Into the Fire

The Opposite of Art by Athol Dickson was reviewed under the post "Finding . . . The Opposite of Art" back on 09/15/2011. 

One thing is for sure when you read an Athol Dickson novel: you won't be reading anything "ordinary". The Opposite of Art by Athol Dickson published by Howard Books, a division of Simon and Schuster, is no exception. A master at the newer genre classification of "magical realism", as you might expect by the term, the story wanders on a unique journey taking the reader to places and scenarios that challenge the imagination to keep up. Stuffed with symbolism and metaphor, it's an exposé in creative writing with a suggestion of purpose rather than a demand. Reminding me of David Athey's Danny Gospel, it does at times give one the sense of flashback to a drug-induced state . . . if you know what I mean.

We're introduced to Sheridan Ridler in his twenties, the cocky artist known just as Ridler to the world of art and Danny to the one he loves but pushes away with his demands, and we see a brash self-absorbed painter of nudes without faces. He doesn't "do faces". With successful siblings who gained his father's approval, Ridler's art seemed never to impress his dad, and he carries the defiance of rejection into his core being. The world embraces his work and even at his young age, he is quickly deemed a brilliant artist. According to Ridler himself, he "can paint anything". His explanation of why he doesn't paint faces epitomizes where his focus resides in his youthful state of mind.

When the one who truly inspires him walks out of his life, he realizes for the first time that she holds his heart and he chases after her but loses her in her Harlem neighborhood. Frustrated that he can't recall her address, he sees something in his artist's eye that draws him. As he pursues the image, he experiences a shocking event which sets the stage for and transforms the rest of the novel. Up to this experience, the story plays like a normal interpersonal conflict with an egotist and his girl falling apart without a deeper bond than their attraction to one another to cement them together.

Suffice it to say this event causes a cataclysmic change in the young artist and takes him on a journey to recapture the focus of what he experienced, but without his ability to suppress himself in his travels across the world's landscape, he never manages to advance in his core-persona, but he does manage to eliminate the requirements of religion without understanding why he must. Encountering a canvas filled with characters who are both kind and crazed, he continues to paint what he cannot fully grasp.

It's decidedly amazing to me that Athol can base an entire story on somewhat undesirable characters and pull it off. Honestly, I understood the 20-something Ridler a whole lot better than the Ridler-pilgrim who basically refused to see the obvious even when much later in his life it couldn't have been more plain. "Esperanza", the beautiful old woman – or was she? – made so much evident to him many times with her pointed questions and conversation if he would only listen and see. However, her prodding and hinting served to demonstrate the power of the human heart's resistance until it's truly ready to receive Truth.

Transporting the reader between reality and surreality, I was never quite sure if Ridler's often dreamlike state of existence gave us fact or fiction. Inside his perspective we explored the fantastical along with the deplorable, the mundane, the inexplicable, and the everyday. Both taxing and refreshing, this novel is an experience rather than a story. Exploring and examining the flawed hearts of man and his religions, we grow impatient with the obvious obstructions to the Truth. We're grateful for the conclusion in so many ways. "Magical realism" is not my favorite genre, reminding me of a form of contemporary fantasy of which I'm no fan. However, this novel is well worth the time it takes to invest in the experience of it.

There's some terrific and imaginative writing going on this novel mixed with incredible research and authenticity. I'm sure I missed some of the clever and intricate symbolism which extends to the title, but I gathered enough of it to be impressed. For those readers who enjoy something different, something that takes not only the protagonist but the reader on a strange journey through a maze of eery experiences and almost laughable jaunts with characters, The Opposite of Art is the novel for you. For those of you who want an exercise in literary writing: The Opposite of Art is it. For those of you who want not just artsy prose but earthy language when exposing what drives a man's soul: The Opposite of Art gives you both profound and almost profane.

As a final sidenote, I'd love to see Johnny Depp play Ridler. He could give the role of Ridler the depth this character deserves.

Father, you've given multiple giftings to Athol, and he has chosen to honor you with all of them. Please help him to continue to share his discoveries in the stories he writes. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Red Sky Mourning by Jack Carr is Book 7 in The James Reece Thriller Series.

James Reece is done with all the assignments from Vic Rodriguez and the CIA. He wants a life with his fiancée, journalist Katie Buranek, and the comfort that comes from the Hastings family at their Kumba Ranch on their Montana estate. When that desire for stability is dramatically bludgeoned, Vic comes calling again to, first of all, assure him that the CIA was not responsible for the incident.

The situation is desperate, and while Reese doesn't want to hear any of it, his inner dialogue is cursed with repeated threats of what happens to those around him. When Katie tells him with certainty that he needs to go do what he does best, he knows if he wants the deathly assaults to stop, he's the one who must stop them.

There's a former Silicone Valley billionaire who blames American powers-that-be for his parents' death. His Elba Industries has designed the best quantum computer on the planet – or at least he thinks it is. That is, if he can find and disable the American's design named "Alice." He wants "her" out of the picture so there can be no opposition to his "Napoleon," but apparently she's gone dark and will only speak to former Navy SEAL James Reece. And since the billionaire is an arrogant sociopath, he's made deals with the Chinese communist party leaders in their quest to take over Taiwan, while the CCP has promised a member of Congress running for president that they will help her get elected so she can keep the secret information she's provided coming. Their cooperative lust-for-power triangle is ready for action, but first James Reece needs to be out of the picture. Their cunning plan involves a meeting with him in Beijing where they intend to dazzle him with their offer. 

With the many versions of thrillers that adhere to real-life possibilities and advancements, there is considerable backstory and information that must be written. How that's done varies per author, but it's usually set up before the action begins because once the hero is involved with thwarting a threat, the no-holds-barred extreme action proceeds with intensity. For me, the story "began" at Chapter 14. 

Jack Carr uses a lot of inner dialogue from James Reece, and he does it superbly. There's a part of the character James Reece who's damaged and broken from the huge losses in his life. His inner thoughts bring him to fatalistic conclusions about what he considers to be the inevitable. He has visions at critical moments in his present-day life of his murdered wife and daughter that often console him and other times leave him empty and lost. (Some might remember a similar tactic used in the TV Series "NCIS" with "Gibbs.") 

Raife Hastings (Reece's best friend) and his father make sure there's some final justice. 

This assignment brings Reece to a final conclusion after thanking Alice and telling her goodbye.

The preface of Red Sky Mourning is a must-read because of the horrific information Jack has compiled. Truth always gets the jump on fiction. 

Prepare yourself. No-holds-barred thriller. 

Father, please continue to bless Jack in his writing endeavors. Help him to keep mixing truth and fiction determinedly. Encourage him as only you can do and keep him and his family safe from all harm. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

One of Donovan's greatest hits. I loved this one. 

Father, you're all that matters. You are Love. Apart from you, we only get a brief glimpse of what real love is – and we're simply not capable of it in these sin-stained bodies. Thank you is never enough for your rescue. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Reading Jack Carr's Red Sky Mourning and will have a review up by next week.

So looking forward to Don Bentley's new entry to the Mitch Rapp Saga in September: Capture or Kill.

In between those Brad Thor will have a new release in August Shadow of Doubt. 

What novels are you looking forward to reading? 

Father, thank you for the gift of writing. Please bless those who manage to tell the truth in their fiction and those who decide to honor you in their writing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

     Jesus said to them, "If God were your Father, you would love me, for I came from God and now am here. I have not come on my own, but He sent me. Why is my language not clear to you? Because you are unable to hear what I say. You belong to your father, the devil, and you want to carry out your father's desire. He was a murderer from the beginning, not holding to the truth, for there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies. Yet because I tell the truth, you do not believe me! Can any of you prove me guilty of sin? If I am telling the truth, why don't you believe me? He who belongs to God hears what God says. The reason you do not hear is that you do not belong to God."

John 8:42-47 (NIV)

   An excerpt from my novel Then . . . you available in print and ebook.

Chapter 5

She finished getting ready and walked down the hall to the tantalizing aroma of bacon and biscuits which quickly reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since a light lunch yesterday at work. Does the man cook too?

     Walking into the kitchen, she observed him standing over the stove, maneuvering eggs around in a pan. Dressed in black Levis without rips and another black long-sleeve T-shirt with a depiction of a yellow “Don’t Tread on Me” flag on the back, he asked, “Hungry?” without turning around.

     “I didn’t think I was until I smelled your cooking. Now I am,” she said. “What can I do?”

     “Get us something to drink. I’ll take a glass of milk. You help yourself to whatever you want. Are you a coffee or tea drinker?”

     “Both actually, but coffee in the morning usually does it for me.”

     “I’m out right now which doesn’t happen very often. We’ll stop on the way at a stand. That okay?” He turned to look at her then.

     “You shaved off your beard,” she said without thinking, seeing the moustache remained.

     With his free hand, he rubbed his face. “Yeah, I was being lazy. Feels better this way.” He turned off the burners, grabbed the biscuits out of the oven and tilted them into a towel-lined basket. He set them and the butter on the island along with two kinds of jam he snatched from the fridge and a container of honey.

     “Here ya go,” he said, handing her a plate. He’d already set out silverware on a napkin.

     She’d poured him a glass of milk, setting it on the island and selected a small bottle of orange juice.

     “This looks delicious.”

     “Glad you think so,” he said, taking a bite of bacon. “Help yourself.”

     She buttered a warm biscuit and dabbed some honey on it, savored the taste. She put a small portion of scrambled eggs on her plate and took a strip of bacon. “This is a treat, Stone. It’s rare when I eat a real breakfast. Thank you.”

     “You’re welcome. I’m a breakfast junkie.” He shook some green Tabasco on his eggs. “Probably because I tend to eat early in the evening but rarely get to bed early. So I wake up hungry.” He stopped eating and talking and looked at her. Serious.

     “What?” she said, intimidated.

     “It’s weird talking to you. No one’s ever here. I’m surprised we’ve had a conversation.”

     “Really? You seem so easy to talk to. I wouldn’t normally admit to just anyone all the stuff I said to you last night. I mean, I did of course owe you an explanation for the intrusion, but I could’ve opted to tidy it up a bit, I guess. That didn’t even occur to me. I do apologize for being such a wreck.” She felt the color heat her face.

     He kept his eyes on her and took another bite of eggs. His stare did tend to unnerve her, but she did her best to hold his gaze.

     “Your eyes are green,” he said.

     “You walk with a limp. Your right leg. It’s permanent. Some atrophy from a serious injury.”

     “Shattered the femur. Enemy sniper. He missed his target. Should’ve been my head. Hardware keeps it together.”

     Her professionalism kicked in. “Please understand how I say this. A massage could help you. And by that, I mean it could give your musculature some stimulus to increase the circulation, the blood flow, plus there are other specific techniques which could relieve pressure areas. I would love to help you.”

     Her sincerity and business-like delivery impressed him, but she had no idea what her words actually said to him. He kept his eyes focused on her, trying not to watch her lips speaking them. He almost missed when the words ended. He continued to look her in the eyes for an extra couple of moments.

     He finished his nearly full glass of milk in one large, quick gulp. “Understand how I say this: under the circumstances it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. But, thank you.” He said it quieter than he normally spoke and with a respectful consideration to his tone.

     His look once again unnerved her while the flame consumed her entire face. She hurried and collected their plates and rinsed them in the sink.

     “Anything else you need to do before we go get your car?”

     “Brush my teeth again and I’m ready.”

Father, thank you is never enough for the stories, inspiration, characters, and words to write. May I always honor you with my writing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

This is our Independence Day, our fight for freedom and against tyranny. This One Nation under God until He says it isn't will definitely not give way. Fool us once, shame on us. 

Remember the price paid for the freedom and foundation of this country. Never give up. We are Americans! 

GOD BLESS AMERICA!

Lord God Almighty, please intervene one more time. Please. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

As an author, I might be an exception to some rule(s). I don't have a deadline. I prefer to self-edit as I go. I take breaks – and sometimes they're way too long. There's a reason for that in some cases and not one I can figure out in others. I break the writing rules as far as the trendy suggestions to eliminate adverbs, italics, dialogue tags, and miscellaneous other directives. I write what I want to read and how I want the story to read. 

So far, I write standalone novels, all contemporary – except my first book took place "Sometime in the 80s."

All but one of my novels are love stories heavy on the romance. The solitary mystery is Race available in both print and for e-books.

That's where my writing mind is wandering this Wednesday . . . 

Father, thank you is so small in regard to all you've done for me. Thank you for my books, the stories you've given me. Apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Because of them, we remain free. Don't let anything or anyone take the freedom of America away. One Nation under God until He says it isn't.  

                 GOD BLESS AMERICA! IN THE NAME OF JESUS! AMEN. 

Donovan Colt Torp, my firstborn son, thank you for who you are and for your love. May the Lord continue to shine His face upon you and remind you of His great love for you. In the Name of Jesus. Happy Birthday! I love you.