While you continue to digest all the goodies you ate in the last couple of days, here are a few tidbits to chew on:
Registration is now open for the 2009 Muses Online Writers Conference, to be held October 12-18, 2009. I know it's early but some folks actually were shut out last year because they waited too long to register. The registration deadline is August 1, 2009.
Free book: B&H Publishing has a contest and free book download going. Leanna Ellis's first Christian fiction book, Elvis Takes a Back Seat, is offered as a free download, in part to promote her second book, Lookin' Back, Texas! Click here for an excerpt and to enter the contest.
Amazon and Penguin are teaming up for another round of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel competition. The prize is $25,000 and a publishing contract with Penguin.
In a sign of the times, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt has reportedly asked its editors to stop acquiring books. They say it's temporary. Editors and agents may be quaking as much as auto workers but I'm thinking authors, not so much. We can still write and, because we own our product, we can always decide to sell direct to the buying public. Oh yeah, that's called..."self-published". Hmmm...
But that's not the final word. I love what Karen Ball, senior acquistions editor for B&H Publishing Group, had to say on the death of publishing.
I wanted to read Through the Storm: A Real Story of Fame and Family in a Tabloid World by Lynne Spears and Lorilee Craker precisely because it is not an expose on Lynne's daughter, Brittany (or any of her other children).
Rather it is a look at how fame affected the lives of an entire small-town family who pursued their biggest dreams only to discover some of their biggest challenges.
Thomas Nelson, one of the biggest Christian publishers, recently launched a book review program. Receive a free book from a small selection if you agree to review the book on your blog and on Amazon.
Whenever anyone says, "free "book", it gets my attention. (I'm bad that way.)
At that time, however, I was reexamining my book review commitments. I continue to review a broad selection of fiction books monthly for FreshFiction. I occasionally review fiction titles, usually but not always by African-American authors, for SORMAG. I get Christian fiction titles from the FIRST and CFBA blog alliances a couple times of month. All of this makes for a whole lot of reading when I need to spend a lot more time writing.
But the Thomas Nelson program would add some non-fiction titles to the mix, and the initial slate of titles, including Ms. Spears' book, The Faith of Barack Obama by Stephen Mansfield, and Billy by William Paul McKay and Ken Abraham suggested the titles would hold some unexpected choices.
After I read the preview chapter here, I chose Ms. Spear's book for my first title.
Lynne Spears is like millions of mothers the world round. Born and raised with small-town values and a strong faith, she simply wanted to live a happily ever after life: married to her one love, and raising and supporting her children in the pursuit of their dreams. Her HEA was not to be. The marriage, rocky very early on due to her husband's alcoholism, didn't survive. And her children? Well, she's got two very huge personalities in her daughters, Brittany Spears and Jaime Lynn Spears, who have achieved their superstar dreams but are living out their private struggles in a very public manner, with repercussions for the whole family. (Ms. Spears also has one son who works in the entertainment industry behind the scenes.)
I appreciate Lynne Spears' candor, her willingness to share her story without feeding into the insatiable appetite of the American public for every minute detail of her children's lives. The success of her children were not her dreams for them. She hardly imagined they would achieve the success that they have.
Ms. Spears comes across as genuine and constantly surprised, if not unnerved, by the challenges of the level of fame her daughters achieved--from security concerns to being minimized as a guiding voice in their professional and personal lives to the constant assault by the paparazzi. She makes it very clear that if she could do it all over, she'd have found a way to stick with her one true love: being a second-grade teacher.
With three sons who may seek any path their hearts desire, for me, Spears' story of how their lives skyrocketed to unbelievable highs and spiraled to unexpected depths is interesting, if not informative.
I want to try something. Had an idea recently and think it might be interesting.
I'd like to publish an African-American Christian Fiction Roundup. It would be a list of published (or contracted) authors, most recent title, their upcoming releases for 2009, websites, blogs, social networking sites, and awards/recognitions. There would also be a section for the websites/blogs of aspiring authors too.
I think I'll distribute it via newsletter format to those who signup for the newsletter. It will be available free of charge (at least initially).
I might consider advertising spots for authors/agents/publishers wishing to promote.
It still surprises me when I hear readers say they didn't know there were Christian fiction books with African-American authors, characters, or situations/settings that are familiar to our culture. (I'm even more surprised when I hear people say they didn't know there were Christian fiction books of any kind but I think there are a lot of efforts out there to combat that issue.)
My intent is not to segregate but to highlight. I think it would be great to have all this information in a handy reference at one's fingertips.
I haven't published a first issue and I'm already thinking of ways to expand it. Featured author articles, book previews/excerpts, etc. For now,however, it will simply be a listing.
If this goes well, I could publish it annually.
I'd like to publish the first one in January.
But I need your help. I'll be putting the word out to writer's loops of which I am a member but I need your help in spreading the word and also, if you are an author, in sending in your information so that I can compile it.
I haven't read this book. I can't get my hands on it. Oh, I own a copy. It's just that my son has it and won't give it up.
This book is like none I've ever seen. It's a novel. It's a graphic novel. It's ...I'm not really sure what kind of book.
But it's definitely intriguing. Pick one up in a bookstore if you get a chance, if only to look at the physical book. (You'll see what I mean in the excerpt below.)
Most Honorable Son Number One grabbed the book and won't let go. He had his nose buried in it, until he had to pull back to write a short story for his English class and to start reading another, required book. I had hoped to get a few comments from him but he hasn't finished it yet and he's a bit busy so I'll leave him alone...for now.
Anyway, here's the post:
It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
A motorcyclist and former rock band roadie turned Anglican minister, Graham Peter (G. P.) Taylor has been hailed as "hotter than Potter" and "the new C. S. Lewis" in the United Kingdom. His first novel, Shadowmancer, reached #1 on the New York Times bestseller list in 2004 and has been translated into 48 languages. His other novels include Wormwood (another New York Times bestseller which was nominated for a Quill book award), The Shadowmancer Returns: The Curse of Salamander Street, Tersias the Oracle, and Mariah Mundi. Taylor currently resides in North Yorkshire with his wife and three children.
I finished this book this morning while getting my youngest ready for daycare. The second book that I've read in which the death penalty plays a major role in as many months, The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips was intriguing in style, story ending, and message. I won't give anything away but, whereas the other book, Riven by Jerry Jenkins, made me think about my stance on capital punishment and how I witness to others, this one made me think about what it truly means to live under grace.
I'd like to point out that there's a warning being attached to this book about strong language. You'll see it at the bottom of this post. That's because there are characters in the book, characters not in relationship with Christ, who use a few unsavory words. The mildest of unsavory words, and only a very few of them. But many Christian fiction readers are unaccustomed to seeing said words in the books they read. Thus, the warning. Had they flowed from the mouths of characters professing to be Christians, I'd have felt differently.
I'm not sure whether the warning is coming from the publisher, the promoters, or simply well-meaning bloggers but I think it's unnecessary because it's clear how and why the words are there, and they did not strike me as out of place for those characters nor as gratuitous.
STEPHEN BALDWIN - actor, family man, born-again Christian - makes his home in upstate New York with his wife and two young daughters.
Equally adept at drama and comedy, Baldwin has appeared in over 60 films and been featured on such top-rated television shows as Fear Factor and Celebrity Mole. He has his own production company that is developing projects for television and the big screen. These days, however, his role as director, co-producer and host of Livin' It - a cutting-edge skate video is bringing out his white hot passion for evangelism.
Writer and communicator Mark Tabb calls himself an “internationally unknown author.” Although his books have been published around the world, he is best known for his collaborative works. His 2008 release, “Mistaken Identity”, written with the Van Ryn and Cerak families, hit number one on the New York Times bestseller list for two weeks, and remained on the list for over two months. He and actor Stephen Baldwin teamed up on their 2005 New York Times bestseller, “The Unusual Suspect,” and with their first work of fiction, “The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips,”
ABOUT THE BOOK
Even years of experience haven't prepared Officer Andy Myers for this case---
When Officer Andy Myers met Loraine Phillips, he had no interest in her son. And he certainly never dreamed he'd respond to a call, finding that same boy in a pool of blood. Even more alarming was the father standing watch over his son's body. Myers had never seen a man respond to death-particularly the death of a child-in such a way. When the father is charged with murder and sentenced to death, he chooses not to fight but embrace it as God's will. Myers becomes consumed with curiosity for these strange beliefs. What follows is the story of the bond these two men share as they come to terms with the tragedy and the difficult choices each one must make.
As I was posting about being crazed and not getting any writing done, author Kristi Holli was posting over on Writer's First Aid about how her writing career has been affected and influenced by her children. She ended her post with this quote from another author, Katherine Paterson:
"Success might have come sooner if I’d had a room of my own and fewer children, but I doubt it. For as I look at my writing, it seems to me that the very persons who took away my time and space are the ones who have given me something to say.”
Just what I needed to hear, even if I didn't read it until today. Yesterday, I didn't have time to blog and would have been too tired to give it more than a passing thought.
Today, I feel a kindred spirit with Mss. Paterson and Holli.
My children are a huge part of who I am and what I shall become.
So, I'll keep Ms. Paterson's quote in mind. This is one for hanging on the wall (if I ever get that room of my own).
In the meantime, I'll just try to squeeze in a bit more writing. (I did actually jot down notes last night for another story idea, one that I won't do anything with for months, at best but it felt good to scribble something on paper.)
After two morning baseball games, one of which I coached, I spent the better part of Saturday and Sunday helping Most Honorable Son Number One finish a family genealogy project for his American History class. Two trips to the library, four trips to Kinko's, a trip to Wal-mart, and $125 later, the project was completed and turned in.
This was after him turning in scheduled portions weekly for the past six weeks. But he, and I, vastly underestimated what it was going to take for him to pull the final project together.
It's kind of like writing a novel. You always start out on a high with a great idea. The creative juices are flowing and the first few portions are a breeze.
Then the real work sets in. But you're not deterred. Not yet. You can do this.
Three-quarters of the way in, you realize you it's going to take a whole lot more effort to get to the finish line than anticipated because of little decisions made along the way that cause you to now go back and revisit the entire project from the beginning.
Back up against the wall, you either dig in or fold.
I've folded on a few writing projects but, not without much anguish. However, I don't have any grades in sight and I learned a lot along the way.
We dug in and got the project done.
Then, Middle One, the one who defers to Older Brother and Younger Brother, because he doesn't feel the need to aggressively push his cause most of the time, whispers to me over the morning oatmeal, "Mommy, I didn't get my turkey project done".
Another project? Due today???!!!
I knew about this one. Focused on the one, I forgot about the other.
So I scribbled a note to the kindergarten teacher, and took a deep breath. Instead of luxuriating with a good book or my notepad in hand tonight, I'll be overseeing the completion of yet another school project.
2008 has been a busy year. Every time I try to catch my breath, I find myself doing another lap around the park.
Seems as though, if on no other day, every writer should write something.
Another 1,000 words in your wip.
A blog post.
A poem.
A song or ditty.
Something.
I'm discounting this post (especially because I wrote it in advance) and committing to add some words to my wip. Not sure how many but I'll be writing.
My Kwanzaa-themed short romance, Love and Kwanzaa, is featured today over at The Writer's Vineyard as part of the Holiday Book Celebration. Read an excerpt on today's blog. (Below the celebration calendars.)
After I wrote this short story, I envisioned a series of shorts, one for each day of the Kwanzaa celebration. I even introduced enough characters to support that idea with the thought of the central ones recurring in each book.
I lost track of that thought but maybe I'll revisit it in 2009. Short stories come easier to me.
You can pick up a copy of the the complete story, Love and Kwanzaa, here.
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And now, a few tidbits for the weekend:
When I want to know what's happening the publishing world on a macro level, I can count on Chip MacGregor to encapsulate it for me. Here's his latest take on changes in publishing.
The Great American Book Giveaway is back. Free books, no strings attached. (But not for me. I've got enough stuff to read!)
Finally, I may have mentioned this one before. But I see it's making the rounds again so if I didn't tell you and you haven't already heard, famed literary agent and author Donald Maass has a free download available on his website, The Career Novelist: A Literary Agent Offers Strategies for Success.
#3 as to do with writing to the market vs. writing what interests me. #5 has to do with being excited enough about the project to stick with it.
This is new ground for me. I've never had an idea before that I didn't think I could turn into a book. Granted, I have yet to tackle the vast majority of the ideas I have catalogued. And the ones I have tried are sometimes so complex that writing the story starts to be intimidating.
My issue this time is that the stakes just are not high enough. The story involves children and baseball, both of which have broad appeal. I like the characters and think they could work with a little tweaking. The potential market is category romance but it's not market-driven, and I really am interested because the premise came right out of my own life, and my current experience as an unlikely youth baseball coach.
I'm pretty sure I could turn this into a short story pretty easily but I want to play with it some more.
So I'm going back to the drawing board on this one. Maybe I can figure out the bigger story. If so, the good news is I've got about 10,000 words that I can insert and massage. If not, Short Story Land, or maybe Novella Place?, here I come.
Even though some of my reading has felt like a chore of late, I had the pleasure of reading a book this past weekend that I'm extremely pleased to feature because, as the mother of a teenager, I'm excited about what's happening in this market segment.
Christian YA is hot. There have been a host of titles published this year from authors such as Victoria Christopher Murray, ReShonda Tate Billingsley, Stephanie Perry Moore, Shelley Adina, and now Michelle Stimpson.
In Trouble In My Way, Karis, a typical teenager, is a victim of the things that happen to her. It's not her fault that she seems to be on punishment more than she is off. She means well but she often finds herself boxed into decisions that don't yield the intended results. As Karis juggles school, friendships, boys, and divorced parents, she seems to drop as many balls as she catches, with undesirable consequences.
This one picked me up and dropped me square back in the middle of teenage angst. We didn't have cell phones and some of the other accoutrements of today but the emotions and even the situations haven't changed very much.
Here's the book blurb: IT'S ALL HER MOM'S FAULT.
If she hadn't snooped into Karis's diary, she would never have found out that Karis went to a boy's house without permission. Now Karis is grounded, which means no modem, no iPod...and no cell phone. There's just no way a cute, popular, high-schooler can survive being cut off from the world, so Karis is forced to sneak around behind her mother's back. But the way she's acting makes Karis feel guilty -- even if it is her mom's fault -- and she doesn't like the feeling.
Her scheming is starting to cause other problems, too. Borrowing a friend's cell phone has turned into a catastrophe that may break up her oldest friendship, and the cutie she met after driver's ed is acting a little scary. Will the faith her mother has taught her be enough to help her find her way through this trouble...and show both the world and herself that she's a stronger, better person than even she ever knew?
And a little bit about Michelle:
Michelle Stimpson is an author, speaker, and educator. Trouble in My Way is Michelle's first YA title but she's no stranger to writing and publishing good books. Her debut, Boaz Brown, examined racial prejudices and romance. Her second fiction title, Divas of Damascus Road, was a national bestseller. She has an another Christian fiction title, The Good Stuff, out concurrently as well.
I enjoyed Michelle's adult titles but I hope she keeps writing Christian YA too, along with the other authors in this market. Having this kind of reading sure would have been good years ago!
I'm still working on the project I started earlier in the year. The one I got bogged down in because I was trying to write and revise in what seemed like reasonable chunks. The one that I eventually felt so absolutely mired in the mud about, in part because I still don't like my hero's motivations, which cause his goals to not make complete sense. Not a bad thing at page 30 but it feels hateful at page 125.
I also started a new project a week ago. In the spirit of NaNoWriMo, I'm writing as much as I can on this new project in the month of November. I'm not officially doing the whole 50,000 word NaNo thing though. Don't need the pressure, and as you know from my book blogging backlash, I had a little bit of a tendency to be a joiner that could use some pruning.
So I'm resisting.
Instead, I'm just writing. We'll see what comes out at the end of the month.
In the meantime, writing the first draft gets my creative juices going in a way that nothing else does. Revising feels like revving my wheels in the mud. They spin and spin but I don't get anywhere. (I know. Bad attitude to have about an essential part of the writing process. Maybe I'll work on that in 2009.)
Anyway, if I'm doing the one (writing) while also doing the other (revising) then, it doesn't feel too bad.
Of course, that means I'm splitting my already limited writing time for either project in half.
But if my head feels better about what I'm doing and my heart is lifted, I'm more productive overall.
So I'm writing.
One day I'll think about why I'm so driven by my feelings when it comes to writing I certainly don't approach my very technical profession or too many other areas of my life that way...
As my mother would say, I'm showing my slip!
Do you work on multiple projects at the same time or write in a singular fashion? If you do multiple projects, are they multiple first drafts? Some new writing and some revision?
A few tidbits I picked up in my blogging/email trails...
Publisher's Weekly has published its annual Best Books of the Year. Iniitially, I thought the mass market list, the category in which romance would fall, wass the shortest of all of the lists. Then, I saw the two-book religious fiction list. Guess PW didn't think there was much good romance being published, and even less religious fiction. (Or they don't read broadly enough.)
The 2009 Romance Slam Jam, scheduled for April in Los Angeles, has been cancelled due to the uncertain economic times. More here in the latest RSJ newsletter.
For a short time, Zondervan is offering a free book down, Sin No More A Field Guide for Grace by Cathleen Falsani. Go here for the download.
I enjoy sharing about books I've read or heard about that I think others might enjoy. I get books sent to me for reviews so this always brings some neat books I hadn't heard of prior to receiving my package. One review site sends me books monthly. Another sends books occasionally, maybe three or four times a year.
I also am a member of two book blog groups, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance and the Fiction.In.Really.Short.Takes (or F.I.R.S.T.) blog alliance. Both feature Christian/inspirational books.
Most recently, I joined publisher Thomas Nelson's book reviewer blogging group I recently shared about. These titles are also Christian/inspirational but they seem to be primarily non-fiction and books that I'm not otherwise exposed to.
Finally, I buy books, of course, and then there are the books that I win online.
I'm overrun with books!
And as a result, so are you. Or, at least this blog is. I've already featured 4 books since Oct 31st and I have another 5 books that I've committed to feature this month.
Since I mostly blog Mon - Fri, that's 9 out of 20 days, nearly 50%, and way more than I want to blog about other people's books.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I love featuring good books. That's the problem. When the calls go out, I see so many books that pique my interest, causing me to sign up and commit to a feature post. Then, there are the ones I forget about until they show up in the mail with a note thanking me for agreeing to participate in their blog promotion.
My reading eyes are bigger than my blog stomach.
I want to spend more time talking about writing stuff, and less time feeling stressed that if I don't feature the book as promised, I'll get dropped from the group or called out on some disgruntled author or publisher's site.
Time for some changes.
I've stopped entering online contests to win books, for the most part. (Can't promise I won't enter for a really, really coveted book.)
I will select only one book to feature per week from the combined groups. At most, I'll select another two per month. That's a total of 4 - 7 books, depending on the month, and sufficient book blogging, in my opinion.
I'll continue trying to feature debut authors whenever I can because I get particular satisfaction from doing this. I'll also discontinue featuring books that I haven't read. Lots of bloggers do this but to me, it's a bit disingenuous. I mean, by featuring the book, isn't it an implicit endorsement? How can I endorse something I haven't read?
This should allow me to catch up with my book review, which are falling behind--no explicit deadlines there--as I try to keep up with all these other books.
I suspect I'm not the only blogger who's struggled with this. I know of at least one fellow author/blogger, who sometimes posts two or three books a day and has also decided to cut back.
We've already established that I'm going to keep reading voraciously, even as I'm writing. I'll just be more selective about what I feature on this blog.
I'll get through this month's features and the December commitments I've made.
When I was feeling fuzzy headed last week, I put one book down and reached for Out of Her Hands by Megan DiMaria. When I get like that, I either need something light or something soothing. Last week, I needed soothing and Megan DiMaria delivered.
Although my children aren't as old as those in the story--I've got years before I even approach empty nesting--I could relate to the heart tugs of the main character, Linda. Because what mother doesn't want the best for her children? What Christian mother isn't already praying for her children's spouses? How difficult it must be to accept a new person into the family when you had a great relationship with the in-law who passed away? And whose child won't behave in some way that goes against the grain of their Christian upbringing and requires you to dig deep, past your pain and disappointment, to support your child anyway?
I loved the first-person POV and the continued forward movement of the story through action and dialogue. About two-thirds of the way through, I realized there was little in the way of narrative or introspection, something I tend to overdo in my writing. And Ms. DiMaria's voice kept the story light and airy, even when dealing with tough situations.
I guess I just "get it" because this book is part of the niche known as "Baby Boomer Lit". Because the Baby Boom spanned nearly twenty years, 1946 - 1964, and I was born on the tail end, I sometimes feel like I have a foot in two generations, the Baby Boom and Generation X. But I especially enjoy Baby Boomer stories. We're a special bunch!
Here's more on Out of Her Hands by Megan DiMaria:
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
I was born and raised in New York State and have since lived in Maine, Florida, Pennsylvania, Texas, New Jersey, and now I live in Colorado. My husband and I have three delightful, adult children and an old Jack Russell Terrier named Belle who seems to find her way into my novels. My resume will tell you I graduated from SUNY Plattsburgh with a degree in Communications, and after graduation I worked as a radio and television reporter, freelance writer, editor and marketing professional.
I'm a member of American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) and am assistant director of Words For The Journey, Rocky Mountain Region.
But what's most important to know about me is that I am a follower of Jesus, wife, mother, friend, reader and writer.
Life’s a journey, enjoy the adventures!
ABOUT THE BOOK
In this second novel by Megan DiMaria, Linda Revere is back and continuing to struggle with the turmoil of contemporary life. Linda has been praying for her children's future spouses since they were very small. Confident that her prayers will be answered, Linda is not prepared for the young woman her son brings home. But Linda soon learns that while everything she once controlled is out of her hands, God is still in control. Megan uses her trademark humor while dealing with issues to which her readers will relate.
"No sophomore slump for DiMaria! This novel (Out of Her Hands) is as engaging and meaningful as her first, Searching for Spice. Her realistic portrayal of the characters' lives should endear them to readers and help Christians to feel less alone in their daily trials." ~Romantic Times Magazine, 4 ½ stars TOP PICK!
“Life in Linda's world is messy...but filled with love, laughter, struggle and faith. Megan has created a most real heroine for us to love...and I adore her!” ~Deena Peterson, reviewer: A Peek at my Bookshelf
“Megan DiMaria crafts a novel so compelling, so real, you forget you're reading fiction.” ~Darcie Gudger, reviewer: TitleTrakk
"This is a great read for a quiet afternoon or in those times when you feel your own life spinning out of control and need the reality check of knowing you're not in it alone." ~Amazon reviewer
This blog is about reading and writing good stories. At the moment, I can't think of a better story than the selection of President-Elect Barack Obama as the next president of the United States of America.
WOOOO-HOOOO!!!!!
Let all the negativity, vitriol, and division be cast into the sea of forgetfulness.
Today is Election Day (which should be a national holiday in my opinion, at least when it's a presidential election but that's neither here nor there). If you took advantage of early voting in your state, great! If not or your state did not afford you the opportunity, please make it a priority to vote today. Every vote counts!
In between the featured books I told you about, I still wanted to share a few tidbits I've come across:
Become a book reviewer for Thomas Nelson Publishers. If you are willing to post a book review on your blog and on Amazon, then you can receive free books for review from Thomas Nelson, one of the largest Christian publishing houses.
A new way to rise from the slush pile. Harper Collins has created a new site, Authonomy, where unpublished and self-published authors are welcome to post a minimum of 10,000 words for peer review. Those manuscripts that get the highest peer rankings will be reviewed by a board of Harper Collins editors.
And it's that time of the year...
NaNoWriMo, the national novel writing challenge that happens every November, began a few days ago. If you think you can write 50,000 words in a month--or you're just excited by the challenge--NaNo may be the thing for you. And if you'd like some tips from a NaNo master, Lazette Gifford, who has completed the challenge every year since 2001. Check out her words of advice, NaNo For The New and The Insane: A NaNoWriMo Survival Guide. And there's lot of good advice in there for any novel writer, even if you're not participating in NaNo.
BTW, I've started a new story which I'm working on during NaNo. Don't know if I'll make 50k words but I'm not trying to hard. For me, it's all about forward motion.
I'm still working on the other one two but I'm finding it easier to revise the latter if I also am working on something new. (A tip I picked up from my dear friend, Chicki.)
This book is controversial. Some people are incensed because they deem it spiritually inaccurate, calling it New Age vs. Christian. Some are upset because they feel the author is not forthcoming as to whether it is a true story or fiction, allowing people to believe it may be true for maximum emotional impact, even though it isn't. (Note: The author, in the extra feature "The Story Behind The Shack" at the end of the book, explicitly says, "The story is fiction. I made it up." Perhaps this extra feature was not included in earlier printed versions.)
The author's imprint and this self-published book have been picked up by a mainstream publisher after unexpected sales. The Shack made the NY Times bestseller lists.
The whole point of this fictional story is to turn conventional religious thinking on its ear. I read and enjoyed quotes like these below, because they made me think:
"'So God listens to funk?' Mack had never heard 'funk' talked about in properly righteous terms."
"...evil is a word we use to describe the absence of Good, just as we use the word darkness to describe the absence of Light or death to describe the absence of Life. Both evil and darkness can only be understood in relation to LIght and Godd; they do not have any actual existence."
"Humans...have a knack for taking a verb that is alive and full of grace and turning it into a dead noun or principle that reeks of rules: something growing and alive dies. Nouns exist because there is a created universe and physical reality, but if the universe is only a mass of nouns, it is dead."
"...forgiveness does not create a relationship. Unless people speak the truth about what they have done and change their mind and their behavior, a relationship of trust is not possible. When you forgive someone you certainly release them from judgment, but without true change, no real relationship can be established."
I can't give you the best lines, many of which are pretty funny, because they are all spoilers. But The Shack is both a fun and thought-provoking read. As to the rest, you be the judge.
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It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Wm. Paul Young was born a Canadian and raised among a Stone Age tribe by his missionary parents in the highlands of former New Guinea. He suffered great loss as a child and young adult and now enjoys the "wastefulness of grace" with his family in the Pacific Northwest.
Two roads diverged in the middle of my life, I heard a wise man say I took the road less traveled by And that's made the difference every night and every day
—Larry Norman (with apologies to Robert Frost)
March unleashed a torrent of rainfall after an abnormally dry winter. A cold front out of Canada then descended and was held in place by a swirling wind that roared down the Gorge from eastern Oregon. Although spring was surely just around the corner, the god of winter was not about to relinquish its hard-won dominion without a tussle. There was a blanket of new snow in the Cascades, and rain was now freezing on impact with the frigid ground outside the house; enough reason for Mack to snuggle up with a book and a hot cider and wrap up in the warmth of a crackling fire.
But instead, he spent the better part of the morning telecommuting into his downtown desktop. Sitting comfortably in his home office wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt, he made his sales calls, mostly to the East Coast. He paused frequently, listening to the sound of crystalline rain tinging off his window and watching the slow but steady accumulation of frozen ice thickening on everything outside. He was becoming inexorably trapped as an ice—prisoner in his own home—much to his delight.
There is something joyful about storms that interrupt routine. Snow or freezing rain suddenly releases you from expectations, performance demands, and the tyranny of appointments and schedules. And unlike illness, it is largely a corporate rather than individual experience. One can almost hear a unified sigh rise from the nearby city and surrounding countryside where Nature has intervened to give respite to the weary humans slogging it out within her purview. All those affected this way are united by a mutual excuse, and the heart is suddenly and unexpectedly a little giddy. There will be no apologies needed for not showing up to some commitment or other. Everyone understands and shares in this singular justification, and the sudden alleviation of the pressure to produce makes the heart merry.
Of course, it is also true that storms interrupt business and, while a few companies make a bit extra, some companies lose money—meaning there are those who find no joy when everything shuts down temporarily. But they can't blame anyone for their loss of production, or for not being able to make it to the office. Even if it's hardly more than a day or two, somehow each person feels like the master of his or her own world, simply because those little droplets of water freeze as they hit the ground.
Even commonplace activities become extraordinary. Routine choices become adventures and are often experienced with a sense of heightened clarity. Late in the afternoon, Mack bundled up and headed outdoors to struggle the hundred or so yards down the long driveway to the mailbox. The ice had magically turned this simple everyday task into a foray against the elements: the raising of his fist in opposition to the brute power of nature and, in an act of defiance, laughing in its face. The fact that no one would notice or care mattered little to him—just the thought made him smile inside.
The icy rain pellets stung his cheeks and hands as he carefully worked his way up and down the slight undulations of the driveway; he looked, he supposed, like a drunken sailor gingerly heading toward the next watering hole. When you face the force of an ice storm, you don't exactly walk boldly forward in a show of unbridled confidence. Bluster will get you battered. Mack had to get up off his knees twice before he was finally hugging the mailbox like some long-lost friend.
He paused to take in the beauty of a world engulfed in crystal. Everything reflected light and contributed to the heightened brilliance of the late afternoon. The trees in the neighbor's field had all donned translucent mantles and each now stood unique but unified in their presentation. It was a glorious world and for a brief moment its blazing splendor almost lifted, even if only for a few seconds, The Great Sadness from Mack's shoulders.
It took almost a minute to knock off the ice that had already sealed shut the door of the mailbox. The reward for his efforts was a single envelope with only his first name typewritten on the outside; no stamp, no postmark, and no return address. Curious, he tore the end off the envelope, which was no easy task with fingers beginning to stiffen from the cold. Turning his back to the breath-snatching wind, he finally coaxed the single small rectangle of unfolded paper out of its nest. The typewritten message simply said:
Mackenzie, It's been a while. I've missed you. I'll be at the shack next weekend if you want to get together. -Papa
Mack stiffened as a wave of nausea rolled over him and then just as quickly mutated into anger. He purposely thought about the shack as little as possible and even when he did his thoughts were neither kind nor good. If this was someone's idea of a bad joke they had truly outdone themselves. And to sign it "Papa" just made it all the more horrifying.
"Idiot," he grunted, thinking about Tony the mailman; an overly friendly Italian with a big heart but little tact. Why would he even deliver such a ridiculous envelope? It wasn't even stamped. Mack angrily stuffed the envelope and note into his coat pocket and turned to start the slide back in the general direction of the house. Buffeting gusts of wind, which had initially slowed him, now shortened the time it took to traverse the mini glacier that was thickening beneath his feet.
He was doing just fine, thank you, until he reached that place in the driveway that sloped a little downward and to the left. Without any effort or intention he began to build up speed, sliding on shoes with soles that had about as much traction as a duck landing on a frozen pond. Arms flailing wildly in hopes of somehow maintaining the potential for balance, Mack found himself careening directly toward the only tree of any substantial size bordering the driveway—the one whose lower limbs he had hacked off only a few short months before. Now it stood eager to embrace him, half naked and seemingly anxious for a little retribution. In a fraction of a thought he chose the chicken's way out and tried to plop himself down by allowing his feet to slip out from under him—which is what they had naturally wanted to do anyway. Better to have a sore butt than pick slivers out of his face.
But the adrenaline rush caused him to over compensate, and in slow motion Mack watched his feet rise up in front of him as if jerked up by some jungle trap. He hit hard, back of the head first, and skidded to a heap at the base of the shimmering tree, which seemed to stand over him with a smug look mixed with disgust and not a little disappointment.
The world went momentarily black, or so it seemed. He lay there dazed and staring up into the sky, squinting as the icy precipitation rapidly cooled his flushed face. For a fleeting pause, everything felt oddly warm and peaceful, his ire momentarily knocked out by the impact. "Now, who's the idiot?" he muttered to himself, hoping that no one had been watching.
Cold was creeping quickly through his coat and sweater and Mack knew the ice rain that was both melting and freezing beneath him would soon become a major discomfort. Groaning and feeling like a much older man, he rolled onto his hands and knees. It was then that he saw the bright red skid mark tracing his journey from point of impact to final destination. As if birthed by the sudden awareness of his injury, a dull pounding began crawling up the back of his head. Instinctively, he reached for the source of the drum beat and brought his hand away bloody.
With rough ice and sharp gravel gouging his hands and knees, Mack half crawled and half slid until he eventually made it to a level part of the driveway. With not a little effort he was finally able to stand and gingerly inch his way toward the house, humbled by the powers of ice and gravity.
Once inside, Mack methodically shed the layers of outerwear as best he could, his half-frozen fingers responding with about as much dexterity as oversized clubs at the ends of his arms. He decided to leave the drizzly bloodstained mess right where he doffed it in the entryway and retreated painfully to the bathroom to examine his wounds. There was no question that the icy driveway had won. The gash on the back of his head was oozing around a few small pebbles still embedded in his scalp. As he had feared, a significant lump had already formed, emerging like a humpbacked whale breaching the wild waves of his thinning hair.
Mack found it a difficult chore to patch himself up by trying to see the back of his head using a small hand-held mirror that reflected a reverse image off the bathroom mirror. A short frustration later he gave up, unable to get his hands to go in the right directions and unsure which of the two mirrors was lying to him. By gingerly probing around the soggy gash he succeeded in picking out the biggest pieces of debris, until it hurt too much to continue. Grabbing some first-aid ointment and plugging the wound as best he could, he then tied a washcloth to the back of his head with some gauze he found in a bathroom drawer. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he thought he looked a little like some rough sailor out of Moby Dick. It made him laugh, then wince.
He would have to wait until Nan made it home before he would get any real medical attention; one of the many benefits of being married to a registered nurse. Anyway, he knew that the worse it looked the more sympathy he would get. There is often some compensation in every trial, if one looked hard enough. He swallowed a couple over-the-counter painkillers to dull the throbbing and limped toward the front entry.
Not for an instant had Mack forgotten about the note. Rummaging through the pile of wet and bloody clothing he finally found it in his coat pocket, glanced at it and then headed back into his office. He located the post office number and dialed it. As expected, Annie, the matronly postmaster and keeper of everyone's secrets, answered the phone. "Hi, is Tony in by chance?"
"Hey, Mack, is that you? Recognized your voice." Of course she did. "Sorry, but Tony ain't back yet. In fact I just talked to him on the radio and he's only made it halfway up Wildcat, not even to your place yet. Do ya need me to have him call ya, or would ya just like to leave a message?"
"Oh, hi. Is that you, Annie?" He couldn't resist, even though her Midwestern accent left no doubt. "Sorry, I was busy for a second there. Didn't hear a word you said."
She laughed. "Now Mack, I know you heard every word. Don't you be goin' and tryin' to kid a kidder. I wasn't born yesterday, ya know. Whaddya want me to tell him if he makes it back alive?"
"Actually, you already answered my question."
There was a pause at the other end. "Actually, I don't remember you askin' a question. What's wrong with you, Mack? Still smoking too much dope or do you just do that on Sunday mornings to make it through the church service?" At this she started to laugh, as if caught off guard by the brilliance of her own sense of humor.
"Now Annie, you know I don't smoke dope—never did, and don't ever want to." Of course Annie knew no such thing, but Mack was taking no chances on how she might remember the conversation in a day or two. Wouldn't be the first time that her sense of humor morphed into a good story that soon became "fact." He could see his name being added to the church prayer chain. "It's okay, I'll just catch Tony some other time, no big deal."
"Okay then, just stay indoors where it's safe. Don't ya know, an old guy like you coulda lost his sense of balance over the years. Wouldn't wanna see ya slip and hurt your pride. Way things are shapin' up, Tony might not make it up to your place at all. We can do snow, sleet, and darkness of night pretty well, but this frozen rain stuff. It's a challenge to be sure."
"Thanks, Annie. I'll try and remember your advice. Talk to you later. Bye now." His head was pounding more than ever; little trip hammers beating to the rhythm of his heart. "That's odd," he thought, "who would dare put something like that in our mailbox?" The painkillers had not yet fully kicked in, but were present enough to dull the edge of worry that he was starting to feel, and he was suddenly very tired. Laying his head down on the desk, he thought he had just dropped off to sleep when the phone startled him awake.
"Uh . . . hello?"
"Hi, love. You sound like you've been asleep." It was Nan, sounding unusually cheery, even though he felt he could hear the underlying sadness that lurked just beneath the surface of every conversation. She loved this kind of weather as much as he usually did. He switched on the desk lamp and glanced at the clock, surprised that he had been out for a couple hours.
"Uh, sorry. I guess I dozed off for a bit."
"Well, you sound a little groggy. Is everything all right?"
"Yup." Even though it was almost dark outside, Mack could see that the storm had not let up. It had even deposited low, and he knew some would eventually break from the weight, especially if the wind kicked up. "I had a little tussle with the driveway when I got the mail, but other than that, everything is fine. Where are you?"
"I'm still at Arlene's, and I think me and the kids'll spend the night here. It's always good for Kate to be around the family . . . seems to restore a little balance." Arlene was Nan's sister who lived across the river in Washington. "Anyway, it's really too slick to go out. Hopefully it'll break up by morning. I wish I had made it home before it got so bad, but oh well." She paused. "How's it up at the house?"
"Well, it's absolutely stunningly beautiful, and a whole lot safer to look at than walk in, trust me. I, for sure, don't want you to try and get up here in this mess. Nothing's moving. I don't even think Tony was able to bring us the mail."
"I thought you already got the mail?" she queried.
"Nope, I didn't actually get the mail. I thought Tony had already come and I went out to get it. There," he hesitated, looking down at the note that lay on the desk where he had placed it, "wasn't any mail yet. I called Annie and she said Tony probably wouldn't be able to make it up the hill, and I'm not going out there again to see if he did.
"Anyway," he quickly changed the subject to avoid more questions, "how is Kate doing over there?"
There was a pause and then a long sigh. When Nan spoke her voice was hushed to a whisper and he could tell she was covering her mouth on the other end. "Mack, I wish I knew. She is just like talking to a rock, and no matter what I do I can't get through. When we're around family she seems to come out of her shell some, but then she disappears again. I just don't know what to do. I've been praying and praying that Papa would help us find a way to reach her, but . . ." she paused again, "it feels like he isn't listening."
There it was. Papa was Nan's favorite name for God and it expressed her delight in the intimate friendship she had with him.
"Honey, I'm sure God knows what he's doing. It will all work out." The words brought him no comfort but he hoped they might ease the worry he could hear in her voice.
"I know," she sighed. "I just wish he'd hurry up."
"Me too," was all Mack could think to say. "Well, you and the kids stay put and stay safe, and tell Arlene and Jimmy hi, and thank them for me. Hopefully I will see you tomorrow."
"Okay, love. I should go and help the others. Everyone's busy looking for candles in case the power goes out. You should probably do the same. There's some above the sink in the basement, and there's leftover stuffed bread dough in the fridge that you can heat up. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, my pride is hurt more than anything."
"Well take it easy, and hopefully we'll see you in the morning."
"All right honey. Be safe and call me if you need anything. Bye."
It was kind of a dumb thing to say, he thought as he hung up the phone. Kind of a manly dumb thing, as if he could help if they needed anything.
Mack sat and stared at the note. It was confusing and painful trying to sort out the swirling cacophony of disturbing emotions and dark images clouding his mind—a million thoughts traveling a million miles an hour. Finally, he gave up, folded the note, slid it into a small tin box he kept on the desk, and switched off the light.
Mack managed to find something to heat up in the microwave, then he grabbed a couple of blankets and pillows and headed for the living room. A quick glance at the clock told him that Bill Moyer's show had just started; a favorite program that he tried never to miss. Moyer was one of a handful of people whom Mack would love to meet; a brilliant and outspoken man, able to express intense compassion for both people and truth with unusual clarity. One of the stories tonight had something to do with oilman Boone Pickens, who was now starting to drill for water, of all things.
Almost without thinking, and without taking his eyes off the television, Mack reached over to the end table, picked up a photo frame holding a picture of a little girl, and clutched it to his chest. With the other hand he pulled the blankets up under his chin and hunkered deeper into the sofa.
Soon the sounds of gentle snoring filled the air as the media tube turned its attention to a piece on a high school senior in Zimbabwe, who had been beaten for speaking out against his government. But Mack had already left the room to wrestle with his dreams; maybe tonight there would be no nightmares, only visions, perhaps, of ice and trees and gravity.
Another book feature today, the usual FIRST book of the month. I have not read this one as yet but it's in my TBR stack and it sounds pretty interesting.
It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!
James David Jordan is a business litigation attorney with the prominent Texas law firm of Munsch Hardt Kopf & Harr, P.C. From 1998 through 2005, he served as the firm's Chairman and CEO. The Dallas Business Journal has named him one of the most influential leaders in the Dallas/Fort Worth legal community and one of the top fifteen business defense attorneys in Dallas/Fort Worth. His peers have voted him one of the Best Lawyers in America in commercial litigation.
A minister's son who grew up in the Mississippi River town of Alton, Illinois, Jim has a law degree and MBA from the University of Illinois, and a journalism degree from the University of Missouri. He lives with his wife and two teenage children in the Dallas suburbs.
Jim grew up playing sports and loves athletics of all kinds. But he especially loves baseball, the sport that is a little bit closer to God than all the others.
List Price: $14.99 Paperback: 400 pages Publisher: B&H Fiction (October 1, 2008) Language: English ISBN-10: 0805447490 ISBN-13: 978-0805447491
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Even in high school I didn’t mind sleeping on the ground. When your father is a retired Special Forces officer, you pick up things that most girls don’t learn. As the years passed I slept in lots of places a good girl shouldn’t sleep. It’s a part of my past I don’t brag about, like ugly wallpaper that won’t come unstuck. No matter how hard I scrape, it just hangs on in big, obscene blotches. I’m twenty-nine years old now, and I’ve done my best to paint over it. But it’s still there under the surface, making everything rougher, less presentable than it should be. Though I want more than anything to be smooth and fresh and clean.
Sometimes I wonder what will happen if the paint begins to fade. Will the wallpaper show? I thought so for a long time. But I have hope now that it won’t. Simon Mason helped me find that hope. That’s why it’s important for me to tell our story. There must be others who need hope, too. There must be others who are afraid that their ugly wallpaper might bleed through.
What does sleeping on the ground have to do with a world-famous preacher like Simon Mason? The story begins twelve years ago—eleven years before I met Simon. My dad and I packed our camping gear and went fishing. It was mid-May, and the trip was a present for my seventeenth birthday. Not exactly every high school girl’s dream, but my dad wasn’t like most dads. He taught me to camp and fish and, particularly, to shoot. He had trained me in self-defense since I was nine, the year Mom fell apart and left for good. With my long legs, long arms, and Dad’s athletic genes, I could handle myself even back then. I suppose I wasn’t like most other girls.
After what happened on that fishing trip, I know I wasn’t.
Fishing with my dad didn’t mean renting a cane pole and buying bait pellets out of a dispenser at some catfish tank near an RV park. It generally meant tramping miles across a field to a glassy pond on some war buddy’s ranch, or winding through dense woods, pitching a tent, and fly fishing an icy stream far from the nearest telephone. The trips were rough, but they were the bright times of my life—and his, too. They let him forget the things that haunted him and remember how to be happy.
This particular outing was to a ranch in the Texas Panhandle, owned by a former Defense Department bigwig. The ranch bordered one of the few sizeable lakes in a corner of Texas that is brown and rocky and dry. We loaded Dad’s new Chevy pickup with cheese puffs and soft drinks—healthy eating wouldn’t begin until the first fish hit the skillet—and left Dallas just before noon with the bass boat in tow. The drive was long, but we had leather interior, plenty of tunes, and time to talk. Dad and I could always talk.
The heat rose early that year, and the temperature hung in the nineties. Two hours after we left Dallas, the brand-new air conditioner in the brand-new truck rattled and clicked and dropped dead. We drove the rest of the way with the windows down while the high Texas sun tried to burn a hole through the roof.
Around five-thirty we stopped to use the bathroom at a rundown gas station somewhere southeast of Amarillo. The station was nothing but a twisted gray shack dropped in the middle of a hundred square miles of blistering hard pan. It hadn’t rained for a month in that part of Texas, and the place was so baked that even the brittle weeds rolled over on their bellies, as if preparing a last-ditch effort to drag themselves to shade.
The restroom door was on the outside of the station, isolated from the rest of the building. There was no hope of cooling off until I finished my business and got around to the little store in the front, where a rusty air conditioner chugged in the window. When I walked into the bathroom, I had to cover my nose and mouth with my hand. A mound of rotting trash leaned like a grimy snow drift against a metal garbage can in the corner. Thick, black flies zipped and bounced from floor to wall and ceiling to floor, occasionally smacking my arms and legs as if I were a bumper in a buzzing pinball machine. It was the filthiest place I’d ever been.
Looking back, it was an apt spot to begin the filthiest night of my life.
I had just leaned over the rust-ringed sink to inspect my teeth in the sole remaining corner of a shattered mirror when someone pounded on the door.
“Just a minute!” I turned on the faucet. A soupy liquid dribbled out, followed by the steamy smell of rotten eggs. I turned off the faucet, pulled my sport bottle from the holster on my hip, and squirted water on my face and in my mouth. I wiped my face on the sleeve of my T-shirt.
My blue-jean cutoffs were short and tight, and I pried free a tube of lotion that was wedged into my front pocket. I raised one foot at a time to the edge of the toilet seat and did my best to brush the dust from my legs. Then I spread the lotion over them. The ride may have turned me into a dust ball, but I was determined at least to be a soft dust ball with a coconut scent. Before leaving I took one last look in my little corner of mirror. The hair was auburn, the dust was beige. I gave the hair a shake, sending tiny flecks floating through a slash of light that cut the room diagonally from a hole in the roof. Someone pounded on the door again. I turned away from the mirror.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming!”
When I pulled open the door and stepped into the light, I shaded my eyes and blinked to clear away the spots. All that I could think about was the little air conditioner in the front window and how great it would feel when I got inside. That’s probably why I was completely unprepared when a man’s hand reached from beside the door and clamped hard onto my wrist.
