Into the Fire

Woe to those who call evil good

     and good evil,

who put darkness for light

     and light for darkness,

who put bitter for sweet

     and sweet for bitter.

Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes

     and clever in their own sight.

Woe to those who are heroes at drinking wine

     and champions at mixing drinks,

who acquit the guilty for a bribe,

     but deny justice to the innocent. 

Isaiah 5:20-23 (NIV)

To be fair, this is not news to those of you who read or have read my blog. The thing is I believe it's an important statement. If not important, at least it's honest. And, there are variables in making it. Here's the statement: I write what I like and want to read. 

In the seemingly most popular genre of all for female readers of novels, although not for all female readers, the romance genre follows a basic formula. In general market fiction there is often a lot of graphic sexual content and in Christian fiction there is not. Boy meets girl and/or vice versa, there is attraction, there are problems, there is reaction, there is either resolution or tantrums, break-ups, good-byes, steamy make-up scenes in general market or pledges of love in Christian fiction. You get the drift. So, naturally, if the reader likes the characters, they're emotionally involved, pick sides or don't, and silently demand a happy or satisfactory ending to the story. 

As you well know, I claim to write love stories because I don't always follow the romance formula. I also say I "write love stories with a passion." And include my 3-word tagline: Raw Romantic Redemptive. Because passion is a fact of love. Failing to acknowledge it makes "romance" mundane – and by "passion" I don't mean getting between the sheets. I mean being physically attracted to the love interest and having to come to terms with the desires that person induces. "Raw" because my words are not graphic, but they definitely touch on the sexual attraction. 

I write this way because I see it as real. If nothing else, it's the reality I know. It's the truthful way to tell the stories I've written. And that's the reason I write the way I do. And that's the reason I write what I like to read. 

Father, you've given me every character, every story. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you is never enough. Please help me to write as you lead. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

(This is from 10/22/09) 

The devil in your eyes

I’ve seen the devil in your eyes.

Lovely and cruel

Sweet and vicious.

I’ve heard the devil in your voice.

Kind and cutting

Whispers and threats.

Your skin is taut with fire.

Touching you is like being singed—

Skin peels back inflamed

In pain.

You wrap around them like a boa.

Striking like a cobra

After the mesmerizing dance

Venom, fatal.

The glee pervades your defiant stance.

Unleashed control

Head back howling

Exacting revenge.

The prettiness is encased in ugliness.

No longer do those blue eyes glimmer.

Instead they shout obscenities

In meager tones.

You are a shell.

Vacant.

Wicked.

Empty.

Father, you have given us the Holy Spirit to fight the dark forces of evil in high places. The power in the Blood of Jesus readies us for the necessary fight. Help us to fight the good fight, to do as you ask. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

     Rinse and Repeat Springtime in Western Washington. 

Father, thank you for the greens produced by the rains, the beautiful assortment of flowers, and all of the unique seasons. Thank you for leaving the touches of beauty to remind us of your splendor. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

This goes back a long way, but it's a familiar song Frank Sinatra made famous. Hope you enjoy it. 

Father, you bless us in spite of us. We tend to think we can do anything until we meet you and realize apart from you, we can do nothing. Thank you is never enough for all that you've done for me in spite of me. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

If you know an aspiring writer, encourage them. If you are an aspiring writer, find someone to encourage you. Be courageous, show them your material, and do accept their critiques but make your own judgment. Only you know what's in your heart. Is it a whim, is it a way of self-expression, or is it something that's a passion? 

Christians, you know who matters in your decision to write. Is it the call God has on your life? Is it something you'll dedicate to Him, no matter the genre? Only you know if you're serious about it, and only you know if the Lord is pointing you in that direction. 

I encourage you to explore your options. Do the research, the hard work. Then enjoy the journey and give it all you've got. 

Encouragement: find those people who know how to give it, the ones you trust to tell you the truth and won't let you down. Most importantly: listen to the Holy Spirit. 

Father, apart from you, we can do nothing. Those of us who know you, know that. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them. 

Acts 2:1-4 (NIV) 

As authors, it's impossible not to insert those things that have influenced our lives – good or bad or whimsical or worrisome. If we don't pull from our life experiences, our words and stories tend to be less relatable. Whether romance or sci-fi or historical or thriller, somewhere within those words, there must be someone or something the reader can recognize in a personal way. Of course, that "something" might be different for many readers. The variety is endless. 

Some novels are more confessionals than others. The author's passion shows up in multiple ways. Any intensity in a story – even in a comedic effort – must be heartfelt which makes it personal, emotional. 

Reading novels that leave us unmoved about what we've just read is a failure – no matter how technically well-written.

Passion for the story starts with the heart of the author's investment in telling it. 

Go deep. Get personal. 

Father, apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you for it all. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

What can I say? It was a long time ago. "Nicole" by Nicole. 

Father, you knew me then and you waited until my heart was ready to respond. I'm so regretful it took so long. Thank you is never enough for your patience, forgiveness, rescue, and redemption. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

This is Chapter Two in my novel . . . in a love song.

Two

Early June in this small eastern Washington town and the evening was still a bit warm. He inhaled the fresh night air, enjoying the hint of sage smell. Hands in his pressed Levis’ pockets, his self-shined boots took him back the way he came from his new home, a second floor furnished studio apartment in a glorified boarding house where he was grateful to pay the extra for the private bath in his room.

     “Evenin’, Mr. Rivers.” Round in stature with silky silver hair that hung nearly to her waist when it wasn’t pulled away from her face in a tight and tidy bun, Eva Johnson identified him without looking up from her entryway desk she seemed to man 24 hours a day, although he knew she didn’t.

     “Mrs. Johnson. You’re up late,” he replied, headed for the stairs.

     “Uh huh. Sweet dreams, Mr. Rivers.” She glanced up after him, and he smiled at her.

     He unlocked the door and knew it was going to be a long night of tossing and turning. The woman at the bar had taken up residence in his mind’s eye and other places he couldn’t deny. He cussed in frustration.

      Seated on the bed he tugged hard on his boots, removed his socks, and rested his elbows on his knees staring at the floor and his bare feet. Thirty-five years come and gone so quickly. And remained unchanged. That rambling man approach to life hadn’t netted him much other than a good bank account because if there was one constant in his life, it was work. He always worked. Somewhere. Everywhere. He kept working.

     He could’ve flirted with her, he supposed. Demonstrated his interest. Maybe even brought her home with him or went with her. But he thought not. Although he’d never quite understood them, he’d been with enough women to discern a few things about them. Most every one of them wanted some kind of respect but not near as much as they wanted some kind of love. This gal most likely had some guy like himself lay the big line about lovin’ her and then at some point walked out, leavin’ her in tears, feeling used and embarrassed but still in love enough to cry. He’d played that game enough times to know the results, although he’d never quite been able to write “I love you” into the script, and received no pleasure in the hurt he caused while knowing without a doubt it was time to move on.

     And every time he couldn’t help but wonder what this thing called love really felt like.

     He’d been fond of a few of the women in his life going back to his first real girlfriend in his high school years. Sandi Bentley, the cheerleader without a big head on her shoulders, sweet and kind, and built like a woman. They’d been friends as kids, but she moved away in the fifth grade. By the time they were reunited as sophomores at the same high school, he wasn’t a kid anymore in so many ways.

     He lay back on the double bed, his head resting in his hands. He wanted a cigarette, and he hadn’t smoked for probably five years with any consistency, but he kept a pack in his Jeep for times like this, debating whether or not to go get it out of the glove box. The welcome flow of nicotine might slow and subdue his other cravings, relax him enough to get some sleep.

     Pulling himself up, he moved to the tiny open closet to retrieve his tennis shoes, jamming them on his bare feet. Grabbing his keys, he slipped out of his room and tried to tread quietly down the stairs.

     “Not sleepy, Mr. Rivers?”

     He stammered, “Forgot somethin’ in the Jeep.”

     “Uh huh.”

     No one ever seemed able to jar his confidence. Not men of any age or women of any kind. But somehow Eva Johnson, proprietor and night owl, unsettled him with her few words and knowing looks from penetrating pretty hazel eyes. The first time he moseyed up the front steps of this huge old house with the massive wrap around porch sitting back off the cracked concrete road, he admired the lush green lawn and exorbitant foliage in the landscaped grounds surrounding it. Storybook material. When he pulled open the screen door and turned the fancy glass doorknob and walked inside, Eva Johnson was standing in the lobby like she was expecting him.

     “Don’t know how long you’re gonna stay, but it might be awhile? I have one room left with a bath in it. Cost you more, but I figure you don’t mind what it costs.” She’d walked over to her desk then and handed him a map of the available rooms with the daily and monthly rates, placing a red X on the one with the private bathroom.

     The lawn and flowers stopped at the back of the house where there was ample asphalt parking for guests who roomed there short or long term.

     Now he stepped down the front steps and around the inlaid river rock walkway at the side of the massive house to the back where his old Wrangler with its oxidized paint displaying an unidentifiable color and 350,000 plus miles waited topless and of course unlocked in the farthest spot from the back door which was secured every night at 9 o’clock. He went directly to the passenger side, reached over to the glove box and grabbed his probably stale pack of Winstons, removing one and lighting it with a faded blue Bic lighter. Leaning against his rig, he smoked and breathed in the night air. The frogs and insects sang a busy melody while his eyes scanned the sky and found more stars than he’d seen in a lot of months and a moon almost full. The chill began to creep into the early morning hour and through the cotton of his western-cut baby blue shirt.

     After taking his last drag, he made sure his tennis shoe ground the life of the cigarette to an absolute death. The scent of alfalfa reached his nose, and he took a deep whiff of one of his favorite smells. Without a hint he felt tears in his eyes and he swore in a whisper, using his sleeve to wipe his eyes. Closing the door of his Jeep, he walked swiftly back to the entrance of Eva’s Inn, figuring she’d still be there but hoping she wasn’t.

     Only the low glow from a wall sconce remained in the lobby as he trudged up the stairs.

Father, thank you for all the inspiration, characters, words, and all that it takes to write a book. Apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.