel -- hence the need to chop it off.

Conversely, I've had the opposite problem. I tend to start a novel and gallop off into the story, and then I have to go back and write the first chapter or two. The reason why is because I'm expecting my readers to care about the character in my novel enough to hang in there until the end of the book, but I haven't given them a reason to care or understand who my character is. I tend to jump into the inciting incident without laying enough groundwork.

Jeff Gerke in his book Plot versus Character says you need to establish normal before you violate normal: It's important to show what a character's life is like before the main story intrudes. Otherwise, we simply can't tell (and don't care) that her life, which we haven't seen, has been turned upside down.

What's your biggest challenge when starting a new story?

Ideas, ideas, ideas

2011-09-15T15:06:00.006-06:00

As a writer where do you come up with ideas? If you ask a seasoned writer, they’ll tell you that ideas are in the air.

I've been mulling over ideas now because I'm preparing a proposal for my latest novel. Included in the proposal are several other book ideas.

Ideas are all around you. All you have to do is be observant. If you write fiction, look at the people around you, what quirks make you think, "What if that girl with the blue hair and nose ring was a closet Young Republican . . .?" What about the man in the grocery store, racing with his clunk card down the aisle as if he's playing chicken with oncoming shoppers? Why is he in such a hurry?

All it takes is a germ of an idea to settle into a writer's brain before they're off and dreaming.

Don’t despair if you see someone else chasing the same idea. No two writers will create the same story, and ideas are not copyrightable. Your execution of an idea is what makes it unique.

And what about non-fiction writers? From where does their inspiration come? The answer is the same, from life.

Be attentive to the people you come into contact with. Ask questions. For example, I once visited a library that had a display of Hopalong Cassidy memorabilia. I contacted the man who owned the display and requested an interview. By focusing on different aspects of his collection and his passion for Hopalong Cassidy lunch boxes and paperback books, I was able to tweak the material and sell the article to two different markets.

What thrills you lately? What annoys you lately? Both of those topics are fodder for an article, short story, or novel. Open your eyes, remove your earphones, breath in the fragrance of the season, and write what you sense.

Where do you find your best ideas?

Oh, and the photo above is taken from my hammock under the maple tree. I hang there often and let my imagination roam.

Say What? -- Writing believable dialogue

2011-09-13T05:48:00.002-06:00

Have you discovered the WordServe Water Cooler Yet? Today the Water Cooler is hosting my blog post about dialogue. Hop on over and take a look.

The WSWC blog is an online reference written by the clients of the WordServe Literary Agency. I'm proud to say that I'm one of the 30+ contributing writers. The blog will post daily about marketing, publishing, the craft of writing, social media, and anything else that will help other writers on their publishing journey.

Writing Advice from a Pro

2011-09-08T16:03:00.006-06:00

I’m a real sap for a good description. I’ve even been known to save a marketing brochure if the words tickle my fancy.

In fiction beautiful words strung together with care paint vivid scenes that the reader can use to anchor the action in the book. Today's insight from a pro is taken from A Novel Idea, a compilation book with advice from several best-selling authors.

In chapter seven Deborah Raney discusses the power of the right word. "Words are amazing things. With a unique combination of a hundred or so characters arranged into words, I can build a captivating set as surely as a Broadway stage crew." She illustrates her point with some lovely, evocative words to set the scene.

Deb advises, "You can improve your manuscript exponentially by simply reworking the first paragraph or two of each chapter to set the stage as vividly in the reader's mind as if he were watching a scene from a smash hit on Broadway."

I hope I'll be a learner as long as I'm a writers. Here's the beginning of a scene from my wip (work in progress), can you *see* it?

The storm had continued throughout the afternoon. A thick layer of white frosted the Victorian city. Snow piled up on ornate iron railings leading to solid front doors and pristine powder nestled on the windowsills. The city sounds muffled, and Margaret felt peaceful. The sidewalk stretched before her, a patchwork of lumpy piles of slippery snow and portions that had been safely scraped off. She picked her way south, careful to keep her balance.

After walking a few blocks, she came upon an empty lot where children played. Their shrieks and laughter made her homesick. Janice and Jeffry would have loved to join in the fun. She stopped and watched the kids rolling large snowballs around in circles, and then they worked together to stack them up, creating knobby-looking characters with coal eyes and crooked coal grins.

Photo credit: imagefactory from morguefile.com

What famous author do you write like?

2011-09-06T04:00:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago, I posted a link to an online quiz about what type of writer you should be.It's a fun short quiz. My answer was screenwriter.That tickled me because I think novels should run through your mind like a movie and also because I'm going to turn Searching for Spice into a screenplay. Well, I'm going to make a good try at doing it.

Anyway, here's another fun quiz that tells you which famous writer you write like. I took the quiz a few times with different excerpts, but you can also use a blog post, journal entry, or comment.

Here are the results when I used my current wip:

Margaret Mitchell
James Joyce
Douglas Adams
Kirk Vonnegut

Here's the results with my completed Lady in the Locket:

James Joyce (again!)
K.J. Rowling
Douglas Adams

According the quiz, my text from Searching for Spice resembled the work of:

David Foster Wallace
Chuck Palahniuk
Charles Dickens (go figure!)

Have fun, and tell me what famous author you write like!

Is Twitter Working for You?

2011-09-01T04:00:00.001-06:00

My guest blogger today is Cherie Burbach, author, blogger, poet, crocheter, and geek. Today Cherie is discussing the value of Twitter to promote your book.

Thanks for dropping by, Cherie. What's the lowdown on book promotion and Twitter?

Cherie Burbach: One of the most common things I hear from writers who used to use Twitter was that it "wasn't working" for them. But was it? Were they sure? Twitter is a different platform than Facebook or other social media outlet, so it would stand to reason that some people would love it while others would not. If you're using Twitter now (or have in the past) and figured that it just wasn't worth the effort, here are a few points that may make you change your mind.

How Did You Measure Success?

In general, it's difficult to measure the success of one piece of marketing individually. Chances are, you're probably doing a number of things to help promote your book, including writing blog posts, giving out bookmarks, linking to things on Facebook, sending postcards, and the like. When you sell a book or two, can you always pinpoint exactly where the sale came from? Marketing, in general, doesn't work that way.

The individual marketing efforts you put out there help build on each other. Readers will stumble on blog posts, tweets, and other promotional items, and eventually they will recognize you or your book and hopefully buy it. But will you ever really know where, exactly, that reader first discovered you? Even if you gave them a coupon and they used it to buy a book, you wouldn't know that the reason they are using the coupon is because they have been reading your blog or Facebook posts, for example.

Is Twitter Driving Website Traffic?

While most marketing efforts are difficult to track, one way you can determ

ine if Twitter is working is by the amount of web traffic you're getting. You'll need to use a service like Google Analytics or StatCounter to help you figure out where your traffic is coming from. These types of services will let you see specifically which tweets were used to click through to your blog or website.

Are People Retweeting Your Links?

Generally if someone uses the "RT," or retweet button on Twitter, it means that they liked your link. That's the first step in getting interaction and having them find out more about you. If they like what you tweet, they may go to your blog, or follow you to your Amazon author page, for example. You can track this by your @replies, and use this feature to thank your fellow tweeter for sending out or commenting on your link.

Are People Chatting About Your Book?

What are people saying about you or your book? Use the Twitter search function to look for your name, book title, or subject matter. Not everyone will use the "RT" function, but they might talk about your book without including you in the tweet. Twitter search is one way to track effectiveness.

Is Twitter Supporting Your Other Marketing Efforts?

Twitter is unique in that it actually helps promote the other promotion efforts you're taking part in. If you have a book signing, for example, you can promote it before, during, and after! You can include pictures of you at the event, tweet about questions that readers asked you, or even thank some of them specifically for coming out.

If you have a blog post you want to share, Twitter is yet one more way to promote it, along with Facebook, StumbleUpon, Digg, etc. Twitter works as a promotional tool, and as a way to support your other promotional efforts. Can you really afford not to give it a try?

Cherie is the About.com Guide to Friendship and has penned eleven books and ebooks, including Internet Dating Is Not Like Ordering a Pizza and 21 Ways to Promote Your Book on Twitter. She has published over 500 articles on the subjects of health, sports, and lifestyle. For more info, visit her website.

Book Covers

2011-08-30T04:00:00.001-06:00

I'm always interested in studying book covers. I love to see if there are any strong clues about the story within.

More often than we realize, books share similar cover art.

Two years ago I blogged (with pictures) about two books with the same image on them. And now it's happened again.

I imagine publishers and authors cringe when the covers are so similar. Maybe not. Perhaps someone can put a good spin on the situation.

Right now I'm thinking of covers because Out of Her Hands is in the process of become an e-book. I'm excited, and I want it to have a dynamite cover. I think it will! In just a few weeks (I hope) I'll be able to share it with you.

I know without a doubt the new cover for Out of Her Hands will be a one of a kind. That's because I'm working with my friend Pauline of Fat Tuna Photography to create the concept that's been simmering in my mind.

What about you? How important are book covers when you're selecting your next read? What type of cover image draws you to a book?

The Liebster Blog Award!

2011-08-27T12:29:00.004-06:00

Happy Saturday! It's hard to believe my friends and family on the east coast are battling Hurricane Irene when there's not a cloud in the sky here in Colorado.

I hope my friends and blog follower will play along with this and help some great writers get more of a following.

My friend, author Cathy West, gave me The Liebster Blog Award! (Liebster is a German word for friend, btw.) This award is meant to go to blogs we enjoy who currently have less than 200 followers. You may remember that I blogged about Cathy's debut novel, Yesterday's Tomorrow a few weeks ago.

Now I have the privilege of passing the award along to some of my blogging buddies:

Loretta Oakes blogs at Complementary Thoughts. Loretta and I met when we joined the same writers' group a few years ago. She's a fun and deep girl. Loretta's blog boasts that it finds a balance for science and religion. And it does.

I met Kay Day at a writers' workshop in Colorado Springs. She blogs at Loopdeloops in La La Land. When I heard she was moving to my town I harassed her until she agreed to join my local writers' group. She did, and we became friends. Kay is known for her sweet disposition and quirky humor. You'll love her insights.

My friend Helen, Colorado Springs writer is as thoughtful as she is sweet. Helen's Points to Ponder is a great blog.

Do you like snarky observations on everyday life? If so, The Journey of Writer Danica Favorite will crack you up!

Bonnie Doran is one of my critique partners. Her blog Prose from the Pros is always full of great insight, helpful writing tips, and examples of brilliant writing -- from professionals. It's well worth following.

If I have just awarded you The Liebster, here are the rules:

Thank the person who gave you the award, and link back to them.
Give The Liebster Award to five bloggers, and let them know in a comment on their blog.
Copy and paste the award to your blog.
Have faith your followers will spread the love to other bloggers.
Have blogging fun!

I hope you'll discover some great up-and-coming authors to love.

Rejection -- ouch!

2011-08-25T05:00:00.004-06:00

Unfortunately rejection is a part of the traditional publishing process. You write your book, polish it up, and send it out to agents and editors. And then you eagerly await their ecstatic reply.

Except the glowing offer of representation or the perfect publishing contract doesn't come. Instead you get a rejection letter. Ouch.

It can't be avoided. I don't think anyone's been published right out of the shoots. It takes time and effort to bring your work up to the level it needs to be for representation and publication. The thing to remember is that publishing is subjective, and what one agent or editor passes on another will love.

My first novel, Searching for Spice, was rejected several times. One letter from an agent thanked me for sharing it but went on to say, "I only represent clients with good ideas and good execution of those ideas -- neither of which was apparent in your work." Double ouch. A few months later, I got a contract with Tyndale House Publishers for that book and Out of Her Hands.

My agent, Rachelle Gardner, posted this week about rejection letters she received on behalf of her clients. Take a look. But the bottom line is that those rejected books were eventually sold to a publisher who loved the book.

Here's a link to an article about 30 famous authors whose work was repeatedly rejected.

Be encouraged. Don't give up. Keep learning the craft, and write on!

Dry as Rain by Gina Holmes

2011-08-23T04:00:00.003-06:00

I'm happy to welcome Gina Holmes to my blog today. I was fortunate to meet her at one of the first ACFW conference I attended. She is kind, authentic, and has a heart to help other writers in their journey.

Gina is the bestselling author of Crossing Oceans and the newly released novel, DRY AS RAIN. She's the founder of Novel Rocket, (formerly Novel Journey), a registered nurse, wife and mother who makes her home in Southern Virginia. You can learn more about her at www.ginaholmes.com

Your debut novel hit ECPA, Amazon, PW and CBA bestsellers list (some throughout the span of a year!) For several weeks Crossing Oceans was the #1 free kindle download and then stay in the top hundred for a long time.

Beside the commercial success, your book was a finalist in every major Christian book award, including: Christy, ECPA, Retailer’s Choice, Carol Awards, and won RWA’s Inspirational Reader’s Choice and an INSPY. Does having that kind of success put the pressure on for your second book?

I try not to think too much about it. I didn’t expect that kind of success but am very grateful for it. I had a lot of pressure on me on this releasing novel, not because of the success of the first book, but because, unlike the first, I didn’t have all the time in the world to write it. Some books flow smoothly, this one I had to yank out like a bad tooth. I faced multiple rewrites, some of them pretty major, all while trying to promote my all important first novel. I was still working full time, mothering, running Novel Journey (now Novel Rocket) and all of that, so this was a tough tough book for me to produce.

Tell our readers about your latest release, Dry as Rain:

I'm a really bad pitchman so I'll just repeat the back of the book copy:

Behind every broken vow lies a broken heart.

When Eric and Kyra Yoshida first met, they thought their love would last forever. But like many marriages, theirs has gradually crumbled, one thoughtless comment and misunderstanding at a time, until the ultimate betrayal pushes them beyond reconciliation. Though Eric longs to reunite with Kyra, the only woman he has truly loved, he has no idea how to repair the damage that’s been done.

Then a car accident erases part of Kyra’s memory—including her separation from Eric—and a glimmer of hope rises from the wreckage. Is this a precious opportunity for the fresh start Eric has longed for? Does he even deserve the chance to find forgiveness and win back Kyra’s heart . . . or will the truth blow up in his face, shattering their last hope for happiness? A richly engaging story of betrayal and redemption, Dry as Rain illuminates with striking emotional intensity the surprising truth of what it means to forgive.

You can read the first chapter HERE.

"Holmes grabs the reader with a unique storyline about infidelity and what it truly means to forgive after betrayal. By looking at the situation from a different angle, the author provides a great deal of food for thought and contemplation." RT Book Reviews – September, 2011

Library Journal says, "Fans of emotionally packed domestic fiction will love it."

This novel feels so much different than Crossing Oceans. Why did you choose to take such a different path?

I didn’t intend to write something completely different and I think it feels that way because of the characters telling the story. In Crossing Oceans, Jenny was our narrator and she was a melancholy, all woman sort.

In Dry as Rain, we have Eric, who is a man’s man and doesn’t think in flowery language and descriptions so it would have been wrong to write him that way. While both books have a heavy subject matter, Crossing Oceans was much more so. You can’t get heavier than dying, so it was bound to be more emotional, no matter how I wrote the next book.

But, my genre seems to be relational drama which both are and I like to pepper in a quirky cast and that’s true of both books.

You took a lot of chances in this book. First writing first person from a male’s perspective, secondly to have the protagonist someone who does a lot of things that aren’t very Christianly, like cheating on his wife, drinking, lying, etc. Are you afraid this might hurt your sales in the Christian market?

Afraid? No. Concerned, sure. While I don’t personally have a problem with Eric drinking a beer, the rest I have a problem with too. The thing is Eric’s a nominal Christian at the beginning of the book, lukewarm about his faith like many who call themselves followers of Christ. This is his journey though and he doesn’t end up where he begins. I wanted to tell the story as truthfully as I could and at the end of the day let the chips fall where they may.

What happened to your long time website, Novel Journey?

www.noveljourney.blogspot.com is now www.novelrocket.com You can get to it by either address but we decided on an overhaul because we wanted to drop the blogspot address and just have a dot com. The guy who owned Novel Journey didn’t return our emails to sell so we had to do something a little different. This turned out to be a good thing maybe because we’d been chewing on broadening the site for some time. We’ve got some exciting changes now, the most notable is the addition of “Rocket Pages” a sort of Craig’s List for writers to find the services they need to launch and sustain their career.

What’s going on with you personally?

Well, I’m blissfully married, mom to two, stepmom to three, and owner of 2 dogs and a fish. I bought a guitar and hope to start fiddling with that soon and just writing a lot. Nothing too exciting over here but that’s the way I like it. I’m the happiest I’ve been in my life. I’ve accomplished many of the dreams and goals I’d hoped to and I always tell my husband, if I died today, I’d feel I lived and full and rewarding life. Not that I’m looking to die just yet.

What are you working on now?

I can’t give the title yet as that’s a work in progress but it’s a story very close to my heart. I’m more excited about this one than anything I’ve ever written. Hopefully my publisher agrees and you see it on the stands in the next year or so. That’s really all I can say for now.

Tell us something we don’t know about you.

I’ll tell you a few. I thought I was afraid of heights until I bungee-jumped and loved it. I’d love to skydive for the first time in the next year, white water raft and get at least a little skill on the guitar. My husband is a talented songwriter. My kids are the sweetest in the world, (yes, the world!), and I love to get my hands dirty. That should do it. Thanks for having me!

Writing advice from a pro

2011-08-18T04:00:00.000-06:00

I regularly read books on the craft. I don't sit and do a straight read through, but there's always one in progress.

Right now I'm reading The Maeve Binchy Writers' Club. Maeve Binchy is one of my all-time favorite authors, BTW. She's included advice from other writers in the book. Here's some words of wisdom from Marian Keyes:

"People often ask me for advice on writing a book; because I'm a published author they assume I'm in on some big secret. But the good news is that there's no big secret, and the bad news is that there's no big secret. The advice I give is very practical, and it's advice that people rarely want to hear. But I'm not holding out on you, honest to God--this is really how it's done. First, stop talking about it and sit down and start writing it--word by word. No on else can write your book but you. If you don't write it, it won't get written.

Second--and brace yourself for a cliche--writing really is 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration. Writing is work. Perfect characters, plots, and sentences don't spring fully formed from the mind of a writer onto his or her screen. They are achieved only by time, patience, thought, and constant rewriting."

(I added the bold font.) That's probably the first piece of advice wanna-be writers need to hear. To steal a phrase: Just do it!

What's your best piece of writing advice?

What type of writer should you be?

2011-08-16T04:00:00.001-06:00

I found this simple online quiz. It's only got five multiple-choice questions, and the results tell you what type of writer you should be.

It's fun, not anything scientific, and you're free to ignore the results. :)

My results say I should be a screenwriter:

You don't just create compelling stories, you see them as clearly as a movie in your mind.
You have a knack for details and dialogue. You can really make a character come to life.
Chances are, you enjoy creating all types of stories. The joy is in the storytelling.
And nothing would please you more than millions of people seeing your story on the big screen!

This delighted me because I am going to turn Searching for Spice into a screenplay. It's encouraging, actually.

The Help: Art imitating life or a simple coincidence?

2011-08-11T04:00:00.003-06:00

Have you heard about the controversy surrounding the book The Help by Kathryn Stockett?

A woman who works as a maid for Stockett's brother claims that Aibileen, a main character in the book, is modeled after her. AND the real-life woman's name is Ablene. Coincidence? Could be.

The lawsuit, which seeks $75,000 in damages, was filed in Jackson, Mississippi, where the novel is set. A hearing is set for August 16th.

As a novelist, I understand how similarities can occur. We hear a name or recall an incident, and it's incorporated into our story. Face it, often experiences in an author's life (of the life of a friend or family member) find their way into our fiction. And more than one story was inspired from a headline.

It will be interesting to see how this case shakes out.

Here are a few more details about the controversy.

Spotting a phony and creating a REAL character

2011-08-09T04:00:00.002-06:00

I think it’s important for a novelist to study human nature. We need to create realistic characters to draw people into our books. Aside from going to school to study psychology and sociology, or reading books and attending lectures to educate ourselves, you can get a good peek at human nature by watching reality TV.

Yeah, really.

I don’t watch the trashy stuff. To see how people respond under pressure, I enjoy watching The Amazing Race or Survivor. It’s interesting to watch those folks plot how to take advantage of a situation. Also you get to see good examples of family dynamics on Amazing Race when family members team up.

You see people’s character or lack thereof on reality TV. To see how someone responds to authority or rationalizes bad choices, watch one of the judge shows, Judge Judy or Judge Mathis. I wonder if some of those bums really think anyone’s buying their baloney.

Another show I like to watch is Millionaire Matchmaker. The hostess Patti (matchmaker) has a real knack for reading people, and she doesn’t put up with any hooey. I love it when my BS meter pins in the red while listening to one of her clients, and then she calls him out. In the beginning of the show she reviews clients’ videos, and she figures out their personality right away. That’s one talented lady. She cuts to the chase, and I like that.

Another source to hone in on human nature is to watch Tonya Reiman when she does her body language segment on O’Reilly. She’s also got a great website with lots of information on body language cues: a newsletter, articles, FAQs.

So, the next time you veg out watching reality TV, tell yourself you’re simply being a student of human nature.

Creating effective description

2011-08-04T13:52:00.005-06:00

Since I was in grade school, I’ve known that writing was my passion and that description is my forte.

Fortunately, writing description in scenes comes naturally to me. So much so that I’ve had to learn to back off on description because it slowed down my story.

I imagine there are as many approaches to writing description as there are writers, but I’m going to give you some of my methods:

Imagine you’re the character in your book. Put yourself in the middle of the action.

What’s going on? What emotion are you feeling? Happy? Scared? Surprised? Angry? Take that emotion and describe it without using a cliché. In my current novel, my character is experiencing an unexpected occurrence: Her heart hammered like the wings of a bird escaping a beast of prey, and her mouth grew as dry as an unfulfilled dream.

Take a deep breath. Is there anything in particular you character can smell? Something pleasant or something foul? Describe that: Her nostrils flinched as she smelled the acrid odor of harsh soap and starch.

Is a breeze cooling your character’s skin like a menthol kiss? Or is it so hot his freckles are melting off of his face?

What does she see? Describe it in a way to deepen her characterization. My current character is a mom, and she filters what she sees through that point of view: The boy’s messy hair stood in the wind. His face was red and his ears redder. The tattered coat hanging from his thin shoulders was missing buttons and looked insufficient to warm his scrawny body. Margaret fished into her left pocket and felt a coin. She walked back to the boy and held out the money. His fist flew through the air and grabbed it.

Is there any noise in the background? The shrill call of a bluejay? The staccato beat of a neighbor’s lawn sprinkler? Try to incorporate that description into your character’s emotion. The shrill call of a bluejay frightened her. The starch came out of her spine as she glanced over her shoulder. OR The staccato beat of the neighbor’s sprinkler kept rhythm with his pulse. He had to figure out which way she’d gone.

Is he eating? What does it taste like? Again incorporate it into your character’s mood. The news fell on him like a wall of fire, and the bite of tiramisu he’d savored a moment before tasted like chalk.

These are simply some suggestion to get you thinking. Hope it did the trick!

NEW - Resource for writers!

2011-08-02T05:00:00.005-06:00

Writers have an obligation to their readers and to themselves to be lifelong learners and improve their craft. One way to do that is to read books on writing, attend conferences, and read blogs on writing.

Today the WordServe Water Cooler blog will host its inaugural post.

The contributors, some published and some not-yet published authors, will share helpful information for both fiction and non-fiction writers. We'll tell you what has worked for us and what has not worked in our writing careers.

Check it out, subscribe or bookmark the page. Our goal is to help others achieve success in their publishing dreams.

The WSWC blog is inspired by my agent Rachelle Gardner's blog, which is an annual pick for the top 101 websites for writers by Writer's Digest Magazine. Rachelle posts on every aspect of publishing--but from an agent's point of view. The WSWC blog is similar, but from the perspective of authors.

And speaking of Rachelle's blog, today she is hosting her 1st WordServe blog tour. She'll post links to blog posts where authors explain what they've done, or plan to do, to market their books as well as other advice for new writers.

Writers, market yourself

2011-07-31T19:25:00.006-06:00

I dreamed of writing novels since I was in grade school. My first book, Searching for Spice, released in 2008. When I became serious about my goal of publication, I joined a writers' group, ACFW, and began to become a part of the publishing community.

I soon realized that you have to start thinking of marketing long before you ever get a publishing contract. You have to start marketing yourself -- to agents and editors. And to market yourself, you need marketing materials.

My point is that I took my goal seriously enough to present myself as a professional. I think it not only helped to make me look professional to agents and editors, it helped to give me confidence that, yes, I

was a writer in a professional capacity.

I know not everyone can afford to have professionally designed business cards, and in all honestly any card with your image and contact info will probably do. If I had to choose between a homemade photo and a homemade business card, I'd choose the card. A professional image is worth the price. If you can't afford it, barter it. You are a writer, right? Write advertising copy, and trade words for images.

Eventually I hired a designer and printed new business cards. Here's a picture of my cards. (I couldn't decide on which I preferred, so I bought two different sets.)

I purchased my cards at clickbusinesscards.com. Check them out--they'll even send you free samples. I chose the card with the matte celloglaze finish. It feels nice to the touch, doesn't smudge, and you can write on it with a pen.

If you're an unpublished author, start thinking of yourself as being president of your own writing business. Invest in your business with time and well-crafted marketing pieces. I thought of my writing as a (potential) business, and thank goodness my husband thought so as well. To be honest, there were times when I felt it was fiscally irresponsible to spend the family budget on my writing dreams. But my husband believed in me and encouraged me to keep working. Believe me, I know it's not cheap to buy books, create marketing pieces, and attend conferences. But what business doesn't have start-up costs?

An eight-hour writing vacation AKA The 2011 Broadmoor write-out

2011-07-28T05:38:00.001-06:00

As a writer, it's important to spend time with other writers. Their support and camaraderie are keep you on that sometimes-difficult path. It's also helpful to go to beautiful places and soak in the atmosphere. Being amid beauty unleashes creativity and fires the imagination.

Every year my local writers' group spends the day at the beautiful Broadmoor Hotel in Colorado Springs. They are very gracious and allow us to take up space on their

patio by the lake, the mezzanine, and the upper lobby.

This year about 25 writers met to spend time together. We wrote, brainstormed, encouraged, plotted, and enjoyed the company of creatives.

It was heaven, writers, writers, everywhere . . .

Tripping across scene and story ideas

2011-07-26T05:14:00.002-06:00

I made an interesting discovery a few years ago – artistic people have the same urges, but they’re manifested in different art forms.

It seems writers are not the only ones who in the course of their lives trip across creative ideas. (Duh!)

I was driving with a photographer friend when we came upon a beautiful scene. As I often do, I quietly thought of how I would describe the scene with words. After a few minutes my friend said she couldn’t stop thinking of how she would capture the light in that lovely setting. I imagine if a musician were in the car, she’d comment of creating music that would depict the scene.

And of course, two writers who see the same scene will describe it in two unique ways. We all filter what we see through our personal experiences. Two writers who see a bee tripping from flower to flower on a beautiful sunny morning might paint the mood in entirely different ways. One would comment on the sweetness and beauty of the moment, but the other writer might be highly allergic to bees and could write the scene as a prologue to a horrific incident of extreme discomfort or fear.

Yesterday I was weeding in the front yard and thought of the beginning to a murder mystery/suspense novel. The foundation of our house is landscaped with river rock. While I was weeding I passed around the window well. My author’s mind kicked into gear, and I imagined the beginning of the book – a lady was weeding the foundation of her house, and sunlight reflected off something in her window well. When she leaned over to see what it was, she saw . . .

A dead body!

Just a few thoughts. Have a pleasant day, everyone. BTW, the photo above was taken last year in Colorado Springs when I attended the Glen Eyrie Writers' Workshop. Isn't it lovely?

Read a good book lately?

2011-07-21T05:15:00.002-06:00

I have.

And I'm reading a good one now.

It's a debut novel from Cathy West called Yesterday's Tomorrow.

Here's a description of the book: She's after the story that might get her the Pulitzer. He's determined to keep his secrets to himself. Vietnam, 1967. Independent, career-driven journalist Kristin Taylor wants two things: to honor her father's memory by becoming an award-winning overseas correspondent and to keep tabs on her only brother, Teddy, who signed up for the war against their mother's wishes. Brilliant photographer Luke Maddox, silent and brooding, exudes mystery. Kristin is convinced he's hiding something. Willing to risk it all for what they believe in, Kristin and Luke engage in their own tumultuous battle until, in an unexpected twist, they're forced to work together. Ambushed by love, they must decide whether or not to set aside their own private agendas for the hope of tomorrow that has captured their hearts.

I'm about halfway through the story and really enjoying it. One of the reasons I like it, other than because it's well written, is because it's set in the 1960s--and that in itself is unusual. The setting, Vietnam, 1967, sucks you in, becoming a character in the story. You can feel the simmering heat and the buzzing insects, feel the humidity hanging in the air.

I get the impression Cathy wrote this book with passion, and as a reader, I love that. So if you're still looking for a good summer read, pick it up!

Sun-dried hair and writing novels

2011-07-19T05:00:00.004-06:00

I dried my hair in the sun yesterday. Not exactly front-page news, but it was a moment that gave me fodder for writing novels. I’m of the no-moment-wasted camp of writers who tuck memories and ideas into my head like a robin picks up string and scraps for her nest.

Drying my hair in the sun was a gift—time to sit and be still and enjoy a truly simple pleasure. The day captivated me with birdsong and sunshine and newly blossomed hollyhocks resting against the fence.

Other than sitting poolside or on a beach, drying my hair via sunshine is something I haven’t done in decades. I’m usually mindful of schedules or errands or tasks to complete, so I pull out my trusty dryer and blast my hair until it’s dried and tamed into something resembling a style.

But yesterday I left my dryer on the shelf and stepped outside. While I enjoyed the gentle embrace of morning sun, I thought of other simple moments that are locked inside my heart—moments that symbolize something precious, pure, and sweet. Moments that can be incorporated into fiction.

My sentimental journey transported me to times in my childhood when I was unrushed and without a schedule. Like when my mother would urge me to sit outside and let the sun dry my hair. Like moments spent clutching crayons and scribbling in a coloring book beside a blue northeast lake while listening to water lap against a wooden dock and blue jays squawking in spicy pine trees.

Like that one time I can never forget when my auntie took me for a walk, and we came upon a stream that tripped over moss-covered rock as it journeyed downhill toward a valley. My aunt told me to take off my sneakers and walk down the “stairs” that were covered with soft, thick water-sod. I can still recall the feeling of icy water clutching my ankles as I walked like a fairy princess down a magical staircase.

Using these actual moments aren’t as important as making the reader associate with the pleasure extracted from the moments. My readers may never have walked down a wet, mossy staircase, but they have enjoyed a pure, simple pleasure, and that’s what I want to make them feel when I write a scene.

Do you have any special moments from your past that make you recall the wonder of childhood?

Crime Scene Investigation

2011-07-14T09:41:00.009-06:00

The other day while walking through my neighborhood, I saw that a nearby house had some beautiful daisies blooming. It made me think that my daisies should be flowering too.

When I arrived home I took a look. There are usually about 15 or so stems in my plant, so when I saw only a few long stems about to bud I knew something was wrong.

Something has been gnawing at my daisies! Most of the stems had been chewed off about a foot off the ground. Can you see the damage?

Many of my neighbors complain about the bunnies roaming our subdivision as though they're enjoying the all-you-can-eat flower buffet. (Note: 17 years ago when we moved here there were no bunnies--but there were plenty of coyotes.) But I have a fenced yard and a Jack Russell Terrier. Any bunny who dares to slip under my fence has got to be one dumb bunny. I can't recall seeing any in my yard.

But I think I've determined who the culprit is. It's those crazy squirrels that have been walking the fence around the perimeter of my yard. Here I thought they were innocent little woodland critters happily living their lives. But apparently they were just casing my yard out for a banquet of daisies.

And then these criminal squirrels have the gall to leave some stems laying about as if to taunt me!

And the next time my little dog barks are the furry squirrel, I won't be reining her in.

A chat with Janice Hanna Thompson

2011-07-12T11:19:00.004-06:00

Let's chat with novelist Janice Hanna Thompson, author of Love Finds You in Groom, Texas (Summerside/Guideposts, June 2011).

Please tell us a bit more about the plot of Love Finds You in Groom, Texas.
Always the groomsman, never the groom… It’s 1914, and Jake O’Farrell has gained an unusual reputation among the locals: He’s played the roles of groomsman and best man in all four of his older brothers’ weddings, but he’s never been able to find the woman to capture his heart. And now with the upcoming wedding of his best friend, Jake will become the last single man in the town of Groom.

Anne Denning has made the difficult decision to move with her sisters to Texas, but a train derailment forces them to seek shelter in Groom, near Amarillo. Mrs. O’Farrell, hopeful that Anne will catch her youngest son’s eye, invites the girls to stay at her home until the train is repaired and ready to pull out. Anne has no idea of the blissful chaos that lies ahead!

Why do you like writing comedies with strong take-aways?
Comedy is a great outlet. We comedians can get away with a lot more than authors who play it straight. Want the reader to walk away with a little nugget of truth? Couch it in something humorous. I’ve found that light-hearted writing not only suits my personality, it’s the perfect vehicle for sharing the gospel.

I know that you enjoy teaching. Can you tell us about your online courses?
Thanks for asking. I enjoy teaching almost as much as I enjoy writing! For many years I taught creative writing at a school of the arts. These days I teach through my online courses. They’re audio/video driven, which is great fun. I get to go into a recording studio to record them! My courses are, as follows:
Becoming a Successful Freelance Author
Fiction Writing Master Course
Navigating the Business of Freelance Writing
Magazine Article Writing Master Course
Creative Writing
U.N.I.Q.U.E. – Finding Your Unique Place in the Writing Industry
Non-Fiction Book Writing (coming in August, 2011)

Where else can readers find you online?
I love to connect with my readers at the following places:
www.janicehannathompson.com
www.freelancewritingcourses.com
www.facebook.com/jhannathompson

Where can I get the book?
Love Finds You in Groom, Texas can be purchased at any number of online stores, as well as my website: www.janicehannathompson.com (front page). Readers can always join my VIP bookclub and get the locked in price of $11 (no shipping) by contacting me directly at booksbyjanice@aol.com.

Thanks for spending time with me! I had a blast!

Birthing a new fictional character

2011-07-07T06:39:00.000-06:00

I'm usually percolating a novel for quite a while before I start writing it. Currently I'm editing a completed novel, eager to get back to a started novel, and beginning to think about a future novel.

In a recent post, Expectations and Disappointments and Novels, I discussed tripping across an idea for a new novel. The idea would be that not every beautiful, desirable, or useful thing will live up to our expectations. Often when we least expect it, something (or someone) will be a huge disappointment.

I happened to run across a woman the other day who fired my imagination. She was a drive-thru bank teller. Our interaction was brief--I deposited a rebate check, and she cashed it.

When the envelope with the cash was returned to me I stuffed it into my purse and went about my business. Later I noticed she'd written a message on the back of the envelope:

Note that she wrote the message in purple ink and highlighted it in pink ink. Then she signed it and stamped a smily face.

And when I got home and opened the envelope I found she had put a shiny star on the receipt.

A day later I had lunch with a friend and showed her the envelope and receipt. We decided that this teller must be the happiest, most optimistic person or she surely has too much time on her hands.

This might not seem like much, but it's the beginning of a personality for my main character. So far she's a content, happy, and optimistic person who has led a charmed life. That's until . . .

And that part I haven't figured out yet.

Where's the shame?

2011-07-05T06:00:00.003-06:00

For quite a while I've believed that our culture is lacking in shame. This isn't the first time I've discussed this. People strut around doing all manner of awful things without even a twinge of shame. If there was more shame, there would be less bad behavior. People simple don't care that they act inappropriately. And for a more civilized society, they should care.

The latest example is Jesse James admitting that he has forgiven himself for repeatedly cheating on his former wife Sandra Bullock. As he says, "Oh, yeah. I'm cool."

I hope I'm not the only person who's disgusted with this immature, self-centered jerk. He said only the media portrayed his behavior as negative and justified himself by saying, "Yes, I cheated on my wife, but so do a lot of other people." Blech!

Last week a Facebook friend posted a link to a story that discusses something our culture needs to give some thought to. The article's called The Death of Shame. Take a look.

What do you think?

Expectations and Disappointments and Novels

2011-06-29T12:22:00.008-06:00

Today on my walk I took some time to stop and smell the honeysuckle. The yellow-flowered vine groped a wooden arbor and leaned against a fence along the sidewalk where my little dog and I meandered.

I held my expectations in check as I approached the flowers because while honeysuckle are known for their sweet and fragrant blooms, they don't always deliver on their promise. Take for instance the honeysuckle vine that used to grow in my yard. That's it in the photo. It was beautiful and seemingly healthy, but the flowers were lacking in fragrance. It was a huge disappointment. The previous vine in my yard died, and this beautiful replacement had no aroma.

Despite being beautiful and healthy, my honeysuckle did not satisfy. It didn't live up to my (reasonable) expectation that it would perfume my backyard with a heady fragrance.

And therein lies the lesson. Not every beautiful, desirable, or useful thing will live up to our expectations. Often when we least expect it, something (or someone) will be a huge disappointment.

Since I'm fond of letting my imagination have free rein while I walk, today I considered what kind of novel could be written that would incorporate this lesson. And my mind is churning up all manner of ideas . . .

Oh, and if you're wondering about the fate of that fragrance-free vine, it's no longer growing in my yard. An Aspen shoot volunteered to grow alongside it, and since I had to make a choice, I chose the tree.

ACFW Conference

2011-06-20T14:36:00.005-06:00

Often I'll get emails from writers asking for advice to help them get published. The best advice I can offer is to join a writers' group. If you write fiction, I recommend ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers).

ACFW holds an AMAZING conference each year in September. This year the conference will be in St. Louis, Missouri from September 22nd to the 25th.

I won't be joining the 600+ other authors this year because my 1st grandbaby is due to enter the world on September 21st (!!!). BUT if you're considering attending, check out the conference information here. And also take a look at the ACFW Blog.

How to Interpret Dreams and Visions

2011-05-13T11:32:00.001-06:00

I had the opportunity to review How to Interpret Dreams and Visions, a straightforward book that's easy to read and offers interesting insight into the meanings of dreams. This book will have a home in my library and will be pulled out for reference from time to time.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Perry Stone

and the book:

How to Interpret Dreams and Visions

Charisma House (May 3, 2011)

***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva | Publicity Coordinator, Charisma House | Charisma Media for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Perry Stone is the best-selling author of numerous books, including The Meal That Heals and Breaking the Jewish Code. He directs one of America’s fastest-growing ministries, The Voice of Evangelism. An international evangelist, Perry holds a BA in theology from Covenant Life Christian College. He lives in Cleveland, Tennessee, with his wife, Pam, and their two children.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

Is God Trying to Tell You Something?
Have you ever had a dream or vision that was so vivid that it remained with you for days? It is possible that your dream had a spiritual connotation and your vision was a message from God.

In How to Interpret Dreams and Visions, best-selling author and evangelist Perry Stone explains the guidance and warnings encrypted in our visions and dreams. With his unique blend of Bible knowledge and spiritual insight he provides answers to questions such as…

Is my dream really from God?How do I distinguish between types of spiritual visions?Why am I having nightmares or unclean dreams?· What do my dreams of a departed loved one mean?

Product Details:

List Price: $15.99
Paperback: 256 pages
Publisher: Charisma House (May 3, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 161638350X
ISBN-13: 978-1616383503

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

The Last Days— Time to Pierce the Veil

But their minds were blinded. For until this day the same veil remains unlifted in the reading of the Old Testament, because the veil is taken away in Christ. But even to this day, when Moses is read, a veil lies on their heart. Nevertheless when one turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. Now the Lord is the Spirit; and where the Spirit of the

Lord is, there is liberty.

-2 Corinthians 3:14–17

The spirit world is as real as the air we breathe and the water we drink. The natural realm is a reflection of the spirit world. Earthly things are patterned after heavenly things. (See

Hebrews 8:1–5.) Our world consists of trees, rivers, mountains, and cities. The heavenly city, New Jerusalem, has the tree of life, the crystal river of life, and a mountain where God is worshiped called Mount Zion (Rev. 22:1–5). These heavenly realities were the original Creation that was reflected on Earth when God created man. Humanity has struggled to believe in a world that cannot be seen with the eyes, touched with the hands, or smelled when we breathe.

To the skeptic, angels are myths, and demonic spirits are the dark imagination of Hollywood scripts. The prevailing attitude is the Thomas syndrome, which says, “Unless I can see it and touch it, I will never believe it” (John 20:25, author’s paraphrase). The fact is that there is an invisible veil covering both the natural eyes and the spiritual understanding of men and women, and only when the veil is lifted or pierced can the realities of the invisible realm become visible. The Bible is a book written by forty different authors over a period of about fifteen hundred years of time that tells the story of men called prophets who were inspired of the Lord and who pierced this veil and saw marvelous eternal and heavenly images that brought to mankind the revelation of God.

Paul wrote that there is a veil, similar to scales, over the eyes of our understanding that clouds the light of God’s revelation from entering into our minds and enlightening us with life-changing insight. If we live behind this veil, then we will never know or experience God’s best for us. This veil, which at times manifests as a lack of interest in spiritual matters, a dullness in our understanding, or a spirit of unbelief toward the idea of Bible-based spiritual manifestations, must be lifted to experience the unseen. This ability to see the future was the gift that set apart the biblical prophets from their false counterparts in surrounding idolatrous nations. These Hebrew visionaries had a reputation for knowing the unknown behind closed doors.

One such example can be seen when a Syrian general sent his army to capture one of God’s prophets, Elisha. When Elisha’s servant saw the army, fear gripped him. However, after Elisha prayed for the eyes of his servant to be opened, the fear turned to faith as the servant saw horses and chariots of fire encamped round about them both, forming a protective hedge. (See 2 Kings 6:8–17.) There is a covering of some sort on our physical eyes, which prevents us from seeing the activity of the spirit world. However, when we sleep, we are still able to see images through dreams or visions. In Scripture, men like the apostle John recorded these dreams and visions. John was on an island when he suddenly saw a “door in heaven open,” or as we would say, “heaven open,” and this opening projected his mind and spirit into another world, a world just as real as the world we live in. (See Revelation 4:1; 19:11.) These two biblical incidents from Revelation indicate two important facts: something occurs on Earth and something occurs in heaven to cause information to be released and the veil removed. On Earth our eyes must be “opened.” This happens when our inner vision, which creates the images in our brain at night, receives information from the heavenly realm, which “opens,” allowing eternal information to pass from the heavenly realm to the earthly realm.

One question posed by sincere seekers is: “Why would God be concerned about revealing events to us that have not yet occurred?” A simple answer is that He does so to prepare us for something or to cause us to intercede in prayer to prevent or to change a situation.

For example, when King Hezekiah was informed by Isaiah to set his house in order because he would soon die, the king began to earnestly pray, and his death was delayed for fifteen years (Isa. 38:1–5).

Another reason God is concerned is because He knows we need to

understand certain events in the future.

Why is the Spirit World Veiled?

Human eyes cannot see into the spirit world. God is a Spirit (John 4:24). Angels are spirits (Heb. 1:13–14). Satan’s kingdom is organized into four levels of spirit rebels (Eph. 6:12), and every man is a tripartite creation of a body, a soul, and a spirit, or, as some teach, a spirit with a soul living in a body (1 Thess. 5:23).

In the time of Adam and Eve, God entered the Garden of Eden and communicated directly with man by walking through the garden in the cool of the day (Gen. 3:8). Adam and Eve could see and hear God clearly. After they fell into sin, “the eyes of both of them were opened,” and they saw they were naked and felt shame (Gen. 3:7). Although their eyes were opened, at the same time their eyes were veiled. From that moment forward, angelic visitors appeared in the form of a vision, a dream, or would take upon themselves human form, just as the two angelic messengers did when instructed by the Almighty to investigate the sins of Sodom. (See Genesis 19.) Even the writer of Hebrews wrote to be careful when entertaining a stranger because you might not be aware that it is an angel (Heb. 13:2).

If our eyes could be opened and the veil lifted, we would continually see angels, demonic entities, and other forms of spirit beings. While some may wish to see into the invisible realm, the fact is that when great men of God and Hebrew prophets have pierced this veil and seen, for example, angels in their full glory, the reactions have normally been to fall down and be gripped with an overwhelming feeling of fear. Abraham fell into a deep trance (Gen. 15:12) and fell on his face when God talked to him (Gen. 17:3, 17). Ezekiel describes seeing the Almighty upon His throne, with cherubim and amazing heavenly beings appearing like wheels spinning within wheels (Ezek. 1), and he too fell upon his face (v. 28). In several instances when a vision of God or the angelic realm manifested, the prophet fell down upon his face (Ezek. 9:8; 43:3; 44:4). Daniel described an angelic visitor with brass-colored arms and feet, white hair, a gold belt, and eyes like fire. His reaction was so visibly powerful that even the men with him who did not see the vision became overwhelmed and began “quaking” and fled, hiding themselves (Dan. 10:5–7, kjv). Daniel found himself on his face with no strength remaining in his body (vv. 8–9). When John saw the resurrected Christ in heaven, he “fell at His feet as dead” (Rev. 1:17). Even Balaam’s donkey fell down when it saw an angel of the Lord (Num. 22:27)!

When the veil is lifted and a mere mortal taps into not just a vision or dream, but into the actual unseen world of angels, demons, heaven, or hell, the human body is unable to sustain the glory of the heavenly realm without responding in some manner. If we could live with our spiritual eyes continually opened, I suggest we would never get any work done and would be continually disrupted in our sleep.

Scripture instructs believers to “walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Cor. 5:7). I cannot physically see God, but I believe in God because of the Bible’s evidence and because I have faith that undergirds my confidence in the Word. With my human eyes I am unable to spot an angel flying through the heavens or a cosmic conflict between warring angels and prince spirits called the “spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places” (Eph. 6:12). However, because my inner being is also a “spirit,” I can at times sense or feel the presence of the Lord, the warmth and peace of an angel, or the dark oppressive

wicked spirits that are in my earth zone. To pierce the curtain of the unseen, a believer must be in tune to that particular realm of spiritual activity.

When my seventy-seven-year-old father was praying for my twenty year-old son, who was kneeling before him at Dad’s small home in Tennessee, with tears in his eyes my father said to Jonathan, “There is a future.” He was encouraging his grandson not to just live for the moment but to discover, plan, and prevail for his future, which the Lord has already laid out for him and his little sister. At that moment I realized that this is what life is really all about—the future. When God laid out a detailed plan for man’s redemption from sin, He prepared the details long before Adam fell. Jesus is called “the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world” (Rev. 13:8). When Christ was praying before His death, He said that God had loved Him from “before the foundation of the world” (John 17:24). God planned a future for all of mankind before Adam and Eve were created and fell into sin!

Once man sinned, God Himself released the first prophecy by predicting that the seed of the woman would bruise the head of the serpent (Gen. 3:15). God spoke this about four thousand years before Mary gave birth to the Messiah (Luke 2). After Cain slew his brother, Abel, God wasted no time in replacing Abel with Adam and Eve’s new addition to the family, a son named Seth who would initiate a nine-generation lineage of righteous men, leading up to tenth man from Adam, Noah. (See Genesis 5.) God continually has your future on His mind and in His purpose

The Almighty’s passion for the future is also witnessed in the fact that God thinks generationally. When God established His covenant through Abraham, He was planning that Abraham’s descendants would become a nation. First God promised Abraham a son and to make a “great nation” from Abraham’s children (Gen. 12:2). Years later God predicted that Abraham would be “a great and mighty nation” (Gen. 18:18). Years passed, and then God visited Abraham’s grandson Jacob, changing his name from Jacob to Israel. God enlarged His promise by saying to Jacob, “A nation and a company of nations shall proceed from you” (Gen. 35:11). After the nation of Israel expanded from seventy souls to more than six hundred thousand men of war (Exod. 1:5; 12:37), the Lord announced that the nation would be “blessed above all peoples” (Deut. 7:14). From one simple individual, Abraham, to seventy souls who went into Egypt under Joseph, in four hundred years the nation grew to six hundred thousand men marching through the Red Sea and on to the millions of Jewish people now in the world. God was beginning the preparations for one large family called the children of Israel when He was making covenant with one man—Abraham! This is why God changed Abram’s name (meaning “father”) to Abraham, meaning “father of many” (Gen. 17:5). Israel began with a dream and a vision!

Securing confidence and boldness for the future is so significant to the Almighty that He allowed men to enter into the dream dimension and receive vital knowledge for themselves, for their leaders, or for the nations in which they were given authority. A few examples of significant dreams that altered situations, set destinies, or brought prophetic knowledge are:

. God warned King Abimelech with the threat of death if he didn’t return Sarah to Abraham (Gen. 20:6–7).

. God confirmed in a dream for Jacob to leave Laban, taking his wives and sons to Canaan (Gen. 31).

. God prepared Joseph’s future by giving him two prophetic dreams when he was a teenager (Gen. 37).

. God allowed Joseph to interpret the dreams of the butler and the baker while in prison (Gen. 40).

. Joseph interpreted both dreams of Pharaoh and prepared for a seven-year famine (Gen. 41).

. It was the “barley cake dream” that gave Gideon confidence to fight the Midianites (Judg. 7).

. God appeared to Solomon in a dream, granting his request for the gift of wisdom (1 Kings 3).

. Daniel was the only man in Babylon capable of interpreting the dream of the metallic image (Dan. 2).

. Daniel later interpreted Nebuchadnezzar’s “tree dream,” predicting the downfall of the king (Dan. 4).

. Daniel experienced a major prophetic dream of world empires symbolized by wild beasts (Dan. 7).

Nearly six thousand years of human history have demonstrated that just because God plans a person’s future, it is no guarantee that opposition will not eclipse the light of the revelation. There is a plan by the kingdom of darkness to distract, disrupt, and destroy the future, both God’s prophetic plan and your personal destiny. Each person is said to have a “destiny,” which is simply your future according to God. Just as God revealed to Jeremiah that He foreknew him when he was still in his mother’s womb and that He preordained him to be a prophet (Jer. 1:5), God has a predetermined plan for each person. With all of the clutter and clamor and mixed voices speaking into our lives, our minds can become cloudy and our understanding fogged with numerous possibilities from which we must choose. This is why at times God will permit a believer to pierce the world of the natural and enter the realm of a dream or a vision so that secret strategies of the enemy can be exposed and the hidden plans of God can be revealed. Warnings that are perceived and received can help you avoid potholes and pits in your path to destiny, and understanding God’s plan will empower you to pursue that purpose.

The disrupting of God’s will in our lives can begin at a very early age. During major prophetic cycles and seasons of prophetic fulfillment, children come under severe attack from the adversary. This was seen when Pharaoh ordered the male infants born to the Hebrews to be cast into the Nile River (Exod. 1:22). The time was coming when a deliverer would bring the Hebrews out of Egypt, and the adversary was no doubt attempting to preempt the prophecy by killing the possible male child deliverer before he could become a man! The second assignment of an evil ruler was when Herod commissioned Roman soldiers to encircle the area of Ramah and kill all male children who were under two years of age, attempting to slay the future king of the Jews that the wise men came to worship (Matt. 2).

From a personal perspective, if we survive our birth and live to be teenagers, other battles begin. When he was a teenager (age seventeen), a plot was organized against Joseph by his own brothers (Gen. 37). They were sick of this dreamer, Daddy’s favorite little spoiled boy, running around with an expensive coat! Joseph was doing well until he began to confess his dreams of success that would come to him. At that point his brothers conspired against him, and Joseph ended up in a pit, then in a prison, and spent thirteen years in what seemed negative, dream-killing circumstances.

I was a young teenager when the Lord began to reveal to me His will and I began planning for it. I encountered various types of verbal persecution from my own spiritual brothers in the same denomination of which I was a member. When David—just a

teen—was anointed by Samuel as the next king “in the midst of his brothers,” jealousy arose among certain brothers much older who may have felt they deserved the position more than their kid brother (1 Sam. 16:13; 17:28).

When I was a teenager, the Holy Spirit inspired me to organize a ministry called Voice of Evangelism when I had only preached in three states. Ministers said, “Perry isn’t the voice of anything, much less of evangelism.” They were correct from the natural perspective but wrong in the Spirit. The Lord had a future for me! At age eighteen

I formed a “7-Point Outreach Plan” that included a ministry outreach through books, revival meetings, magazines, and other forms of branching out. Then I began overhearing statements like: “Who does he think he is, Billy Graham or Oral Roberts?” Without sounding arrogant, I knew something these other men did not know. I had a small glimpse into the future. I had both heard and seen in my spirit and through dreams and prayer that I would be used of the Lord to one day have a worldwide ministry Thus, once you see your future, you can learn how to hold off the adversity and know why there is opposition against your destiny!

Watch out for that girl!

When my father, Fred Stone, was a young, black-haired teenage minister, he met a very attractive girl about his age who was gifted in playing the piano and singing. Of course, the common belief was that if you were a minister, your wife needed to be a singer or musician. The girl took a liking to him. However, Dad had a dream in which he saw this girl coming out of a barn embracing a young man. He realized the girl was having relations with this boy. He heard a voice say, “I have warned you; have nothing to do with that girl.” Dad said that after this dream, the girl tried to get close to him in friendship; he would say hello but go no further. Even Dad’s uncle, a noted minister, rebuked Dad for not expressing more interest in such a talented young girl. But three months later the girl’s father told Dad’s uncle he was glad Dad had not formed a relationship with his daughter, because she was pregnant out of wedlock by a fellow she knew.

When I was the same age as my father, a similar situation was repeated in my life. I was eighteen years of age, traveling from church to church conducting weekly revivals. At one location, a family I knew with a daughter about my age wanted me to go out with her to eat. My policy was to only go out with a group of young people and avoid going out alone with the opposite sex. Soon she began to speak to friends that she was serious about me and thought our friendship could lead to eventual marriage. At the same time I dreamed that she was pregnant. In the dream the Lord told me to avoid her. The same week, three noted ministers spoke to me in confidence and said, “You must be careful around this girl. There is something not right about her.” I sent word to her through a friend not to have any contact with me again. One month later it was confirmed that she was pregnant, and she married the father of the child shortly thereafter. Years later she and her mother came to hear me minister in a church and asked to speak with me. Her mother, a very godly woman, required her to apologize to me for plotting to pull me into her situation without my knowledge. The girl said, “I was hoping you would suddenly fall in love with me and marry me before anyone knew I was pregnant with this man’s baby.”

In both cases, more than twenty-six years apart, the same type of snare was laid for Dad and me. By following the same type of dreams and inward warnings, we both avoided missing the will of God and entering into a situation that would have been not only questionable but also embarrassing and detrimental to our early ministries. These

illustrations reveal how strategies are set to disrupt God’s purposes, but God is concerned about the details of our personal lives because circumstances affect our destiny!

Often when we think of a spiritual dream we envision a visitation that warns us of national calamity or an international warning on the same level as what the Old Testament prophets received when warning the priests and the kings of coming calamity. However, God has indicated in Scripture that He is concerned for each individual and not just for the collective population of a nation. Christ revealed that the Father watched a sparrow fall to the ground and saw the lilies in the field grow (Matt. 10:29; Luke 12:28), and if the Almighty is concerned for the smallest in His creation, how much more is His concern manifested toward man, who is made in His image (Gen. 1:26).

The Need to Know

The understanding of the Book of Daniel was sealed “until the time of the end,” when “knowledge shall increase” (Dan. 12:4). Numerous prophecies are assigned to occur in the “time of the end,” a term used in the Book of Daniel five times (Dan. 8:17; 11:35, 40; 12:4, 9). Other predictions will unfold in the “last days,” a phrase coined to identify the time frame prior to the return of the Messiah, listed five times in the New Testament (Acts 2:17; 2 Tim. 3:1; Heb. 1:2; James 5:3; 2 Pet. 3:3). The final outpouring of the Holy Spirit will occur in the “last days” (Acts 2:17) and includes sons and daughters prophesying and experiencing visions and dreams. Among this final generation there is a need-to-know attitude about their future and destiny.

This need to know is obvious when one considers the millions of dollars spent by sincere yet uninformed individuals on fortune-tellers, astrologers, séances, and psychics. According to the Pew Forum for Religion and Public Life, “about 1 in 7 Americans consulted a psychic or fortune teller in 2009.”1 The only reason these false prophets of greed are consulted is to determine the hidden and the unseen and to know in advance the person’s future. Why should the body of Christ sit back and refuse to tell this generation to seek God for His direction, when the adversary will provide a horoscope for that purpose? There is a human need to know, and our knowledge for redemption can be found in the Bible—as well as the guide for practical living found in those inspired Scriptures. However, there are times we are uncertain concerning personal and national decisions that can be seen and understood through visions and dreams.

However, the invisible veil must be pierced in the mind and in the understanding. This begins with the “dream factor.”

Second Chances

2011-04-22T11:50:00.003-06:00

To balance out my previous post, I want to discuss second chances. I think most people deserve one.

Many, many years ago when I was a mom with an infant, a two year old, and a four year old, I had a casual luncheon that gave me a unique perspective on second chances.

My four year old son had made friends with a boy in his preschool class and wanted a play date. The other boy's mother seemed normal enough, so I invited the family to lunch after school one day.

The other mom also had an infant (8 weeks old), a two year old, and a four year old. We had greeted one another when we'd pick up our boys, and making another friend seemed like a nice idea. We set a date.

When the day arrived, she and her children came to our home. The boys and even the two-year-old girls seemed to be having fun playing. The other mom and I were in the kitchen as I prepared lunch.

Our date wasn't at all what I'd expected it to be. The other mom seemed unfriendly, distant, and only answered my conversational questions with one-word answers. To say the luncheon was awkward is an understatement. I was tremendously relieved when it came time for our guests to go home.

We continued to smile and greet each other at preschool when our paths would cross. A few weeks later, she invited me and my children to her home for lunch. You can imagine how thrilled I was with that invitation. I tried to politely say no. But she wouldn't have it.

I couldn't imagine why she would want to repeat our miserable first get together, but she was adamant, so I gave in and we set up a date.

Honestly, I even hoped one of my kids would get the sniffles to get us out of that meeting. But that didn't happen, and we joined them for lunch. Again.

The kids were all thrilled and immediately wandered off to play while I sat with my baby in her kitchen, watching the seconds tick by, counting the moments until we could leave.

She poured us some tea and pulled out the chair next me. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "Thank you for giving me a second chance," she said.

It turns out the morning of our first luncheon she was abandoned by her husband. He told her early in her pregnancy that he didn't want to be married. She hoped it was a phase. It wasn't, and he'd stayed only until the baby was eight weeks old. Her son was so excited at the prospect of coming to my house, she didn't have the heart to cancel. She was so heartbroken, she couldn't even speak. She told me how grateful she was that I welcomed them and that I kept up an ongoing conversation, even if it was one sided.

We enjoyed a nice friendship until my family moved out of town. She got her life together and seemed to become happy again.

Although I can't recall her name, I'll never forget her story and the lesson I learned about always giving someone another chance. You never know the trials someone else is enduring.

Too often we pass by others and never know the hardship that is coloring their lives. So the next time someone seems awkward or unfriendly consider that they could be waging a very private battle, and a simple smile from you could give them a moment of relief.

If fences make good neighbors, do boundaries make good friends?

2011-04-19T09:29:00.002-06:00

A few weeks ago I saw an article that says 84% of Facebook users admit to being annoyed by friends on Facebook. Perhaps I’m blessed, but I’m rarely annoyed by my FB friends and am often blessed by people I connect with (mostly) online.

I wonder though, in the frenzy to cultivate and interact with online friends, if we sometimes forget the meaning of true friendship. Ideally there’s a give and take to a relationship, an intention to make your friends as happy as they make you, a desire to be treated as well as you treat your friends. And herein lies the rub: That doesn’t always happen.

If fences make good neighbors, do boundaries make good friends? Should you erect a fence to surround your heart and protect it from careless comments and hurtful behavior? Now I don’t want to have the Great Wall of China encasing my heart, but maybe a pretty picket fence with a lovely design stenciled on the pickets and a pretty gate that opens to true friends.

I am generous to a fault with other people. I always give them leeway. If a careless word is tossed my way, I think that it was unintentional. If someone does something that wounds my heart, I tell myself that they really didn’t mean it that way. If a joke cuts too deeply, I chide myself for being too sensitive. I know that part of the problem is dysfunction from my childhood. I pretty much had to take whatever was thrown my way and swallow it, regardless of whether it made me choke going down.

This image pretty much sums up the way I’ve responded to hurtful actions and words:

Now don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not inundated with awful people in my life. And I believe that often my excuses are spot on. Most people don’t intend to be hurtful. But I’ve had some hard knocks in my life, and I’ve come to the conclusion that life’s too short allow myself to withstand needless pain. If someone wants to be nasty, I don’t have to be a willing victim.

I’ve grown to be an optimist. I’ve concluded that I always want to see the glass as half full, no matter how much liquid is left. I know that the sun will rise tomorrow, and at the end of the day I’ve got a great life.

But still when that little voice from deep within tells me it’s okay to not be a doormat, I often don’t have the courage to stand up for myself. I’m not the only one who’s been thinking about this, my friend (and wonderful author) Courtney Walsh posted about boundaries recently.

So what’s the point, you ask? The point is that I think I’m beginning to gather the strength and dignity to kindly not allow others to roll over me. Now don’t expect an overnight transition--I’m a project, and I’m working on me.

What about you? Do you protect your heart?

The Power of Words

2011-04-14T05:00:00.003-06:00

I love great examples of the power of well-crafted words. Enjoy!

2011 ACFW Colorado Writers’ Retreat

2011-04-12T05:51:00.008-06:00

I had been looking forward to this year’s writers’ retreat for months, longing for some spiritual refreshment and encouragement on my writing journey.

The retreat was held last weekend, and it was wonderful. The speaker throughout the event was Cec Murphy, an all-around good guy and author of 150+ books.

Cec used his book Knowing God Knowing Myself as a springboard for instruction and discussion. It’s a great book, and I continued to read it after I returned home.

We discussed our significance as both people and authors.

I expected to have an easy, relaxing retreat, feeding from nuggets of wisdom that were easy-to-digest, low-hanging fruit. Instead I got a generous portion of truth and encouragement that was sometimes difficult to swallow. It was a weekend with both tears and laughter.

Some jewels we received:

*What we do doesn’t determine our value. What we are determines our value.

*To find your author’s voice you need to discover who you are.

*Writing gives readers access to your private world. (That’s a scary truth.)

*Where’s nothing wrong with being who you are.

*God uses both our strengths and weaknesses.

*You are more important than what you do or don’t do. (I really needed to hear this!)

Reading and Writing

2011-04-04T05:46:00.000-06:00

One of the best things a writer can do to grow in their craft is to read -- to read all kinds of books in all kinds of genres.

I recently had the opportunity to read Beside Still Waters by Tricia Goyer. Tricia was kind enough to put me on her influencer list so I got an advanced copy from her publisher.

Having read other books by Tricia, I was eager to read another. I loved her historical romance novels, she creates interesting characters and puts them into emotional times and settings. To tell the truth, I was surprised to see that she'd written an Amish novel.

As expected, Beside Still Waters was beautifully written. I had read a few Amish novels before this one, and they are usually set in an Amish community. This novel is different. The family at the center of the story leaves their closed community to travel to a Amish community that is surrounded by and a part of "the English" world.

I love that Tricia has her characters grappling with their faith and recognizing faith in those who don't live under their strick rules. For me the story boiled down to this issue: trusting in your faith or trusting in God. The habits of a lifetime are firmly ingrained, but a seeking heart and a loving God are powerful motivators.

This book makes you realize that the object of our faith is much greater than our faith itself. I enjoyed visiting a world less hectic than mine and watching characters grow and discover a firmer and truer relationship with God.

Beside Still Waters gave me hours of enjoyment. You should consider putting it on your TBR (to be read) pile.

Sometimes things aren't as they seem

2011-03-31T14:53:00.003-06:00

I'm editing my manuscript right now, and part of the book's premise rests on the fact that sometimes things aren't as they seem.

Take a look at the photo above. When I first saw it, I thought it was a herd of horses. Then I looked again. Zebras.

I wonder how much suffering exists in this world by mistaken assumptions. I'm just thinkin'.

What about you? Do you have any thoughts about this?

That creative urge

2011-03-29T13:40:00.012-06:00

Art is not a thing; it is a way.

~Elbert Hubbard

I've discovered that people who are prone to creativity often allow their creative urge to be expressed in many ways. I know writers who also give themselves time to indulge in photography, baking, cooking, gardening, decorating, painting, and sculpting.

Before I got serious about writing . . .

I made pillows and throws . . .

and window coverings and table cloths . . .

and table runners.

I even bought vintage beads and created custom buttons for some of my pillows.

It seems that if you have a creative urge it will somehow manifest itself. I still get the urge to pull out my sewing machine, but I mostly want to put words together that will give someone pleasant entertainment or food for thought.

How does the creative urge manifest itself in your life?

(I have photos of many of my pillows, etc. but they're tucked away somewhere, so it was easier to walk through my living room, snapping pictures. One day a friend who was an interior designer came by and saw my pillows. She encouraged me to sell them. I did for a while. I worked with a few designers and sold some of my stuff to some high-end boutiques.)

What do you hear when you're reading?

2011-03-24T14:21:00.006-06:00

I know of authors who listen to certain soundtracks while they're writing to inspire them to write with emotion or to add authenticity to their story. But what I'm thinking of today are the sounds you hear while reading a book.

It's important to incorporate sensory details (sight, sound, touch, smell, taste) into a story to transport your reader. One of the details that I appreciate when I'm reading is narrative that conveys the sounds the characters are hearing.

If the setting is outside, perhaps in a wooded area, I'd like the author to find a unique way to describe these sounds. I'd like the description to deepen the characterization of the protagonist--tell me if the sounds are soothing or terrifying, depending on the character's circumstances.

If your character is in a city, this is what I'd expect to hear at some point in the novel. What would the character be thinking in reaction to this city noise? Please, tell me.

Or perhaps your character is at the beach and this is the background noise to an important conversation. How would that sound enhance your story? How could you work it into the theme of the book?

It's windy today in south Denver. The sound of the wind can add tension and drama to a story. You could write about the sound of dried leaves scudding across a parking lot or a tree limb groaning as it rubs a fence or it can add whimsy as the wind tickles a set of outdoor chimes.

Just thinking and hoping I've inspired you to think as well.