megawriter

Meg Moseley has moved!

2010-01-18T22:21:00.004-05:00

I've moved my blog, that is. I've moved to WordPress.

You can find me now at Meg Moseley's Blog. (Clever name, eh?)

If you've bookmarked this old blog, please remember to change your bookmark to the new address. Thank you!

Earthquake in Haiti

2010-01-13T10:14:00.003-05:00

The news from Haiti is horrifying.

A friend of mine from church had been planning to fly there this week to film footage for a ministry that works there. I was hugely relieved to hear that he hadn't left for Haiti yet. He's still safe at home with his loved ones.

Countless Haitians have no home, no safety, no word from their loved ones. God, have mercy.

Writing is work

2010-01-05T21:08:00.003-05:00

Mucking out the office is never fun, but it's done. I moved piles of useless papers into the trash. Books onto bookshelves. (Fancy that!) Notes, articles, and paperwork into files. Old manuscripts into the closet. Current manuscripts into neat stacks on the proper shelves.

As I was digging my way through the bookshelves, I ran across a slender little book that once belonged to my grandmother: "Writing Is Work" by Mary Roberts Rinehart. Published in 1939, it's a collection of practical advice and anecdotes about the business of writing.

Now it's on the shelf next to Gran's ancient L.C. Smith typewriter. Poor Gran! Every time she made a typo, she had to roll the paper up, erase the mistake on the original and the carbon copy, roll the paper down again, and correct the mistake. I have two of her manuscripts that bear the smudges of her corrections.

Thank God for computers, word processors, cut-and-paste, and the backspace key. A typewriter is to a computer as an oxcart is to a Mercedes. Writing will always be work, but it's not nearly as much work as it used to be.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel

2009-11-30T18:46:00.004-05:00

I think I've just figured out why I love Advent more than I love Christmas.

Christmas is great, of course, especially when my eyes are on Jesus, not on shopping malls or home decor. It's a joyous celebration.

But then it's over. The tree comes down, the leftovers from Christmas dinner fill the fridge, the truly awful gifts are set aside for next year's white elephant parties. And a sort of melancholy hits me because . . . well, as glorious as it is that Jesus came in the flesh, He also left this earth again.

That's where Advent has it all over Christmas. Advent is about anticipating the coming of Christ, and Advent in the larger sense won't be over until He comes again. There's no let-down. Advent is where I'll live every day until He comes.

By the way, listen carefully to the words of "Joy to the World" this year. When Isaac Watts wrote it, he was writing about the second coming of Christ. Knowing that gives me a whole new appreciation for the words.

One more note: Every year, Boar's Head Tavern opens an Advent blog called "Go to Bethlehem and See." It's a beautiful concoction of links and devotions that come from Christians of various stripes. Find it here: http://advent.wordpress.com/

Dickson and Koontz save Topside Cat

2009-11-27T21:03:00.004-05:00

As the weather gets colder, my thermotropic cats get friendlier. At the moment, I have one cat squeezing in beside me in the recliner and the other cat draped over the back of the chair. If I stand up suddenly, the topside cat will go flying, becoming a cat-apult. It happens fairly often and irritates her to no end.

Two new books sit on the table beside me: Your Heart Belongs to Me by Dean Koontz and Lost Mission by Athol Dickson. I don't know which one I'll start with, but Topside Cat is safe for a while.

Rain and books

2009-10-16T06:47:00.003-05:00

For six days, we've been holed up in a mountain cabin with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, wishing the rain would stop. For the most part, it hasn't, so the bikes sit forlornly in a puddle while we go jaunting about in a Jeep instead. Or we stay indoors, playing card games and Scrabble. Or reading. I've been reading mostly non-fiction. Work-related books, necessary but boring.

My sister-in-law, the lucky duck, has been reading Suite Française by Irene Nemirovsky who began the novel in France during World War II. Nemirovsky wrote about the war as it was happening, not knowing whether or not she would survive it. She didn't. She died in Auschwitz in 1942 before completing the book. The few pages that I browsed were wonderfully written. Here's a review from the New York Times.

I'm going home with more books than I started with. My sister-in-law returned a couple of books that she'd borrowed from me, one by Charles Martin and one by Dean Koontz. Then we stopped at a used-books store on one of those rainy days and picked up some kids' books for our first grandbaby. So it's an eclectic jumble of books in my backpack.

This morning I found a delightful post written by my daughter's friend Beth. She has listed some of her favorite books, many of which are my favorites, too. I immediately started thinking of books I would have to add to her list. That must mean I should post my own. Soon.

What do lizards have to do with Agnes Sparrow?

2009-09-28T05:16:00.009-05:00

Boy, am I bad about blogging. I admit it. I get so wrapped up in novel-writing that I forget my blog for days or weeks. Or months. Not that the world waits with bated breath for my posts, but it's a good way to stay connected with people. If you stay connected, that is.

I just finished reading, or at least skimming, a ridiculous number of novels for the "comparable fiction" section of the book proposal that I'm putting together for my agent. It's work, not fun, to pick up one book after another, read a few pages, and decide this one is too chick-litty to be a good comparison, and that one is too high-falutin' literary, and the one with the cool cover art turns out to be boring, so why would I want to compare my illustrious writing (cough cough) to that? But I found enough good comparisons, I think. Now I'll let that part of the proposal cool while I tweak the rest of it.

I just finished reading The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow by Joyce Magnin, not as part of the book-comparison deal but just for fun. And it was fun. Joyce lured me in with an interesting fat woman who serves her town by praying because there's nothing else she can do, and then unexpected things happened, drawing me into deep theological waters in a most entertaining way. Without preachiness. It would be a great pick for a book group to argue about. Er, I mean, discuss.

Unrelated: We're experiencing a lizard invasion. They're the cute little anole lizards, bright green with a peachy dewlap that they puff up for intimidation or courtship purposes. Somehow, they're sneaking into the sunroom, and yesterday I found one waiting expectantly at the back door in the garage. I think he would have knocked on the door if he could have. I shooed him away, for his own good. Our indoor cats would have seen him as a delightful taste of the great outdoors.

Okay, that's not totally unrelated to Agnes Sparrow, because one of the characters in the story has a cat that's always murdering smaller creatures, and that's related to the behavior of some of the human characters and those big theological questions about sin and free will. See, it's all related. Lizards, cats, fiction, theology.

Down with umbrellas

2009-04-01T17:31:00.002-05:00

We've had a ton of rain lately, thank God. Atlanta's drought is officially over.

I was pushing my shopping cart out of the grocery store the other day in the middle of a downpour. I don't own an umbrella. There was no sense in trying to hide from the rain, so I kept my head up--and a huge flock of starlings swooped down from the sky and into a bare-limbed tree and off again, all in perfect synch with each other.

Okay, they were only starlings, but they were beautiful. If I'd had my head buried under an umbrella, I would have missed the show.

The hermit emerges, dusty books in hand

2009-03-23T12:26:00.005-05:00

I feel like a hermit emerging from a cave, blinking at the sunlight. Hmm, it appears to be spring. Of a different year.

It has been a very long time since I touched this blog or any others. My sabbatical from blogs must have started about the time my laptop died, taking all my bookmarks with it. But I'm back.

Now, the ever-present question: Read any good books lately?

As a matter of fact, I have. I just finished Michael Snyder's My Name Is Russell Fink. Russell is a neurotic copier salesman with one too many women in his life. I don't know how I missed reading it when it first came out, but I'll be a lot faster to snatch up his second one. I believe it's coming out this summer, from Zondervan.

Besides reading a tall stack of nonfiction as research for my next project, I'm plowing through a pile of Life, Saturday Evening Post, and Ladies' Home Journals from 1940 and 1941. They're like time capsules. Great fun.

A game for bookish folks

2007-07-20T18:33:00.001-05:00

My friend Amy Wallace has dragged me out of lurkdom by tagging me to play this little game. I'm not going to tag anybody, but if you feel like playing along, please tell us where to find your answers. You can read responses from Amy and some of her friends at her blog.

Here are the questions and my answers:

1. What's the one book or writing project you haven't yet written but still hope to?

I would love to write a story set in a fictional version of the town where I grew up, in the wine country of California's Central Coast. (Nope, not Napa. Farther south than that.) I don't have a plot yet. Just some very interesting characters who want to get out of my head someday.

2. If you had one entire day in which to do nothing but read, what book would you start with?

If we're talking about this week, it would be the Spring 2007 version of Relief Journal, which I still haven't had time to finish reading. Okay, so it's not exactly a book, but it's good stuff.

3. What was your first writing "instrument" (besides pen and paper)?

A very old computer that some friends lent me because they knew I had started writing, using only pen and paper. I didn't even know how to turn on a computer, and I was terribly afraid I would break the thing. I churned out my first and worst novel on that clunky computer. (That's one book that will never see the light of day.)

4. What's your best guess as to how many books you read in a month?

Depends on the month. Some months, I walk out of the library with a stack of books and read 'em all in a week. This month, I've hardly read anything because my muse has gone into overdrive and I have to keep up with her. (Or him. I've never figured out if my muse is a guy or a girl.)

5. What's your favorite writing "machine" you've ever owned?

So far, that would be the VAIO laptop that I'm typing on right now.

6. Think historical fiction: what's your favorite time period in which to read?

Anything from around 1900 all the way into the thirties and forties.

7. What's the one book you remember most clearly from your youth (childhood or teens)?

Probably To Kill a Mockingbird. I had never been outside of California, but that story transported me to the South. Years later, living in Alabama and Georgia, I felt as if I had already met the people and the land. I still re-read it once in a while.

Okay, there you have it. Thanks for inviting me to play, Amy!

Sherrie and Dee, hats and chats

2007-06-06T22:25:00.000-05:00

Some of my friends have heard me speak of Sherrie Lord, who mentored me when I was first trying to figure out how on earth to write a novel. Sherrie and I attended the Colorado Christian Writers Conference last month, had a blast, and came away stoked to write new projects. She's a fabulous brainstormer and a great roommate. She wears beautiful hats, too. Everybody kept stopping her to say they loved her hats.

Sherrie launched her new blog today, complete with photos, so you can run over and say hi. Tell her I sent you.

And Deeanne Gist has launched a chat room where her friends and fans can gather. It's a hoot. Among other topics, she's collecting oddball names to use in future novels.

As for me, I've been neglecting my blog and my friends' blogs, but it's for a good cause. I'm writing a new novel while I wait to hear news of a couple of others that are still out there in Editorland, awaiting verdicts.

Off to Colorado

2007-05-16T04:57:00.000-05:00

I'm off to the Colorado Christian Writers Conference this morning. (Yeah, so why am I blogging?)

I've got a book by Adam Sexton for airport reading (Master Class in Fiction Writing or something like that; not sure of the title) and comfortable shoes. I'm looking forward to a reunion with my good friend Sherrie Lord, who put me up to going.

If I have internet access there, I might find time to check in, now and then. Or not. See you sometime soon!

Rejoicing with my friends

2007-05-10T19:03:00.000-05:00

The last couple of weeks have been chock-full of good news for some friends of mine. In no particular order....

Amy Wallace's debut novel, Ransomed Dreams, has been released. It's an action-packed, suspenseful story of a young woman who lost her family but dares to dream again, with the help of an agent with the F.B.I. Crimes Against Children unit. Check it out here.

Mary E. DeMuth's Wishing on Dandelions has been nominated for a Retailer's Choice Award. It's a lovely story, a sequel to Watching the Tree Limbs.

Deeanne Gist's latest novel, Courting Trouble, is hitting the shelves. The heroine, Essie, is original, funny, and brave. Read some of Dee's thoughts about the book here.

Suzan Robertson, Mark Bertrand, and Mike Duran have each received word that they're having short stories published in Coach's Midnight Diner, which is affiliated with Relief Journal.

Mark Bertrand's nonfiction book, Rethinking Worldview, is up on Amazon. Read some of his thoughts about it here.

Deborah Gyapong's novel, The Defilers, is a finalist in two categories for awards sponsored by The Word Guild: the mystery/suspense category, and the contemporary novel category.

Congratulations to all! And I hope I didn't miss anybody....

Eight random facts including Beowabbit

2007-05-10T17:39:00.000-05:00

My friend Suzan Robertson is kindly kicking me back into the world of blogging by means of this "eight random facts about yourself" game.

I haven't blogged in ages. On the other hand, I dug into one of my novels that needed a total rewrite. I rewrote it in three months, then started a new one, so I don't feel too guilty about neglecting my blog. Is anybody still out there, though?

On to the game. But never fear, friends. I won't tag you. Tagging is the chain letter of blogdom. (Yes, Suzan, you're forgiven. I should thank you for making me blog.)

Fact 1: I have the world's best recipe for refrigerator bread & butter pickles. No canning required. Easy and delicious. If you want it, I'll share. You'll need a gallon-sized glass jar.

Fact 2: Seamus Heaney's translation of "Beowulf" is one of my all-time favorite books, but I also enjoy the "Beowabbit" version. I'm afraid to know what that says about me.

Fact 3: I once wrote a novel in three weeks. Yes, it was crappy. Don't worry, it's gone forever.

Fact 4: I love bad translations. I found an online recipe recently that translated "eight large peeled potatoes" to "eight great bare Popes." It made my day.

Fact 5: I used to play guitar and write songs. Dozens of songs. Maybe hundreds. I'm not kidding. I sang them in Christian coffeeshops in the Jesus Movement days in California. Yes, I'm dating myself.

Fact 6: I'm a Detroit Red Wings fan because we used to live near Detroit. The Wings are the only team I follow in any sport. They'll play the Ducks next. (Wings, Ducks....hockey's for the birds, eh?)

Fact 7: I drink my coffee black, unless it's nasty coffee.

Fact 8: I'm going to the Colorado Christian Writers' Conference next week, so I really should be stressing out about memorizing pitches for my novels. Or frantically writing one more chapter for my WIP. Or at least worrying about what to wear. But I'm just looking forward to having a reunion with my friend Sherrie, who put me up to going.

This means, of course, that I'll be too busy next week to do much blogging, so Suzan will have to give me another nudge in a week or two. Right, Suzan?

Going to the birds

2007-02-11T14:14:00.000-05:00

Sometime during Feb. 16-19, I'm going to participate in the Great Backyard Bird Count. This is a simple activity and doesn't take much time. You count birds, and you enter your counts online. The results are used to guesstimate the well being of various types of birds and how general patterns of bird populations vary from year to year. It's not entirely scientific, but it gives ornithologists some useful data.

We have several feeders and suet holders in our back yard, and we've attracted a good variety of birds. Woodpeckers: hairy, downy, red-bellied, and red-headed. Cardinals, goldfinches, purple finches, house finches, pine siskins, blue jays, Carolina chickadees, nuthatches, tufted titmice, rufous-sided towhees, and even one beautiful hawk who strolled across the deck, looking for dinner. He was either a Cooper's hawk or a sharp-shinned. He flew away too soon, before I could nail down the slight differences.

We also see lots of sparrows, including house sparrows. My husband loathes house sparrows because they sometimes kill baby bluebirds and take over the bluebird houses. We also have other sparrows, but I can't tell what kind they are. They're all LBJs to me. Little Brown Jobs.

Since I decided to do the G.B.B.C., I've been paying more attention to the birds, trying to nail down some of the more confusing varieties so my data will be more accurate. Sometimes, a tiny "field mark" like an eyestripe or a wingbar is a clue. But the little buggers often fly away before I've had a chance to really look at them. I'm learning to look fast and hard then remember the details as I frantically flip through the pages of the bird book. It's good training in paying close attention.

And it makes me wonder about a few things. For instance, why don't pigeons have more consistent coloring? With rare exceptions, a chickadee will always look like the next chickadee, but pigeons show a wide variety of coloration. Why did God design them that way? Does anybody have a theory? And is anybody else going to try the G.B.B.C.? It would be fun to compare notes.

Suzan's satire

2007-02-06T18:55:00.000-05:00

My friend Suzan Robertson has written a little satire about classic literature versus the church-lit version of being P.C. Check it out. I'll bet you'll enjoy it, unless you're Joshua Finney.

A few days ago Suzan lent me a pile of good books, as she often does. I tend to read three at once, which scrambles my brain, but I suppose a little scrambling is good for creativity. The current three are Jolie Blon's Bounce by James Lee Burke, When Crickets Cry by Charles Martin, and Saint Maybe by Anne Tyler. Very different stories, very different styles, but I'm enjoying all three.

Six weird things.

2007-02-02T11:29:00.001-05:00

My friend Deeanne Gist tagged me today to play "Six Weird Things About Me."

Oh, boy. Like I needed to be reminded. Ha!

Here goes.

1. I don't do numbers. My brain simply refuses to process them. Ask me what year my car is, and I can't tell you. Ask me how old I am, and I have to stop and do the math. (This is 2007, and I was born in, um . . . ?) And, after 27 years of marriage (or is it 26?) I still don't have my husband's Social Security number memorized.

2. I cannot abide the taste of almond extract. The nuts themselves are okay, but I can't handle marzipan or almond-flavored anything. I don't even like the scent of Jergens hand lotion because it's almond-scented, or at least it used to be. I don't buy it, so I can't be sure.

3. I once made a near-sighted roommate freak out by floating a life-sized picture of a guy's face in the toilet bowl. I guess she thought he'd come up out of the sewer to say good morning. Where did I get the idea? I have no clue.

4. I have a hard time climbing onto my husband's motorcycle from the right side. I have to climb on from the left. I could make up a name for that. Bodily asymmetrical coordination dysfunction or something like that.

5. Back in 1979, I went to bed and slept through a hurricane. Deliberately. Because somebody had to be wide awake in the morning, right?

6. A friend and I once got a behind-the-scenes look at the Jungle Boat ride at Disney World by walking through a gate that said "Employees Only." (Or whatever they call employees there.) We stood there in the "jungle" and waved at the tourists going by. Some of them waved back. The guides didn't notice us, and none of the tourists turned us in.

7. Wait. I only had to do six, right? Or am I scrambling my numbers again?

Now I have to find some other people to pick on. Let's see.... Suzan R., Lindi P., Amy W., and Cindy W. Ladies, are you game?

Dee Stewart's challenge

2007-01-08T11:51:00.001-05:00

On The Master's Artist today, Dee Stewart posted her thoughts about a recent tragedy in Bethlehem, Georgia. She made my heart ache for those kids, all over again, and she challenged me to re-examine my reasons for writing. Sometimes, those reasons get a little warped. They need adjustments to keep them on track.

Life is serious business. We live surrounded by people who are dying for lack of light. I don't want to waste my time--which really belongs to God, not to me--by falling short of whatever God gives me to do to help bring Jesus Christ to people. Even if it's something I'm not especially comfortable in doing.

If you haven't read Dee's post yet, please do. Whether you're a writer or not, I think you'll glean something from it.

Chekhov and Snoopy and friends

2007-01-03T19:50:00.000-05:00

I'm reading three books about writing, thanks to friends and family who really know what I like for Christmas.

First, I read Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose. Now I'll have to read it again. It's full of rule-breaking advice based on the idea that close reading of the masters will do more good than sitting through writing workshops and critique groups that tend to encourage generic writing. Because she uses examples from wonderful books, now my TBR list is even more overwhelming than it was before.

I started reading James Scott Bell's Plot & Structure at the same time. Haven't finished that one yet. It seems like he's more formula-driven, so his advice sometimes contradicts what Francine Prose says, but he has some great ideas for kick-starting the creative process. It's a practical book that will come in handy when I need to drag myself out of some writing hole that I've dug myself into.

The third one is Snoopy's Guide to the Writing Life, a collection of Charles Schulz's classic Snoopy-as-novelist cartoons mixed with advice and inspiration from good writers. It may sound like fluff, but it's not. Some of the snippets of advice are like a good kick in the pants, which I need on a regular basis.

But back to Francine Prose's book. (Isn't that a great name for a writer?) She uses examples from a number of Chekhov's stories and also quotes from his letters. I loved these words of wisdom from him:

Artistic literature is called so because it depicts life as it really is. Its aim is truth--unconditional and honest. A writer is not a confectioner, not a dealer in cosmetics, not an entertainer; he is a man bound under compulsion, by the realization of his duty and by his conscience. To a chemist, nothing on earth is unclean. A writer must be as objective as a chemist.

I love that.

By the way, in just one day, I made a lot of progress in finding the boundaries of my novel-puzzle that I mentioned yesterday. I think they weren't too far off in the first place. Now, the challenge is to go on with it, "unconditional and honest . . . as objective as a chemist."

Putting the book-monster together

2007-01-02T12:48:00.000-05:00

Here I go again, tackling a monster puzzle. I'll be tearing my hair out by the end of the week. I'm not talking about a jigsaw puzzle, although we just finished one, inspired by my friend Dee who blogged here about doing a puzzle every Christmas. (Ours is a barn scene in Maine. Nothing spectacular.) My husband and I put the edges together in short order and started on the harder parts. After a few days, it was work instead of entertainment, but by then it was only a matter of time and perseverance. If there's only one spot for each particular piece, you'll find that spot even if you have to try every remaining piece in every remaining hole, although by then you're gritting your teeth and asking, "Why do we do this to ourselves?"

My hair-tearing puzzle is a novel that I need to revise. I don't have precut pieces that come back together to "make" a perfect picture that had already existed, complete and unblemished, before it was cut into a puzzle and thrown into a box. I have a manuscript that I cobbled together myself, making an imperfect picture that I can see more clearly after having set it aside for three months. At this point, I can't even put the edges of the picture together because I'm not sure what my boundaries should be. Do I make it a "big book" that covers at least part of my characters' early lives? Or do I bring in the boundaries to a more manageable size and focus on a smaller picture, a shorter timeframe?

Decisions, decisions. Revisions, revisions. Why do I do this to myself?

Our finished jigsaw puzzle is still sitting in the sun room in all its useless splendor. The cats are using it for a napping mat. As soon as we want that table for some other use, we'll throw the puzzle back into its box and may never look at it again. Meanwhile, my manuscript sits besides me, waiting for me to make it into the best book I've written yet. (I think that about every one of them. Grandiose dreams keep a writer going.) This monster puzzle will give me a gargantuan headache, curable only by weeks of work.

Why do I do this to myself? Because I can't wait to see the finished picture. I can't wait to read the story my characters want to tell me.

Let the symbols live

2006-12-21T08:24:00.000-05:00

I’ve finally figured out where the title of one of my novels came from. I think.

A couple of years ago, I churned out a fairly strong first chapter and a mess of a synopsis in six days just so I could enter a contest. I almost didn’t enter this particular contest, sponsored by a particular writing group that wasn’t my cup of tea anymore, but my competitive streak couldn’t resist. Especially because a line came out of nowhere and refused to go away:

She didn’t believe in ghosts, but growing up across from the graveyard must have warped her psyche.

I started writing. No road map, no plan. The next bit went:

Or maybe the old whisperings were in her blood. Part Irish, all southern, descended from moonshiners and holy rollers, she’d always believed in things she couldn’t see.

I liked the sound of it, but I had no idea who she was or what the old whisperings were or why ghosts and moonshiners seemed to go together. I just kept writing. And rewriting. And rewriting. There was a plot in there, somewhere, and I hoped to find it.

The deadline arrived. I had a polished chapter but no synopsis. I had to have one to enter the contest. So I wrote a plotless wonder of a synopsis. Then I had to pick a title and pick it fast. I had just enough time to print my entry and hand-deliver it to the category coordinator. “Undo the Dark” popped into my head, and I took it. I printed three copies of the chapter and the crappy synopsis and drove like mad to meet two of my friends at Starbucks. One was the coordinator for the inspirational category of the contest; the other was, like me, squeaking in under the deadline with an entry. I had no hope of finaling in the contest, but it gave me a jump-start on a new project, so it was all good.

I went home and agonized over the plot. I got it. I finished the story, revised it, and revised it again. Now it’s 92,000 words and I can see the patterns and the symbols that were there from the start, while I wrote in a blind white heat for a silly contest.

Some of the symbols are related to the Holy Spirit: wind, water, ghosts, spirits. The other kind of spirits are in there, too. The moonshine kind. Now I’m also seeing a lot about eyes: the eyes of God, the eyes of man, the eyes of a baby doll. There’s also a lot about hands and blood. Wild berries that stain the fingertips. Blood that stains a man’s hands. Bloodlines, family trees, family secrets. Secrets, covered up, like houses and trees are covered by kudzu vines. Then there’s the other kind of covering: love that covers a multitude of sins.

Some of the connections are messy. The ending isn’t neat. There are loose ends. Some elements of the story aren’t exactly CBA-friendly.

Just this week I realized where the title may have come from. One of the characters is a solitary soul who’s playing a game, all alone. Another character is trapped by a dark past and can’t undo it. For him, it’s not as simple as playing solitaire on a computer, where he could hit “Undo” to go back and fix a mistake. I think my subconscious mind put those elements together, even before I knew the plot, and whispered, Undo the Dark. I’m not saying it’s a great title, but it guided me into the themes of the story.

Mick Silva has invited readers of his blog to blog about “choosing to develop the natural metaphors in their story and sharing the observations and discoveries they find.” And he says he’ll provide a link. So here are a few observations if you care to link to them, Mick.

One, it’s fun but maddening to write without a road map, to be guided by a whisper in my ear: “Go that way. Now, turn. Even if you can’t see around the corner. Go.” Sometimes I take wrong turns and have to backtrack, but it’s not necessarily a waste of time. Sometimes I learn more from wrong turns than from getting it right the first time.

Two, the symbols have a life of their own but only if I’ll let them. If I hug them too tightly, I’ll be left with a lifeless mockery of what the story could have been. They need room to grow. Time to grow. And I can’t dictate their personalities. As a parent, I have tried to guide my kids, but God is the author of their personalities. What’s there is there. And, like we're sometimes led by a little child, sometimes a symbol can lead a writer even before it has grown into what it will eventually become.

Three, our writing is, unfortunately, subject to the rules of the marketplace if we hope to share it with other people. I may honestly think God gave me a particular story in a particular way, but the powers that be won’t necessarily agree with me. They may want to kill some of the symbols that I think are at the heart of the story. I’m still struggling with that possibility.

I can definitely relate to these lines from Orhan Pamuk's Nobel lecture: “I am most surprised by those moments when I have felt as if the sentences . . . have not come from my own imagination—that another power has found them and generously presented them to me.” In my case, the opening lines and the title seemed to drop into my head from nowhere. I had to work hard for everything else, but work itself is a gift and a joy.

Mick, your blog encourages me more than you know. Thank you for being there.

Playing by the rules or not?

2006-12-13T11:48:00.000-05:00

I should be writing Christmas cards. Instead, I'm immersed in one more read-through of the suspense novel I should have sent my agent weeks ago. My friend Suzan just read it and gave me some suggestions that shouldn't take long to implement.

I'm still debating just how real and gritty to make this story. As an unpublished writer, I'll have a better chance of selling if I play by the rules of Christian publishing and keep everything squeaky-clean. As a reader who's often bored by Christian novels, though, I want to keep it real. To me, writing from a Christian perspective means including both the grace that saves us and the darkness that we've saved from.

My agent, whom I respect greatly, will probably ask me to play by the rules. And she knows the business, inside and out. On the other hand, some editors keep sounding the call for more realistic Christian fiction. That's the kind of editor I want.

Now, back to reading, with my pen hovering above certain lines that feel right to me but that might send my manuscript straight to the rejection pile. We shall see.

Relief Journal is here

2006-11-21T17:16:00.001-05:00

I was headed out for a trip to the library when I stopped at the mailbox and found my copy of the first issue of "Relief, A Quarterly Christian Expression." In other words, a Christian literary journal. I know one of the contributors in this issue, Mike Snyder, who's brilliant and funny. The treasure in my mailbox was almost enough to derail me from the trip to the library, but not quite.

I came home with a big variety of books, fiction and nonfiction, intending to haul a couple of them with me over Thanksgiving weekend when we'll be visiting relatives. I picked up The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King and White Doves at Morning by James Lee Burke. The rest of the pile is nonfiction, research for the final tweakings of the novel I'm revising.

Of course the first "Relief" is coming with me, too. I can't wait to get into it. I've always loved reading short stories and poetry, two art forms that aren't especially lucrative for publishers. Hats off to the "Relief" crew for starting this venture. And congrats to Mike for making it into the first issue. It'll be a collector's item one day when you're rich and famous.

I've been missing....

2006-11-16T08:20:00.000-05:00

I woke this morning to strong winds and a beautiful sunrise, half over. I usually get up when it’s dark out, but I tend to miss the sunrise because I’ve got my nose to the laptop by then. So I went outside to see what I’d been missing.

A hawk was circling above the trees to the right of my yard with the sun lighting up the underside of his wings. As he made his big, wobbly circles, he wandered closer, eventually passing over me. He disappeared over the neighbor’s house, and about thirty small, dark birds with light bellies flew toward me. Juncos, maybe? The sun electrified their undersides and the borders of their wings. They came and went quickly, like a little flock of flying leaves. I would have missed them if I hadn’t been looking up at the hawk.

The sky changed colors quickly, and I got cold enough to come back inside. Now it’s overcast. The wind’s still shaking the trees. The cat’s sitting by the window, bird-watching in warmth and comfort. She has a good idea.

Good reads for chilly nights

2006-10-25T18:56:00.000-05:00

Nights are getting a bit chilly here in Georgia. A good excuse to curl up with a book and a cup of coffee. (Like I need a good excuse, right?)

What I'm reading right now: The Moviegoer by Walker Percy. I stayed up late reading it last night and woke up this morning with his lovely, literary voice in my head. Not literary in the stuffy sense, okay? Literary is not a dirty word. The protagonist seems to be searching for God in some rather unlikely places while he deals with a cousin on the verge of a breakdown. It's set in New Orleans, decades ago. I think it's going to be one of those books that keeps me thinking about it for weeks after I've read the last page.

What I read before that: Scoop by Rene Gutteridge. It's a funny story about a girl who was both homeschooled and sheltered. (Keep in mind that those two words are not necessarily synonymous.) Now she's out in the mean-hearted real world, working behind the scenes at a TV news station. Being a veteran homeschooler myself, I really enjoyed the story, and I say kudos to Rene for poking gentle fun at lots of things that deserve to be poked. Including TV news.

Before that: Germ by Robert Liparulo. It's a fast-paced story about the possibilities of germ warfare that could target individuals by their DNA. I thought the character development was much better than I generally expect from a suspense read.

Before that: When the Heart Cries by Cindy Woodsmall. This story is about a young Amish woman whose forbidden relationship with a Mennonite man is threatened by a tragedy that sets her safe little world spinning out of orbit. I finished reading it shortly before the shooting at the Amish schoolhouse, and Cindy's skill in portraying these gentle people made the real-life tragedy feel a lot closer to home. I'm looking forward to reading the sequel to Cindy's story.

What I'll probably read next: The Best of Evil by Eric Wilson or The Book of the Dun Cow by Walter Wangerin or Straight Up by Lisa Samson. I like variety.

Thanks to my good friend Suzan Robertson who recommended some of those books and lent me a few.

Zola and the Art of Motorcycle Noise

2006-10-04T12:33:00.000-05:00

"If you asked me what I came into this world to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud." --Emile Zola

I liked that quote long before Steven Curtis Chapman wrote a song around it. Although I'm a quiet person, part of me loves to make noise. Maybe that's why I enjoy my husband's motorcycles.

He loves Hondas. One of his bikes is a Gold Wing, a huge bike that purrs like a sewing machine. Its voice is the equivalent of 12-point font, like this: vroom-vroom. Nice and civilized. A little too civilized. As a passenger, I feel like I'm in a recliner, not on a bike. I have dozed off on the passenger pillion, which is scary when you stop to think about it. But he also owns a Honda Valkyrie with custom pipes and a ribs-rattling rumble. The Valk roars in caps. In bold print. In, say, 36-point font, which I would demonstrate here if I knew how, with multiple exclamation marks. VROOM-VROOM!!! There's no dozing on the Valk.

Now, let me try to connect the dots between the Zola quote, motorcycles, and good fiction.

Bret Lott gave the keynote address at this year's Christy awards. I had been wondering what he'd actually said, since his speech had ignited a little firestorm in blogdom, or at least in the part of blogdom that concerns itself with Christian fiction. Now I've read it for myself. I loved it.

I printed it, all twelve pages, and hung it on my bulletin board to remind me that I don't want to write comfy stuff that puts people to sleep as they cruise along on the passenger pillion. When I take readers for a ride, I want them to feel the wind in their hair and maybe even take a few bugs in their teeth, but I don't want to put them to sleep.

Easier said than done, but I'm learning.

ACFW moments: the good, the bad, and the ugly

2006-09-28T13:57:00.000-05:00

I wrote a post yesterday, but Blogger ate it. So, instead of a cohesive and intelligent report from the ACFW conference, I'll round up some random memories in no particular order. Which might be more interesting anyway.

An encouraging moment: As I walked down the hall, I overheard a young man mention P.G. Wodehouse as a favorite author. Yeah! I've loved Wodehouse since I was a kid. It's nice to know some people still read the oldies-but-goodies.

A mind-boggling moment: When I started to comprehend Mary DeMuth's words about writing as a calling. This whole crazy journey is a gift, like Moses' journey with God's children was a gift and a calling. It wasn't something God would take away from him. It was what Moses was born to do.

A puzzling moment: when the moderator asked editors on a panel to name a memorable book they'd read lately, and several of them couldn't come up with a title. Hmm...this is troubling.

An answered-prayer moment: I had asked God to give me just one minute with a particular editor, not to pitch to him, but to ask if a friend could submit her work since she couldn't attend the conference, but she won her category of the Genesis contest. At breakfast on Sunday, he walked by. I said hi, and he sat down and said he had five minutes. That's five times what I'd asked for.

A fun moment: watching a tango lesson in the hotel lobby at midnight.

A sweet moment: learning that my favorite agents in the whole wide world left a basket of chocolates for me at the front desk. Sadly, they're gone now. The chocolates, I mean. Not the agents.

And I guess I can't think of any bad or ugly moments except the way my flight home was delayed again and again. Even that wasn't too bad because I had friends, books, and chocolate to help pass the time. But next time, I think I'm driving. Right, Suzan?

ACFW 2006

2006-09-25T14:38:00.000-05:00

I had a lovely time at the American Christian Fiction Writers conference in Dallas over the weekend. It's fun to be around people who have imaginary friends to talk about, or even to talk to. Among fiction writers, muttering under your breath as you walk down the hall, alone, is considered normal behavior. Everybody knows you're just having an argument with a recalcitrant character, or maybe figuring out what kind of tree to make that character climb and what kind of rocks to throw at him once he's up there.

I met many wonderful people, some of whom were already my online friends. I reconnected with people I've known for years. I had dinner with my wonderful agent and some of her other clients, I consumed too much chocolate and coffee, and I hung out with some amazing writers, published and unpublished, who give and give and give some more, all for the love of God and people and good writing. I just wish I'd brought a camera.

Techno-klutz and the very expensive coffee

2006-09-08T06:35:00.000-05:00

I simply cannot make myself be technologically adept.

In my last post, when I tried to link to my friend Dee's post about meeting each other in Atlanta last month, I didn't link to that post specifically, just to her blog in general, so if you clicked on the link, you were probably scratching your head and asking, "Huh? What does a rattlesnake have to do with it?" Or a dog with a Frisbee, or fancy boots or whatever she happened to be blogging about on that particular day. If that last bit confuses you, you'll just have to go read Dee's blog. Anyway, I've changed the link in my previous post.

Now, speaking of technology, take a lesson from me and keep all beverages far from your laptops, okay? A couple of weeks ago, my laptop had a close encounter with my morning coffee. That was one expensive cup of joe. Thank God the hard drive survived just fine even though I didn't know you should immediately unplug the thing and yank the battery so it can't short circuit. And thank God for my friend Jim, who found a replacement keyboard online. All is well, and my coffee is far from my laptop.

I am still figuring out my cell phone.

Dee & Me

2006-08-16T15:45:00.000-05:00

My friend and critique partner Deeanne Gist posted a picture of the two of us on her blog today and shared some kind and completely true words about my husband. Ever since I started writing, Jon has been my encourager, always going the extra mile and shelling out more money so I can follow my dream. He even played chauffeur for Dee and me. You can read her post here.

Dee is a loyal and generous friend who has been my most vocal cheerleader. I'm truly blessed to have her in my corner. And should I mention that I love her writing? Coming next summer, Courting Trouble is going to be another wonderful book from Dee.

To Florida and back to my cave

2006-08-14T17:17:00.000-05:00

I've been neglecting this baby again. I haven't been home a lot lately, and when I've been around, I've been writing like crazy. Just not on the blog.

A couple of weeks ago we drove down to Florida for a nephew's wedding. After the festivities, some of us went to the beach. I was happy to change from my glad-rags to regular clothes and be barefoot again.

This shot is of our two sons and our son-in-law. If you think the waves don't even look big enough for boogie boards, you're right. But wasn't the sky pretty?

We had a great time and I even did some book research on the way home, but I'm glad to be home.

To RWA and back to my cave again

2006-08-03T06:19:00.001-05:00

Last week, I spent some time at the Romance Writers of America conference in downtown Atlanta. I'm not a member of RWA anymore, but it was fun to be there during the open-to-the-public events. For me, the highlight was on Wednesday, when my husband and I went to the airport to pick up my friend Deeanne Gist. Dee and I have talked on the phone regularly for over a year, but we'd never met in person before. She's a great friend and a lot of fun.

My husband dropped us off at the conference, and then I watched some of the behind-the-scenes doings of an author's life as Dee ran off to a booksellers' tea, then to an autograph signing with approximately 500 other authors. While she was doing that, I peeked at the workshop listings and wished I hadn't dropped out of RWA. They covered everything from marketing to author/editor relationships to the nitty-gritty of police procedures to add authenticity to a story.

While Dee stayed for three days' worth of continuing education, writer-style, I went on a motorcycle trip with my husband through parts of Georgia and South Carolina. Beautiful scenery, good company, a little too much sun.

I headed back to RWA on Saturday for the awards ceremony and chocolate fountains. Since I wasn't there on business--I didn't have to impress any editors, didn't feel obligated to network, didn't even care what Nora Roberts would think of me in my five-dollar jeans if I ran into her on the elevator--I had a blast seeing my friends.

We dropped Dee off at the airport on Sunday, and I've been back in my cave for a few days, writing like mad. I'm so close to the end of my work-in-progress that I can taste it. And that's even better than a chocolate fountain.

Best sellers, best givers

2006-06-24T20:36:00.001-05:00

My husband and I took a one-day trip on his bike a couple of weeks ago. We stopped at a garage sale just down the road, and I bought a novel by a Famous Christian Author, or F.C.A. Lo, how the mighty have fallen. A best-seller for a quarter. I’ve never read any of this F.C.A.’s books, but I’ve read reviews. Some people love his writing. Some people hate it. I can’t evaluate his whole body of work by reading only one of his books, but it’s a start.

We hit a second garage sale a little farther into the hills. This one had a whole bookcase full of Reader’s Digest condensed books and a couple dozen hardcovers with fancy bindings that led me to believe they were part of a “classics and semi-classics you have to read before you die” kind of book club. One dollar each. I picked up Les Miserables, To Kill a Mockingbird, The French Lieutenant’s Woman, and one by Graham Greene, but its title escapes me at the moment. I put them in the bag on the back of the bike.

We rode farther into the mountains, and I started thinking about the Famous Christian Author’s book for a quarter and the classics in hardcover for a buck. The F.C.A.’s book isn’t a classic by any stretch of the imagination. It’s merely popular Christian fiction. Nobody will remember it in ten or fifteen years. Each classic cost a mere 75 cents more, at garage sale prices, but they won’t be so easily forgotten. What makes the difference? Craft? Theme? Some magic ingredient?

From there, with my thoughts floating gently along as they do when we’re riding, I pondered the cheesy merchandise that’s sold in typical Christian bookstores. Some of those stores stock more junk than books. You know what I’m talking about: plaques, T-shirts, jewelry, etc., all emblazoned with Bible verses or fish or crosses. What’s the motivation for selling those items? Do the people who design and produce it have an honest desire to get the name of Jesus out there, or do they only want to make money? Maybe it's a mixture. Business is business, after all. I hope to sell my novels one day, which means making a few bucks, but I also hope to give my stories to the Lord as love offerings.

By this time, we were riding through the rugged mountains of Rabun County. My great-great-grandmother was born there in 18-something. Every time we ride through that area, I imagine her and her husband eking out a living somewhere in those hills before they moved to the promised land of California. He was a minister; she died after lingering for years with injuries suffered when she was lassoed and dragged behind a horse by a drunken man to whom she had just given a drink of water. If that was one of her love offerings, it was a costly one.

We hit a construction zone where the road was being widened. On my right stood a tiny house that had once stood far back from the road. Now the road is nearly to its front porch. A long gash of red clay slashed through what had once been lawn, and the little old house stood there like an island of the past, holding out against the tides of progress that are washing against its shores.

In the yard stood a cross. I only caught a glimpse, but it looked like it might have been made of a chickenwire frame, five or six feet tall, with neat, square corners. The framework had been decorated with—what? I had only seconds to see it. Artificial flowers? I think so, but I’m not sure. There seemed to be little white lights, too, but they weren’t lit in the bright afternoon sun. I also caught a glimpse of blue and pink hydrangeas blooming around the house. Then we were past it, but the image was imprinted on my mind: a gash of orange dirt, the bright yellow equipment that had made the gash, orange construction-zone signs and cones, bright hydrangeas, and a fluffy pastel cross standing in the yard.

The cynical side of me sees the tackiness of it. The cheesiness. The other side of me pictures a sweet old man with arthritic hands, weaving the silk flowers onto the framework of a cross . . . why? I don’t know. Let's call it a love offering.

We rode on, through parts of the Nantahala Wilderness, through corners of North and South Carolina and back into Georgia. Everywhere, we saw amazing beauty. Huge vistas of green and blue mountains. Wild rivers. Bright wildflowers. Sunlit fields. Man-made beauty can’t compete with God-made beauty. It just can’t. But we were born to create.

My thoughts kept going back to the flowery cross and to the books in the trunk behind me, one example of popular Christian fiction and a handful of classics. I can’t see the hearts of any of those creators. I know what I like and what I don't like, and I can sometimes discern the quality of craft and take a wild guess about what is destined to be a classic and what is not, but I can't discern what is a cheap offering and what is a costly labor of love.

Maybe my hypothetical old guy with the arthritic hands has been recorded as one of the best givers in the annals of heaven, along with the widow and her mite. It's not my call. I can only keep working on my own offerings.

Deliver Us From Evelyn

2006-06-02T07:01:00.000-05:00

With the blessing and permission of the author, here's the first chapter of Deliver Us From Evelyn by Chris Well. This is his second "quirky crime drama," as he describes it. I enjoyed his first one, Forgiving Solomon Long, and I'm looking forward to reading this one, too. Published by Harvest House Publishers, it's available in stores and on Amazon now.

By day, Chris is editor for Homecoming and contributing editor for CCM. He and his wife make their home in Tennessee.

Everyone from the Feds to the mob is scrambling to find the husband of heartless media mogul Evelyn Blake. But no one can decide which is worse—that he is missing, or that she is not ...

CHAPTER ONE

Sunday night. April 23.

On his last day of this life, the Right Fair Reverend Missionary Bob Mullins checked the party dip. Just stuck his finger right in there, pulled some glop free, stuck it in his mouth and sucked.

Hmm, good dip.

He wiped his saliva’d finger on his jacket, popped the top off a can of Pringles, shuffled a neat row of curved chips onto a Dixie brand paper platter.

There.

Setting the can down, he stepped back from the secondhand coffee table in the middle of the shag-carpeted office, looked at what his party planning skills had wrought. And he saw that it was good.

He went to the stereo system across the room, selected a CD. Personally, he would have preferred something by the Rolling Stones, maybe Exile on Main Street or Beggars Banquet -- muscular, honky-tonk rock ’n’ roll you can get drunk or stoned to, depending on your mood. He could really go for the bluesy wail of “Tumbling Dice” right now.

But the music library here offered none of that. Besides, his marks -- that is, the members of his “flock” -- held certain expectations regarding what music was appropriate for a prayer meeting. Especially in a small armpit of a town like Belt Falls, Illinois.

(Who names a town “Belt Falls,” anyway?)

The ladies would be here soon. Then Missionary Bob could use his people skills, honed from his years of "ministry," to good effect. Would lead the group in a spontaneous (but carefully planned) evening following “the Lord’s leading” -- some Bible, some hymns, some ministry time. A carefully rehearsed prayer, a combination of wails and pleas, which experience had shown to be a very effective prelude to the passing of the offering plate.

Swept up by the rush of maudlin and spiritual emotion, the ladies would cough up plenty.

“Yea, but there are those who do not have it as comfortably as we do,” he found himself practicing, fiddling with chair placement in the circle, maneuvering pillows on the couch. “Poor children who do not have the food or clothing or shelter such as we take for granted.”

He double-checked the handy photos on the table. The orphanage in Mexico went by a lot of names. It would not do for the Right Fair Reverend Missionary Bob Mullins to get all weepy-eyed over JESUS AMA A LOS NINOS PEQUENOS and then whip out a photo showing a bunch of tiny brown faces smiling under a banner that said CHILDREN OF HER MERCY ORPHANAGE.

Following the fiasco in the last town, he’d played it cool once he got to Belt Falls. (Really, who brings a wagon train across the frontier, breaks ground on a settlement and says, “From henceforth, this shall be known as ‘Belt Falls’”?)

Ever since Andrea -- his partner, his companion, his ray of light -- had got Jesus, she'd stopped helping with the scams. Stopped helping him fleece the flock, so to speak. She laid it on thick enough, It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment, and all that.

He tried to smirk it off, tried that face that always brought her around, but it didn’t seem to work anymore. Whatever had got hold of her wasn’t letting go.

Missionary Bob would never admit it to anyone, least of all himself, that the dividing line between success and failure began and ended with Andrea. When she was working with him, the scams worked like butter.

But then she got religion and the whole machine went up in flames.

Not that Missionary Bob got the clue. He kept working his games, town to town, each new gambit failing, each new town harder to crack than the last.

Once he set up shop here in Belt Falls (don’t even get him started about the name of the town), he took his time getting to know the people. He found them to be a small, close-knit community, smugly going to their church services.

Smug, but not that pious -- it did not take much effort to plant sufficient evidence that the only pastor in town was a raving drug user, maybe even a dealer. Not enough evidence to get the man convicted -- even the hick sheriff saw it was a weak case -- but the hapless pastor had to make only one phone call to the wrong deacon asking for bail money before word of his unholy lifestyle rushed through the congregation like wildfire.

In the eyes of God and the law, he was probably an okay guy. But once a congregation chooses to believe the worst, a preacher may as well pack his bags and move on.

Missionary Bob had even heard tell of one particular church, somewhere in the Midwest, where the members had booted the pastor because he'd had the temerity to wear short pants to a church potluck.

Yep, hell -- if it existed -- would be packed to the lips with smug, busybody churchgoers who ran their preacher out of town because he had worn shorts to a church potluck. Or, as in this case, was the victim of circumstantial evidence planted on him by a traveling huckster.

He stood and straightened his dress jacket. Felt a bulge in his left pocket, was surprised to discover a coaster with the face of Jesus on it.

He looked around the office, befuddled. When had he picked this up?

You don’t have to lift anything here, he reminded himself. You’ve pretty much lifted the whole office already.

Missionary Bob, in what used to be the hapless pastor’s office, heard steps echoing from the foyer, somebody clomping up the stairs. My, my, thought the Right Fair Reverend Missionary Bob Mullins, these ladies do need to lose some weight, don’t they? Whoever this was, she was pounding the stairs to wake the devil.

He stopped fidgeting with pillows and stood up straight, getting into character. Thinking of his plan, his mission, remembering the correct accent and speech patterns of a Right Fair Reverend Missionary, an accent as specific and undeniable as the drawl of New Orleans or the wicked blue-blood of Boston.

There was an insistent pounding on the door, a battering, really, if he had stopped to think about it. But he was too wrapped up in the character of a Right Fair Reverend Missionary. He slapped on a toothy grin and opened the door. “Welcome, child, to -- ”

It was a man. A. Large. Man. A grizzled bear towering over him, bloated flannel shirt cascading out of pants where they were almost tucked, tractor cap on his head declaring EAT ROADKILL. The grizzly bear pressed his flannelled beer belly against the Right Fair Reverend Missionary, leaned down from on high and belched, “I’m Darla Mae’s husband.”

The Right Fair Reverent Missionary Bob Mullins broke character and cursed.

The rest of the confrontation was like a dream, a nightmare of slow motion, the bear smacking him, a freight train to the skull, tossing Missionary Bob across the room. Hitting the coffee table as he went down, elbow in the dip. The grizzly roaring, storming in, Missionary Bob on the floor, scrambling backward, away, fleeing in the only direction he could, farther into the room. The angry husband kicking the table over, party snacks flying, dip spattering across the bookcase.

As Missionary Bob kicked to his feet, always moving backward, until the wall stopped his escape, one question kept flashing through his mind: Is this about the fake antique Cross of James or is this about the adultery?

Either way, his back against the wall, this grizzly man bearing down on him, Missionary Bob was out of options. The giant man, his eyes red, had barrel fists clenched and ready to swing, like jackhammers.

There was a noise behind the grizzly, at the open door. “Missionary Bob?”

One of the ladies.

The enraged husband turned at the voice. Missionary Bob took his one and only chance, grabbed the stone head of Moliere, clubbed the grizzly across the side of the head. The man stumbled backward and fell.

Missionary Bob, fueled by anger and fear and blind, stupid adrenalin, kept clubbing, again and again. The man on the floor now, blood streaming from his head. Missionary Bob clubbing him with the bust again and again. On his knees, on top of the man, clubbing him again and again and again.

Finally, adrenalin loosening its grip, Missionary Bob became aware that the man was not moving. Clutching air in hot, painful gasps, he dropped the bust to the carpet.

Felt something wet on the side of his face, wiped it with his sleeve, saw blood smeared on fabric. Not his own blood.

Gasping, wheezing, he looked up and saw the witnesses, ladies pooling in the doorway, staring agape at the Goliath on the floor, downed by the David with his stone.

© 2006 Chris Well

Buy now at Amazon.com

Smuckers and the toe

2006-06-01T15:28:00.000-05:00

I had some half-baked, pseudo-intellectual ramblings taking shape in my mind this week, gearing themselves up to become a blog post, but then I went grocery shopping and a two-pound jar of Smucker's strawberry jam interfered with my toe and with my mental processes, such as they are, and all I can think about is that painful digit, which is now swollen and approximately the same color as the jam. (How's that for a run-on sentence?)

Yeah, one of the grocery bags ripped, and the jar fell on the joint of my toe. Please, no wisecracks about toe jam.

I don't think it's actually broken. Still, the timing is ironic. Just yesterday, I was proof-reading one of my completed novels and rather enjoying the scene wherein our hero breaks his big toe. If I'd done the shopping yesterday, I might have had all kinds of new sensory details to add to that scene, unless I'd had a different bagger who'd had more sense than to pack so much weight into one flimsy bag. But I've already sent the manuscript off to my agent, so my first-hand (first-foot?) experience is a day too late.

And that's the way it goes. Another glamorous day in the life of a writer. Tomorrow will be better. I'll be posting a sample chapter from Christopher Well's Deliver Us from Evelyn, his new novel from Harvest House. Looks like another good book from Chris.

Corey Hau in Infuze Magazine

2006-05-23T10:10:00.000-05:00

The current issue of Infuze, an online magazine of "Art, Entertainment, and Faith," includes some photography by my friend Corey Hau. (That's pronounced "How.") Corey is a missionary with YWAM and based in Seattle, but these images are from an orphanage he visited in Kyrgyzstan earlier this year. (Scroll down the "Creative Works" on the sidebar and you'll see his name.)

Corey is a gifted photographer. He sees the world as it is, beautiful and broken, in need of the Savior. Please take a few minutes to visit Corey's blog, "Remain," for more of his photography and his thoughts.

Infuze requires a quick and free registration. It's worth the little bit of trouble. Besides photography and other visual arts, poetry, short stories, and articles, the magazine does interviews with interesting people and reviews of current music, movies, books, and video games, both secular and Christian. It's always crammed with good stuff, sometimes controversial, always interesting.

On I-75 with Levi's Will

2006-05-22T14:38:00.000-05:00

I didn’t know I’d chosen the perfect book to read on this particular road trip with my family: Levi’s Will, by Dale Cramer. Just before we started our 12-hour drive to a wedding in Michigan, I grabbed the book. It’s about an Ohio boy named Will who ran from his Amish family at age 19, wound up in Atlanta with a new last name, and spent years seeking reconciliation with his hard-headed father. The book was named one of Library Journal’s best books of 2005 and Booklist’s best Christian novel of the year, and it has been nominated for the 2006 Christy Award.

Honors aside, I would have loved it on its own merits and also for the way it dovetailed into this particular weekend. I didn’t start reading it until we were on our way home to Atlanta after the wedding. Somewhere in Ohio, it struck me: We were traveling the same highway, I-75, that Will drove, over and over, between Atlanta and Ohio. We had just witnessed a wedding that was largely populated by conservative home-schoolers whose lives seem somewhat Amish-like. And, like Will, we saw two worlds mixing and sometimes looking at each other askance.

I kept reading as we zipped through the flat Ohio farmland and into Kentucky’s hills. I had nearly finished by the time the tire blew, just north of Berea. I retreated to a shady spot on the hillside to read while my husband and the boys worked on getting the shredded tire off. They had some trouble with it, so I had plenty of time to read and think--about the fathers and sons and brothers in the book. About the women who loved them.

I kept wondering about the Amish and about some of the more conservative wedding guests. Why won’t they let their daughters work outside the home? Why do the women wear head-coverings? Why do they keep having babies every year until their wombs wear out? How do various groups decide where to draw the lines on particular issues?

I couldn’t answer most of my own questions, but the guys conquered their problem with the stubborn tire. We climbed back in. I finished the book before dark as we drove on through the mountains. Driving twelve hours in one day, you cover a lot of territory so quickly that you see the contrasts: flat farmland in the morning, rolling hills and rugged mountains by afternoon, and city freeways and skyscrapers lighting the night. It’s all part of one day. The varied landscapes are all parts of one country.

Different types of believers are all parts of one body, like it or not.

At the wedding, the different trappings didn’t seem to matter. I suspect they should never matter very much. What matters is getting past the rules to the grace. Getting past the differences to the hearts. I need to remember that, always. Thanks to Dale Cramer for the beautiful reminder.

The fiction addiction

2006-05-17T14:30:00.000-05:00

The fiction addiction is taking over my house again. For a while, I had everything under control. Books were on shelves, where they belonged, except for two or three that I was reading or re-reading. Then my friend Suzan came over and lent me a stack of good reads. Then I hit a bookstore on Mother’s Day and bought a few more. The end table began to disappear under a load of books.

I went to the library with my fifteen-year-old. I told myself I couldn’t check out any books because of the stack sitting at home. Yeah, right. I left the library with seven. My son checked out nine, although his bedroom floor was already littered with books.

One of my son’s older friends from church stopped by and stumbled upon the litter—literally stumbled, probably, since they’re all over the floor—and the two of them plunged into an intense discussion of what they’ve read lately. There’s quite an age gap between these guys, but they’re on the same page when it comes to enjoying a good story.

I was happy to see their camaraderie, but I wish I saw it more often in that generation. Not many of the 20- and 30-somethings in our church seem very interested in fiction. They tackle some heavy non-fiction, including Christian classics that cover way more theology than I figure I need, but they steer away from fiction. Especially CBA fiction. Maybe it’s because they’re too busy to read much, and they think only non-fiction is worth their time. Or maybe CBA fiction, on the whole, is written to please a different demographic. A 60-year-old Sunday School teacher in Peoria, for instance. I don’t know.

But I’m glad there are at least a few young guys out there who are addicted to good fiction. One day, I hope they and their wives will read thousands of bedtime stories to their own kids and never, ever scold them for a floor littered with books.

Fantasy Blog Tour

2006-05-15T17:52:00.000-05:00

Some of my cyber-buddies who hang out at the Faith*in*Fiction discussion board are doing a blog tour of fantasy fiction, so I'm going to jump on their bandwagon. These are a bunch of fun people, so even if you think you don't like to read fantasy, you might enjoy the ride. It looks to me like they're covering books for kids, adults, and everything in between, so that means you.

Becky Miller's blog, A Christian Worldview of Fiction, seems to be the gathering place, and she will send you on your merry way to Tim Frankovich's Christian Fiction Review, Sally Apokedak's All About Children's Books, and Mirtika Schultz's Mirathon, among others.

Have fun!

Feeling like an auntie

2006-05-12T15:16:00.000-05:00

I don't know this from experience yet, but I've heard that authors feel like new parents when they hold their newly published books for the first time. They've gone through a long pregnancy, but there it is, finally. A baby made of ink on paper. The thoughts of the author's heart have gone through all the stages of the writing process and the publishing process. Finally, what started as a germ of a story is a real book.

I went to my mailbox on Friday, and there was the gorgeous hardcover edition of The Measure of a Lady by my friend and critique partner, Deeanne Gist. I loved this story months ago, when I read the first line: "This Street Is Impassable, Not Even Jackassable"--a sign that actually stood in muddy, mucky San Francisco during the Gold Rush.

Deeanne is devoted to historical accuracy, but she also writes a fast-paced, funny story that goes deep while it entertains. This book is her baby, but I feel like one of the proud aunties. Congratulations on another beautiful baby, Deeanne!

Spring surprises

2006-05-12T14:12:00.000-05:00

It seems like the trees were bare just days ago, and now they're dense and green with leaves. How did May get here so soon?

This is my first spring in this particular house, so I'm enjoying the surprises. We didn't know we had a star magnolia in the back yard, for instance. It just looked like an ordinary little tree in the corner, but now it's filling up with white flowers.

Another discovery: wild strawberries down in the wilds below the deck. They'll be a pain to pick, being on a steep, rocky bank, but it might be worth it unless the bank is home to snakes, in which case they can have the berries and welcome to 'em.

Do snakes like berries? Am I revealing myself as an ignoramus? (That wouldn't surprise me in the least.) And how can I know whether or not there are snakes unless I get out there and poke around?

Ever prayed for a synopsis?

2006-03-13T20:49:00.000-05:00

For a week or two now, off and on, I've been wrestling with a synopsis--a six-page summary of a novel, written in present tense, for my agent to use in selling the book. Sounds easy enough, except I was also revising the whole manuscript, so the synopsis kept changing. Once the plot finally stopped changing, you'd think it wouldn't be hard to wrap up the synopsis.

Wrong. Even after the plot was solid in my chapter outlines and in my head, the synopsis stank. It was too detailed, too busy, too confusing. It was bad.

But yesterday after church, my friend Jerry walked up to me and said he wanted to pray for me and my writing. I wasn't going to argue with that. So Jerry prayed, briefly. I went home and didn't even look at the danged synopsis. But I woke up this morning knowing how to start the thing in a different vein. Same plot, just a different way of tackling it. By 10:30 this morning, when I was scheduled to have a phone conference with one of my critique partners, I had a brand-new synopsis to e-mail to her, and she loved it. (She's so sweet. She hadn't wanted to tell me the old version of the synopsis smelled to high heaven, so she said it much more tactfully than that.)

So, there you have it. Prayer works wonders. Even on a stinky synopsis. Thank You, Lord. And thanks, Jerry, for praying.

Revisions and Amy's chocolate

2006-03-10T20:50:00.000-05:00

You want to know why I haven't been blogging lately? Okay, maybe you don't care but I'll tell you anyway: Because I've been revising like mad. I took a manuscript that was around 70,000 words and added all kinds of good stuff to it. Now it's at 85,000 words and I'm much, much happier with it.

I'm not done yet. I still have to go through, chapter by chapter, and make sure I'm adding all the little details that I made notes about, and keeping my "facts" straight--yes, it's fiction, but there are still plenty of facts to worry about--and making sure I know why, exactly, I included each scene, because a scene without a good reason for existence shouldn't exist. (I also have to check for run-on sentences like that one.)

It feels very, very good to be at this stage. Another week or two, and I should be done with the thing and moving on. And maybe taking a little time to blog more often. By the way, whether you're a reader or a writer or you just plain like chocolate, check out Amy Wallace's website at www.amywallace.com. She's a friend of mine who just sold some novels to Multnomah, so you'll see her name soon at your friendly neighborhood bookstore and on Amazon. Meanwhile, get to know her online. She's a lot of fun. Her pictures of chocolate are nice, too, except they make me hungry.

Scattered

2006-03-01T08:29:00.002-05:00

Yesterday was one of those scattered-in-all-directions days. I really wanted to be writing, especially because I'd figured out a major plot change for one of the novels I'm revising and so I wanted to dig into it. Immediately. But it was our night to host a home-group Bible study, so I had to clean the house, never a small task. I wasn't staying for home group, though, because I planned to attend the first meeting of a local chapter of American Christian Fiction Writers. Fortunately, our home group doesn't deal in guilt. As a matter of fact, we're studying Romans, where Paul says there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, even if they play hooky from Bible studies once in a while. (Okay, I added that last bit.)

So I was running around, cleaning the house and also doing laundry, because that's a task that never ends. I set up my laptop on the dining room table, close to the laundry room so I would hear the dryer buzz and wouldn't fry any clothes in the real world while I was revising my imaginary world in bits and pieces. Clean a bathroom, write a paragraph. Fold a load of clothes, write a paragraph. Run to the grocery store, write a paragraph. That's how my day went.

About the time I was getting aggravated with interruptions and mundane chores, my husband walked in and said he'd spotted a pair of bluebirds in the back yard, and some daffodils--daffodils we didn't know we had, because we didn't live here last spring. But there they were. Unexpected gifts. Bright yellow flowers, bright blue birds, and a big grin on my husband's face as he set about finding our old bluebird house and hanging it on the fence.

No, I didn't make much progress on my revisions, but God scattered some nice surprises across my scattered day, and I'm thankful.

My Sadly Neglected Blog

2006-02-08T19:20:00.001-05:00

That's exactly what I called this thing a few months ago when I was chatting with somebody. I can't remember who it was, but he/she said: "That sounds like a great name for a blog. My Sadly Neglected Blog."

It certainly fits. It's not that I lack something to write about, because I own plenty of opinions to inflict upon the world. But I also have a long to-do list, and blogging isn't at the top of it.

So, is anybody still with me, or did you give up on me? Helloooooo.... anybody out there?

If you want to start a blog of your own and you need a name for it, feel free to appropriate "My Sadly Neglected Blog." If you're up-front about the likelihood of neglect from the start, maybe you won't feel quite so guilty about it when it happens.

A legacy of kindness

2006-01-19T10:21:00.000-05:00

I learned this morning of the death of Virginia Ellis, author of The Wedding Dress and The Photograph. I hardly knew Gin, but a few years ago when I was a member of Georgia Romance Writers, she read and critiqued the first chapter of a novel I was working on. She offered the critique as part of GRW's March workshop, an annual event that provides unpublished GRW members with constructive criticism from published members, but then she wasn't able to attend the workshop. We met at a restaurant near her house instead, weeks later, and it was a privilege to sit at a quiet table and hear her thoughts about my writing.

The story she critiqued for me happened to be an early, rough version of the novel I'm working on now, one that has been on my heart for years. One of its major themes is the way little bricks of unkindness can build walls between people, while little bricks of kindness build bridges.

Now I don't remember the specifics of Gin's critique, but I will always remember that she was kind. Thank you, Gin. We'll miss you.

Soul Survivor

2006-01-16T11:30:00.000-05:00

Deeanne Gist's post of Monday, January 16 motivated me to find my copy of Soul Survivor by Philip Yancey. Subtitled "How My Faith Survived the Church," it follows his journey through disillusionment to a stronger, smarter faith, informed not only by experience but by books that gave him glimpses into great minds.

Martin Luther King, Jr. is one of the writers who influenced Yancey, who grew up in what he describes as "apartheid conditions" in Atlanta. Raised in a racist white church that actively opposed the civil rights movement, Yancey was years in coming around to see the good in the movement. His chapter about MLK should be required reading for all of us.

So should the chapters about John Donne, Frederick Buechner, Henri Nouwen, G.K. Chesterton, Annie Dillard and the rest. All of them challenge me to take another look at my place in the world and in God's heart. This is one of my most-marked-up books, its pages glowing with bright slashes from my highlighter. These are great minds, great lives, yet as Yancey points out, every one of them is flawed. Like the rest of us.

A quote from Yancey: "Chesterton readily admitted that the church had badly failed the gospel. In fact, he said, one of the strongest arguments in favor of Christianity is the failure of Christians, who thereby prove what the Bible teaches about the fall and original sin. As the world goes wrong, it proves that the church is right in this basic doctrine."

I agree. Even our failures as churches and as individuals can point to the gospel and reveal the grace of God. We're all sinners in need of a Savior, and in need of each other.

They're taking over my house!

2006-01-09T16:22:00.001-05:00

I recently spent a little time with somebody who has fewer books in her whole house than I have on my cookbook shelf. (Not that I use my cookbooks often, since I'm highly allergic to domestic activities, but they're there if I need them.) I can't imagine being content with only a skeleton crew of books.

In this house, they multiply like bunnies. Besides the obvious places, like bookshelves, we try to corral our book population on end tables and beneath end tables, on the kitchen counter, on the dining room table, in boxes in closets, on the floor beside every bed, maybe some underneath the beds, but I'm afraid to look because they're probably overdue at the library, and a few in the bathrooms. They mate in the dark and produce baby books, or maybe I need to break the habit of stopping at garage sales, library sales, and bookstores.

Years ago, when a friend of mine started making a lot of money in her business, she shrugged and said she'd learned not to get too excited about money; the more you have, the more you want. Apply this principle to books, and I'm in deep trouble.

Maybe the love of books is the root of all clutter, or at least most of the clutter in my house, but at least it's happy clutter. Anybody know what I mean?

Landon Snow, in time for Christmas

2005-12-15T15:36:00.000-05:00

Snow, just in time for Christmas! Landon Snow, that is.

This is the coolest new book for kids: Landon Snow and the Auctor's Riddle by R.K. Mortenson. It has sort of the same feel as Alice in Wonderland except the hero is a boy, and the fantasy world that he steps into possesses a beautiful logic that makes for a satisfying read. Alice's adventures always left me befuddled, while Landon's story makes perfect sense in its own fantastical way. It's a great blend of fun and logic.

Landon starts off in an ordinary Minnesota town, but before long he's off to investigate a strange tunnel and an even stranger library. He winds up in a magical but dangerous kingdom where he's not sure who's a friend and who's an enemy. The story moves along at a breezy pace with a lot of fun wordplay. The book is a visual and tactile pleasure, too. It's hardcover, with a quality feel to the paper and an intriguing cover illustration that makes me think of mysterious old books in old libraries.

You can check out some reviews at Amazon. I plan to give this book to some some young book-lovers I know. It's affordably priced, which is always a nice bonus when you find a treasure of a book. I'm looking forward to reading the sequels.

The Seven Sevens

2005-12-09T12:36:00.000-05:00

I'm it, I've been tagged by Deeanne Gist, and it's my turn to play.

Seven things to do before I die
1. Drive the entire coast of California, stopping wherever and whenever I please.
2. Learn how to ride a motorcycle. The real kind, not just a little-bitty dirt bike.
3. Organize about ten thousand photos for my kids.
4. Visit England, Scotland, and Ireland.
5. See all my kids happily married.
6. Read books to the grandkids who don't exist yet.
7. Write a novel that says exactly what I want it to say.

Seven things I cannot do
1. Swim.
2. Write words on unlined paper without letting them drift south.
3. Get interested in the stock market.
4. Dance.
5. Sign my name prettily.
6. Back up a large pickup truck with any accuracy.
7. Stop drinking coffee.

Seven things that attract me to my husband
1. His kind heart.
2. His dark, mysterious eyes.
3. The fact that I can trust him completely.
4. His crazy streak, as in "I bought a bike on eBay and I'm off to Wisconsin...."
5. The way he turns a blind eye to how much money on I spend on writing-related expenses.
6. His patience.
7. His love for the Lord.

Seven things I say most often
1. Oh, crap.
2. Oh, shoot.
3. Y'know?
4. You guys.
5. Right?
6. Anyway....
7. Um, I didn't start anything for dinner....

Seven books (or series) I love
1. To Kill a Mockingbird
2. Busman's Honeymoon
3. Peace Like a River
4. My Family and Other Animals
5. On Writing (King)
6. Bridget Jones' Diary
7. Ragamuffin Gospel

Seven movies I would watch over and over again
1. Sabrina (the original)
2. Green Card
3. Strange Brew (okay, maybe not over and over, but once every few years)
4. While You Were Sleeping, if only for the paperboy on the bike
5. To Kill a Mockingbird
6. Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, esp. for the wheelchair-down-the-steps scene
7. Pirates of the Caribbean, just to watch Johnny Depp walk/swagger/stagger

Seven people I want to join in too
1. Sally Apokedak
2. Suzan Robertson
3. Sherrie Lord
4. J. Mark Bertrand, not that I know him, exactly, but I admire his brain and love his blogs and I would be honored if he would join the fun.
5. Cindy Chen, who doesn't have a blog but has an interesting mind and could use the comments section.
6. Michelle Truax. Ditto.
7. My mother, who doesn't own a computer and doesn't know what a blog is, but boy, wouldn't I love to see her answers.

An Eloise-ish Christmas

2005-11-30T18:10:00.000-05:00

This is our first Christmas in our new-to-us house and our first Christmas with our eldest child having flown the coop via marriage. So the routine is a little different now. Decorating the tree, for instance. For years, my husband has been in charge of assembling our big, phony tree and stringing the lights on it, and then I take over, with or without help from the kids, to add the ornaments. Well, hubby has been busy. A few days ago, he got as far as putting the tree up but no farther. And the boys didn't take the hint when I suggested that they are as tall as their father and just as capable of stringing lights.

So I tackled it, standing on a chair. Huh. It's harder than it looks. I was careful to space the lights evenly on the first three or four go-rounds, near the top. Then I added the tree-topper, a red glass spire that looks Dr. Seuss-ish, especially with a strand of gold glitzy stuff spiraled around it that I added as a joke a few years ago, but it was popular so I left it. And maybe it was the Seuss touch that set me off, but when I moved the chair out of the way and started on the lower realms of the tree, I started having fun.

Like Eloise at Christmastime. Anybody remember the Eloise books? She's a fictional six-year-old who lives in the Plaza Hotel in NYC, makes up funny words, and drives the neighbors crazy with her energy. I haven't read the books in years, but I vaguely remember Eloise skippering and skibbling around the apartment and strewing Christmas decorations everywhere, even on thermostats and probably on the dog. Because Eloise really knows how to celebrate. With enthusiasm.

Okay, so I did an Eloise-ish job on the lights. They're sort of looped and strewn instead of neatly arranged. But you know what? Christmas isn't about perfection, at least not in mortal man.

Comes a Horseman, and he's scary

2005-11-29T10:12:00.000-05:00

I'm interrupting my usual mindless ramblings with a book recommendation. Yesterday I started reading Comes a Horseman by Robert Liparulo, a thriller with nice, creepy cover art, and I'm hooked.

Set a couple of likable FBI agents on the trail of a killer who dresses like an ancient Norseman and travels in a VW bus with three bloodthirsty wolf-dog hybrids. Now add a selfish and powerful man who wants to believe he's the anti-Christ, and you've got a highly entertaining mix. And don't forget Mr. Powerful's warped but vulnerable Italian buddy who walks around with a couple of paperbacks taped to the sole of one shoe because one leg is shorter than the other, and the Catholic priest in New York who researches Near Death Experiences. The hellbound variety, not the kind that features beautiful light and eternal peace at the end of the tunnel. All these characters are caught in a conspiracy that's veering off course.

I'm only halfway through, but if the second half is as good as the first, I'll enjoy it to the last page. The squeamish might argue that the gore is depicted a little too realistically, but they can skim over those paragraphs if they must. The realism didn't bother me, and I appreciate Liparulo's portrayals of a broad spectrum of humanity. The good guys are far from perfect, and even the bad guys show hints that they at least used to be human.

You can find the book at Amazon or at bookstores, Christian or otherwise. If you want to read more about Robert Liparulo, his home page is here. Or you can go here for the first part of author Chris Well's interview with Liparulo, with the second installment posted today and the third tomorrow. Very interesting reading.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get my real-life duties out of the way so I can open the book again. I'm worried about the son of one of the FBI agents. I don't think they should have left the kid home alone when that Norse guy and his beasts are still on the loose . . . .

Found Things

2005-11-28T22:53:00.000-05:00

I love finding surprises in old books from flea markets and garage sales. A little piece of somebody's life, somebody's story, left behind for me to wonder about. Maybe it's a note written in the margin, a clue to a previous owner's opinions. Sometimes it's a bill, a receipt, a bookmark or a pressed flower.

I've never found an old photo in an old book, but I have nearly as much fun browsing the photos at Flickr.com. Flickr is a photo-sharing site, and you don’t have to be a member to browse. The pictures are tagged by category: sunset, Italy, family, weddings, cars, vintage, fashion, street scenes . . . you name it, somebody probably has a few photos of it.

My favorite category? “Found,” of course. This pool includes negatives and pictures that people found at flea markets or estate sales or even on the street. They range from antiques to pics that look as if they were snapped last week. I often wonder about the stories behind the pictures, and I wonder how they ended up in the “found” pool at Flickr.

For instance, there's a picture of an old guy watering his garden in a three-piece suit, like my dad used to do. There's another one of a portly gent sitting in a chair, beaming, with a Christmas tree behind him. Somebody must have loved those old men, but their pictures wound up at a flea market or in an estate sale or maybe in the trash until a Flickr member rescued them. The pictures have gone from being lost to being "Found," online, for the world to see.

I just hope the people themselves weren't as lost as their pictures.

Of Panama, Russia, and Dixie

2005-11-22T22:17:00.000-05:00

I indulged in my favorite kind of shopping last Saturday morning. My husband and I strolled down the frosty sidewalk to a garage sale a few doors down. We've lived here less than six months and hadn't met these particular neighbors yet, so it was part social call, part business.

Soon another neighbor showed up with a box of books to sell. Fifty cents for hardcovers, a quarter for paperbacks. Such a deal. I walked off with a handful, including The Murder Room by P.D. James, which I'd read already, and The Tailor of Panama by John le Carre, which I hadn't, but I figured it was worth a shot since I'd loved his The Russia House.

I read the first chapter of Tailor tonight and found myself remembering my friend Dixie, who'd recommended The Russia House for a book group we were both in, probably seven or eight years ago. I was skeptical because I don't usually like spy stories, but Dixie was right; it was a very good book.

Dixie died a few years ago, far too young, but reading le Carre takes me back to book group and her exuberant laughter. Oh, the freedom in that woman's laugh! She knew how to cut loose and have fun. If I close my eyes, I can hear her now, bubbling with enthusiasm for le Carre, for good books in general, for life itself. I doubt that I'll ever read le Carre again (or Wilkie Collins, another of Dixie's favorites) without thinking of her and smiling. The connection has been wired into my brain.

What about you? Do you have any books that seem to connect you with a particular person in your past or your present?

The airplane in my garage

2005-10-30T21:11:00.000-05:00

A man down the street from me seems to be building a small plane in his garage, or maybe he's refurbishing an old one. I can't tell from a quick drive-by. It's just the skeleton of a fuselage. No skin, no wings. I catch a glimpse of it every couple of weeks when the garage door is open. Once in a while, it's outside on the driveway. It never looks like much has changed, but I suppose he's making progress and learning a lot about plane-building.

I've never actually seen him working on it, though. Maybe it's not a man. Maybe it's a woman or a couple of bored kids. (Have you read Bored, Nothing To Do by Peter Spiers? Great picture book about a homemade airplane. But I digress.)

My neighbor must field a lot of questions. "Why are you building an airplane? How long have you been working on that thing? You really think it's gonna fly one day?" Some of his friends and neighbors probably laugh at him, but I won't because it hits a little too close to home. I'm building my own flying machine. Not in my garage, but at my computer.

My friends and family ask me about my writing, often. Most of them ask encouraging questions. Some are more skeptical: "How long have you been working on that thing? You really think you'll sell a book someday?" Yes, I do. I've had some successes (see my earlier posts about the ACFW conference if you want details) and I've learned a lot about book-building.

I've also learned to ask "why" of myself. Why am I writing this particular book? Why am I the one who should write it? Why am I writing at all? Why fiction? Can't I do something more practical than telling stories? Can't I at least bury worthwhile sermons in them?

Well, no. Sorry. Because God gives me stories, not sermons. It's kind of like the Olympic runner Eric Liddell, who felt God's pleasure when he ran. I feel God's pleasure when I write stories. I love to write them, love to read them.

Why is my neighbor building a plane? I bet it's because he loves to fly. When he gets his flying machine in the air one day and buzzes the neighborhood, I'll wave and cheer for God-given dreams and perseverance. Then I'll go back to the airplane God gave me. One day, it'll fly.

Dark Star Shining

2005-10-28T10:08:00.000-05:00

You never know who you'll meet when you walk into a bookstore. A few months ago, I walked into a local Lifeway store and was accosted by a friendly-looking guy behind a table stacked with books. His name was Creston Mapes, and he was there to promote his first novel, Dark Star, published by Multnomah.

Creston happens to live just down the road from me. Literally. Can't be more than five minutes away. And we have some mutual friends. (Hi, David and Michelle!) So the connections made it even more fun to meet Creston and buy his book.

Dark Star takes a look into the crazy world of a rock star accused of murdering his personal psychic. Don't get scared, now. Yucky subjects are handled tastefully, but the book does explore the issues that can accompany success in secular rock 'n roll. It also explores the grace of God that drugged-out, bedevilled Everett needs if he's to escape the hell he created for himself. It's a good, fast-paced story that will keep you reading.

Chris Well, author of Forgiving Solomon Long (another good, realistic story written from a Christian perspective) and a contributing editor to CCM Magazine, is doing a three-part interview of Creston. You can read it here:

http://www.ccmmagazine.com/weblogs/well/date10262005.aspx

How DID the good Lord???

2005-10-18T21:50:00.000-05:00

Have you ever heard of Rien Poortvliet, an artist from the Netherlands? His "Noah's Ark" is a huge, coffee-table type book that holds his sketches and paintings, complete with imaginings about what it must have been like to build, load, and board the ark--and then to wait. His artwork is beautiful, but to me, his musings (in graceful, casual calligraphy) are even better because they show such appreciation for God's creativity.

But life gets so busy, and the book sits on the table and gathers dust. Months go by. I read everything under the sun except Poortvliet's book, and then one night it seems to call my name and I pick it up. I open to a picture of a few birds, an elephant, and a detail of elephant's skin that looks rather like a rough fingerprint--and at the top of the page, Poortvliet's exuberant comment: "How did the good Lord come up with all this!!!!"

A few pages later, this: "An ordinary pheasant, an ordinary sleeping dog. What a pity they do not amaze us. They are so marvelously fashioned."

Then his closing comment: "From the beginning I was aiming at a heartfelt hymn of praise. Honor to whom honor is due! And why should I try to find other words for this than those of Psalm 104?" The book ends with the complete text of the Psalm.

Some libraries carry this book--that's where I first found it. If you ever have a chance, check it out. Poortvliet's joy and excitement really are a hymn of praise.

The Dissection of Ezekiel

2005-10-10T12:24:00.000-05:00

I found David Ryan Long's debut novel, Ezekiel's Shadow, in the library about a year ago. It's the story of a horror writer who becomes a Christian and how that decision wreaks havoc with his writing career. As a writer myself, I enjoyed getting into the character's head and seeing similarities and differences in work habits and thought processes. But you don't have to be a writer to enjoy the book. It's good.

Dave, who is a fiction acquisitions editor at Bethany House, is offering his book as a guinea pig in an experiment designed to help writers and readers understand better what makes fiction work. Or not work. Ezekiel's Shadow worked for me, and it must have worked for other people too, because it won a Christy award when it came out, I believe in 2002. Still, I think Dave's a brave guy to offer it up for public dissection this week, online.

The guy wielding the scalpel is gutsy, too: J. Mark Bertrand, a Christian writer who thinks way deeper and better than I can ever hope to do. Mark's intro to the discussion is here, and the Faith*in*Fiction blog hosted by Dave Long is here, and the F*i*F forum is here. I'm sure it will be a lively discussion on all fronts as Mark analyzes and Dave answers questions and the rest of us join in.

Alas, I won't have much time to take part, even though I have my very own copy of the book now. Out-of-state relatives are descending upon my house tomorrow, and then I'm going out of town myself. But I'll at least check in to see how the guinea pig is faring on the operating table.

The right fig tree

2005-10-08T16:27:00.000-05:00

Last night about twilight, I sat in our sunroom with the windows open and just watched the rain. And realized I couldn't remember the last time I had just sat still with eyes and ears open. With nothing to do but . . . be.

I've been on a tear for the last few weeks, finishing/revising/polishing a manuscript. Now that I've finished it to my current satisfaction, I haven't looked at it again. I'm taking a short break, but I'm itching to start my next story. Whatever that may be.

A few years ago, I was e-mailing back and forth with my author friend Sherrie in Idaho, and I said I'd been trying to figure out what the Lord wanted me to write next. She e-mailed back: "I think He wants you to write what you want to write." I love that idea.

But then there's also the concept I shared with another friend who was contemplating starting a book. I told her about my fig tree that I grew in a pot in our house in Michigan. For several years, the thing hardly grew, but when we moved to Georgia and I planted it outside, it took off. It even developed an offshoot, and then I had two fig trees. I started getting excited. Finally, after about five years in Georgia, I saw the first tiny green figs. My long-awaited harvest had nearly arrived, and I could hardly wait to taste sweet, delicious figs.

But they weren't very sweet. Didn't have much flavor. They were just . . . okay. No matter what we did to that tree, it could only produce bland, semi-sweet figs. All that time, I'd been nurturing the wrong variety of fig tree.

It takes a long time to write a novel. I don't want to nurture those pages for months or maybe years, and then realize the fruit can never be more than just okay.

So, this is where I have to take time to think, to pray, to be. To be quiet before the Lord. I do believe Sherrie's right, that He wants me to have freedom to write what I want to write. He doesn't dictate what my next project should be. But I need His wisdom to guide my freedom.

ACFW conference

2005-09-29T20:25:00.001-05:00

I've been procrastinating about this post because I don't know where to start. Also because I've been busy polishing a manuscript and rewriting the ending three times. (Yes, I've just about got it now, thanks for asking.)

I went to the American Christian Fiction Writers conference in Nashville with two of my Atlanta-area friends (waving here to Missy and Amy). I expected good workshops, appointments with editors and agents, late nights catching up with friends. And I had the added fun of being a finalist in ACFW's annual contest with the first chapter of the book I just finished.

Earlier that week, I'd had a serious talk with the Lord about my writing. I felt I was getting somewhere. I had new confidence in my voice and in my ability to take a story from an idea to a finished book with something valuable to say. But I also had new willingness to let God take it all away if He wanted to. That wasn't from some twisted, illogical bargaining standpoint, either. (i.e., I'll lay it down so You'll be impressed with me and hand it right back.) It was real.

The Lord had already started taking things away. My roommate, for instance. She had to cancel because of illness in her family. I was terribly disappointed that I couldn't spend time with Dee although some other friends graciously let me share their room. Then my favorite editor canceled because of illness. (I don't really know the guy, but I feel like I do, and I'd been looking forward to chatting.)

But I had walked into the conference asking God to do whatever He wanted. To set up appointments for me. To open my eyes to the people I needed to meet. And He did. Thursday afternoon, I recognized Mike Snyder from his blog picture and introduced myself. I think maybe Jeanne Damoff was there, too--it's all foggy now, but that was just one of several great conversations with people I "met" online through the Faith*in*Fiction blog, including Katy, Dan, Sally, Janice, Suzan... I'm sure I'm leaving somebody out. It was like a bunch of long-lost sibs.

This conference is cool because the editors and agents mingle with the peons, I mean writers. At lunch and dinner, there's an editor or agent at just about every table. First come, first served. I wasn't deliberately stalking any particular editors, but I kept finding myself in interesting conversations with them. I didn't even have to take one of the slots allotted for "official" appointments. The Lord was arranging them for me.

Then came Saturday, and the awards lunch. Suzan Robertson and I were finalists in the same category, but it didn't feel like competition. It was friendship and camaraderie. We didn't care who won. As it turned out, I won, and I'd no sooner started wrapping my mind around that shock than somebody called my name again, and I'd won the Janet Grant Award for Outstanding New Writer of the Year, as it says on my plaque, or Best Overall Entry, as it says on the ACFW website, or the Best Writer in the Civilized World, as Mike Snyder called it. (Thanks, Mike, I like that version.) And then an editor was throwing his card at me across the table, and another editor was emailing me, and Janet Grant was sending a very nice emissary my way, and I found myself with a fantastic literary agent. Which is a very important relationship--and that's what it's all about. Relationships.

The awards stuff was wonderful, but it would have been empty and hollow without the relationships, starting with the Lord. And then my husband and kids, who put up with an awful lot of crap so I can play tortured genius and spend hours communing with my imaginary friends. And my critique partners, local and long-distance.

I didn't know where to start this post, and now I don't know where to end it. So I'll just end it. Tomorrow, maybe I'll tell you about the coyotes out back. Or the way my husband just mentioned motorcycles and jet fuel in the same sentence. Hmmm... must be time to get off the computer and see what he's up to.

The conference, the Caddie, and the rib

2005-09-27T23:53:00.000-05:00

I've had a busy couple of weeks. For starters, I finished writing a novel.

Couple of days after that, I went to the ACFW writers' conference in Nashville and won two exciting awards there. Better than that, I met up with friends and cemented relationships that I believe will last a lifetime. But I'll post more about the conference later. It deserves more than one measly paragraph. For now, I'll just say God was at work and I love my local writing buddies, my long-distance ones, and the Faith*in*Fiction gang.

Home again . . . to chocolate and roses from my husband, to celebrate the good stuff that happened at the conference. Then I got a phone call from a literary agent who's one of the best in the business. She offered to represent me, and of course I jumped at the chance.

Then I rewrote the ending of the novel. Then I broke a rib, apparently. Tripped on a very hard sidewalk on my way to the trash with a bag of doggie doo. It was a very glamorous accident, as you can tell.

Complete with broken rib, which wasn't too painful at that point, I drove to Florida with my husband, who'd bought me a small Cadillac on eBay, which meant we had to pick it up, A.S.A.P. I love the car. It was worth the trip. But thank God for laptops. I kept right on writing. Until the return trip, of course, when I was busy driving.

Home again . . . I rewrote the ending a second time, over a few days. About the time I decided I liked the new ending, the rib decided to act up. It had pretty much stopped hurting, but now it hurts like #$%@ or worse.

But I really do like the ending.

So, there are my excuses for slacking off on blogging for the last couple of weeks. Forgive me?

Cold lobby, warm connections

2005-09-15T23:29:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting in the freezing-cold lobby of a hotel in Nashville at the annual conference of the American Christian Fiction Writers. There's free wireless internet down here, which is why I'm not upstairs in bed.

I can't adequately describe the delight of being with so many like-minded people and meeting friends I've only known online before. As one of the speakers said today, and I paraphrase, there are no "normals" here.

The lobby's crowded with writers who've abandoned their solitary pursuit to get connected, whether they're blogging like me or actually socializing in person, gathered around a coffee table. I'd like to describe a few of these interesting creatures to you, but that might get me in trouble. Besides, it's late and I need a few wide-awake brain cells for tomorrow. So good night.

Domesticity or the lack thereof

2005-09-13T17:32:00.001-05:00

I've never been domestically inclined. Oh, I've tried to fit myself into that mold. I've played the role of the model housewife. I know how to sew, scrub, cook, bake, and pinch a penny. But certain circumstances bring out my true priorities.

The broken oven, for instance. We've lived with it since June. I'm perfectly capable of picking up the phone and calling an appliance repairman. But have I? Nooooo. Why would I want to bake in the heat of summer, huh?

A domestically-inclined person would call about the oven within hours or invent a way to bake over an open fire in the back yard. Me, I discover the crockpot dinners in the frozen-food department of the grocery store. You throw the contents of the bag into the crockpot and turn it on. Eight hours later, dinner's ready except for minor finishing touches. That's my kind of domesticity. That, or carryout. Who needs an oven?

If it had been my computer on the fritz, I would have called for help immediately if not sooner.

Okay, you're reading this blog, so you're at least reasonably computer-literate. Are you also reasonably domestic, or are the two mutually incompatible?

Muse starters

2005-09-07T12:49:00.000-05:00

I'm two scenes away from finishing a novel I started writing about a year ago. Then I'll revise, polish, and polish some more. Once that's done, off it goes, into the inbox of an editor who may or may not like it. While I wait for thumbs up or thumbs down, I'll start on my next project. I don't even know what it is yet, but I can't wait.

Fall seems like the beginning of the year, not the end. A good time to start new projects. Maybe that's because I'm a cool-weather person. When it's chilly outside, my muse wakes up and sings to me, especially if I'm sitting on the deck in a comfy sweatshirt and drinking hot coffee. I expect to spend a lot of time out there in the next few months, reading and writing and reading some more.

Anybody else have a favorite spot, favorite clothes, or a favorite beverage to accompany your reading or writing? What gets your muse warmed up and singing?

Pouring my coffee slowly

2005-09-01T21:22:00.001-05:00

I have an inexpensive coffeemaker, a gift from my daughter when my "good" one broke, back before she married Mr. Right and moved out. Daughter and I are both coffee addicts. In our old house, we used to instant-message each other, from one bedroom to another:

Time for the afternoon pot?

'K. Hazelnut or regular?

She worked part time away from home and part time from her computer at home, so we had lots of time for coffee and chats. I, being the one on the main floor, usually did the honors, and once the coffee was brewing, I retreated back to my usual spot at my computer. Then she would come upstairs from her basement digs, pour two cups, and bring them to my bedroom, where my computer lived, which meant that was where I lived too, because I am rather attached to my computer. I would stay in my computer chair, and she would sit on my bed, and we would drink coffee and talk. She would occasionally spill little dribbles of coffee on my quilt. (All is forgiven. I never really liked that quilt anyway.)

We talked about Mr. Right. A lot. We talked about other things, too, but it was always more fun to talk about Mr. Right. Then, after he'd proposed, we talked about weddings and looked at wedding dresses online, and I was appalled at my lack of taste when she pointed it out to me. (Goodness, why doesn't she want a dress that looks like something from the eighties?)

We went through a lot of wedding-dress websites and a lot of coffee. Then she found the perfect dress for the perfect man, and the wedding day was upon us. My little girl was suddenly the Mrs. part of Mr. and Mrs. Right, and I was making half the amount of coffee and feeling a little lonely when it was time for the afternoon pot.

There's something funny about that inexpensive coffee maker. If you're in a hurry and you pour the coffee too fast, it dribbles down the side of the pot and makes a mess on the counter. If you pour slowly, it doesn't spill. So, you have a choice. Pour fast, and spend time wiping up. Or pour slowly and have no mess. The time you'll spend comes out about the same.

But pouring slowly, you have time to enjoy the aroma and the sight of coffee swirling into the mug. Pouring slowly, you make yourself slow down, relax, and enjoy the moment. Moments pass by so quickly.

Little girls grow up so quickly.

So do little boys. I wish I could make my six-footers sit down for a cup of coffee with me. Guess I'll have to instant-message Mrs. Right instead.

Dying Down South

2005-08-31T18:25:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, I picked up The Pat Conroy Cookbook at the library. Conroy wrote The Prince of Tides, The Lords of Discipline, and The Great Santini, some of my favorite novels of the South. He writes so you can smell the Gulf and taste the crab cakes. Even when he writes a cookbook, it's full of quirky anecdotes about food, family, and friends.

But Chapter 15 of Conroy's book is titled "Why Dying Down South Is More Fun." Chapter 21 is "Eating in New Orleans." The irony is unbeatable.

It's still a great cookbook. Maybe I can look at it again tomorrow.

Please keep praying for Katrina's victims. Not just in New Orleans, but in Alabama and Mississippi. A lot of good people are in bad trouble.

Standing in the need of prayer

2005-08-30T21:30:00.000-05:00

What a monstrous storm Katrina was.

Natural disasters happen all the time. Earthquakes, fires, hurricanes, tornadoes. They affect Christian nations and pagan ones. They destroy brothels and churches. They kill saints and sinners, old folks, newlyweds, little children. There's no rhyme or reason to it.

Some people label disasters as God's judgment, but I just can't. As Jesus said, speaking of eighteen people who were killed when a tower fell on them, "Do you think they were more guilty than all the others living in Jerusalem?"

There are a lot of people standing in the need of prayer tonight. Lord, please have mercy.

Katrina

2005-08-29T12:56:00.000-05:00

I’ve been in New Orleans only twice. Once was nearly thirty years ago, on a church bus. We drove through part of the French Quarter on a hot July morning but didn’t stop. It looked pretty dismal.

Then I flew out of the New Orleans airport a few years ago. July, again. I was traveling with friends to a writers’ conference out west, and it was a lot cheaper to drive to New Orleans and catch a red-eye flight there than to fly out of Atlanta. We spent the night with my friend Maureen’s parents, who live on the inland side of Lake Pontchartrain. Their hearts were warm and hospitable. Jerry and Judy made blackened shrimp on the grill and served Chardonnay. I’ve never had such good shrimp before or since.

For some reason, our alarm didn’t go off at three a.m. like it was supposed to, but somebody—Lindi, I think—woke up without it and hollered. We grabbed our suitcases and raced outside, into the humid pre-dawn hours. Helter-skelter, we were off to the airport. We made our flight, enjoyed the conference, and enjoyed Jerry and Judy’s hospitality again on our return trip.

They’re staying up here with Maureen today, safe from Katrina but worried that their home and its contents won’t survive the floods. There’s never enough time to salvage everything during an evacuation. I hope they were able to grab whatever was most important to them. Mostly, though, I’m glad Jerry and Judy are safe. You can replace most belongings, but you can’t replace people.

This hurricane has devastated thousands of homes, not just in New Orleans but all along the Gulf. The numbers we're seeing on TV aren't just statistics. They represent people who need prayers and help.

The Salvation Army is at work on the aftermath of Katrina. If you'd like to donate, here's the link: https://secure3.salvationarmy.org/donations.nsf/donate?openform&projectid=USN-hurricane05

Perspectives

2005-08-24T20:25:00.000-05:00

I moved recently and changed my voter registration to my new precinct, but I’ll miss the old one. For years, I voted in the gym/multi-purpose room of a Church of the Nazarene in Lawrenceville, Georgia. I always enjoyed the sight of a long line of voters snaking through a church’s gym. Church and state got along just fine, for once.

There was a mural on the wall, a picture of the cross on Christ. Not Christ on the cross, but the cross on Him. He’s depicted lying beneath it, struggling to raise it and carry it. The perspective is drastically foreshortened, so the cross is massive. It makes me think about His humanity, His human limitations. He only had human shoulders, and that’s an aspect of Jesus that I don’t consider often enough.

For me, seeing a familiar subject from a new perspective is like turning jeans inside out and shaking them for the quarters in the pockets. Try it with the parable of the prodigal son, for instance. Modern usage of the word “prodigal” seems to be drifting toward treating it as a synonym for “runaway,” but the original meaning implies extravagance, free spending, foolish giving—and that describes the father’s actions as well as the son’s. Maybe we should call it the parable of the Prodigal Father.

Good books I've been reading

2005-08-22T12:50:00.000-05:00

I learned this morning that Deeanne Gist has hit Number 10 on the list of best-selling Christian fiction with A Bride Most Begrudging, published by Bethany House. (You can read a bit about the book in my first post, listed in the sidebar.) I'm happy for her, and I'm happy for the readers who have picked up her book. I think they'll enjoy it. I did.

Other books I've been reading lately:

Brennan Manning's Ragamuffin Gospel, for the second time.

Stephen King's On Writing, one of the most encouraging and inspiring books about writing, ever.

The Power and the Glory, a novel by Graham Greene. The story of a "whiskey priest" on the run but still gripped by his calling. It's meaty. Slow going, but I like it.

And a pile of research books for the story I'm working on. I've heard that ninety percent of research doesn't even show in the finished product, and I believe that's true. But you have to do all the research so you know which ten percent is important.

What's everybody else reading?

Poor beastie

2005-08-19T13:56:00.000-05:00

As Robert Burns said in 1785, the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley. I had planned to post something here Monday through Friday, every week. But there I was, three days into blogging, and my ISP went down. So much for good intentions. Anyway, I’m back.

Speaking of mice, let’s consider the housekeeping habits of bookish people. Trust me, there’s a connection. In my world, the call of a good book trumps the call of a vacuum cleaner any day. I don’t intend to spend my days playing maid when there are so many good books I haven’t read. Or written. This means my house isn’t spotless, and animals sometimes invade it. Dust bunnies, for instance, and this week, a mouse. Not the computer kind. The furry kind that sounds like a squeaky-toy when the cat gets it.

I hope our little visitor was a solitary wayfarer who slipped in when the garage door was left open. When I spotted him, he was already in the jaws of the cat, who continued growling at me as I picked him up and deposited him and his mouthful of mouse in the sun porch because I didn’t want blood and guts on the carpet. Now I’m not sure if the mouse is dead or alive. I haven’t found a corpse.

Please forgive me if I seem less than tender-hearted toward rodents. Blame it on my having been a 4-H mom, an experience that purged me of sentimentality toward animals. But tell me, am I the only one here who’ll admit to having the occasional unwanted house guest on four legs?

Whatever the weather....

2005-08-15T11:28:00.000-05:00

On Saturday, my husband and I joined some friends for an afternoon trip to the mountains. We pulled into Highlands, North Carolina, late in the afternoon, seven riders on five bikes. My husband hollered to me over his shoulder, “I hear bagpipes!”

Of course you do, dear. Is your helmet a little too tight?

But he was right. A piper stood on a hotel balcony, playing everything from Scottish folk songs to “Love Me Tender.”

Thunder started rolling through the mountains, but it wasn’t close yet. We walked down the block and sat across the street from a beautiful little Presbyterian church while its bells played “Be Thou My Vision” in competition with the bagpipes, another reminder of Appalachia’s musical and religious heritage.

The storm moved closer. Not wanting to be on steep, slick, unfamiliar roads in the dark, we left while it was light out. I had forgotten my gloves, so I tucked my hands inside the sleeves of my rainsuit as best I could. My hands were cold, my ears were full of the rumble of the bikes, my eyes were full of the wild scenery. Mountaintops lost in clouds. Sheets of rain. Mists rising. Little houses half-hidden in tiny valleys. Wildflowers, hawks, the occasional cow.

The rain poured harder. We took refuge under the canopy of a gas station that had closed for the night and waited for the storm to pass. As I looked around at the wet, smiling faces, the glorious puddles, and the wet, green mountains behind us, I thought of a couple of poems I love. One is by Marchette Chute, and it described exactly how I felt:

My hair is wet, my feet are wet,
I couldn’t be much wetter.
I fell into a river once
But this is even better.

The other one is by G.K. Chesterton, who’s one guy I want to meet in heaven:

Here dies another day
During which I have had eyes, ears, hands
And the great world round me;
And with tomorrow begins another.
Why am I allowed two?

I hope you’ll enjoy today, no matter what the weather's doing in your corner of the world.

Good magic

2005-08-12T15:41:00.000-05:00

Do you remember the day you learned to read? I do. I even remember the first word I read for myself, the one that woke me up to the wild idea that I had the keys to deciphering all the marks on all the pages of all the books in the whole world. Well, the books written in English, anyway.

This was back in the days when kindergarten was play time. The real work didn't start until first grade, and then phonics ruled. This particular memory begins, not in class with Miss Simpson, but at home after school as I explained to my mother that R and E and D each made their own sounds, and if you put them together, they spelled RED. I think she pretended it was news to her so she wouldn't deflate my excitement. She needn't have worried.

Last year, I sat down with a friend who wanted to start writing a book, and I tried to share with her some of the most basic principles of writing. The most fundamental thing I could tell her was that words are a sacred gift from God and we shouldn't treat them lightly. Those marks we make on paper--the symbols that represent sounds that form words that we string together into sentences--they're the thoughts of one mind, recorded so they can be accessed later by another mind, a world away. A century away. Words can time-travel.

I remember a night when I'd been reading Tolkien out loud to our youngest, who was nine or ten at the time. On his way up the stairs to bed, he stopped and looked at me with an awestruck expression, probably the same way I'd looked when I figured out RED. "Mom," he said, "it's like a book holds magic inside."

Exactly.

Bikes, Books, and a Bride Most Begrudging

2005-08-11T09:25:00.000-05:00

"Ride your own ride." That advice comes from my friend Gloria, a Harley rider. We love riding in the mountains, Gloria and her husband each on their own bikes while I enjoy passenger status behind my husband. Each rider is responsible for his or her own safety. If Gloria were following her husband and he made a maneuver that wouldn't be smart for her to try, even if it was fine for him, she wouldn't blindly follow him. He rides his ride, and she rides hers. They can't make identical decisions because they're on different bikes, in different positions on the road.

I believe the same principle applies to writers, and I want to start my first-ever blog by celebrating a new writer who rides her own ride instead of playing follow-the-leader.

Deeanne Gist's first novel from Bethany House, A Bride Most Begrudging, is livelier and a whole lot more fun than most of the historical novels I've read. Dee prayed over every line of the book, writing it to please her audience of One. It's hilarious sometimes and heartbreaking at other times, like real life can be.

The story is set in Colonial Virginia, and Dee did meticulous research for historical accuracy. The characters, Drew and Constance, are presented with an honesty that, fortunately, is gaining more acceptance in Christian fiction these days. I can identify with these characters. No, I've never been bartered as payment of a gambling debt and then turned over to a man who already bought another bride just that morning, but I can certainly sympathize with Constances's less than saintly reaction!

Here is Deeanne’s website: http://www.deeannegist.com
And her blog: http://www.deeannegist.com/blog
And the Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764200720

How many of you out there have read Bride already?