“Do not spread false reports. Do not help a wicked man by being a malicious witness.
“Do not follow the crowd in doing wrong. When you give testimony in a lawsuit, do not pervert justice by siding with the crowd, and do not show favoritism to a poor man in his lawsuit.”
Exodus 23:1-3 (NIV)
ONE YEAR LATER . . .
It had been a long drive. He was surprised at how hard it was raining even though that’s all he’d heard about this area from the time he’d mentioned he was thinking of trying out this track clear across the country.
“Hutch, you’re going to hate it, I’m tellin’ ya.” He could still hear his cousin Rhett emphatically telling him and then spitting out his chew and shaking his head. “You’re just gonna hate it. You got plenty of mud caulks?”
Well, he was here, and it was midnight, pitch black, and raining hard enough to put his wipers on the extra fast mode.
“Geez,” he said under his breath.
MONDAY
Harry Dawson was having trouble sleeping again. The rain pounded on the roof in a steady downpour. He stared into the darkness of his bedroom and listened to his wife breathe deep and quiet. He turned his head to look at her. She looked beautiful even in the dark.
“God, it’s hard for me to fathom how much you must love me. There is no way I deserved her. No way I deserved her love—or yours.” He waited. “What is it, Lord? I know this unrest. You know I’ll do it. You know I will. No matter what.”
“Cee!” Dick shouted frantically. “Cee! Wake up!”
“Dick, wake up,” Cee said, voice soft, sleepy, touching her husband’s arm. “Are you dreaming again? Wake up.”
Dick returned from his nightmare, sweating and breathless. He rolled to his back reaching for his wife’s hand.
“When are you going to tell me what this dream is all about?” Her voice quiet.
“As soon as I figure out why I’m having it. I’m sorry to wake you, beautiful.”
Two large cups of coffee and still Dick was tired and crabby. He shut himself in his office until Elena knocked lightly on the door.
“Come in,” he called with a little tinge of irritation.
“This can wait, Dick,” Elena said, tentative as she poked her head inside the door.
“No, no. I’m irritated with myself, Elena, not you. I’m sorry I sounded like that.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Yeah, I do, but I can’t.”
“Too personal?”
“No, not really. It’s just a dream I keep having—a bad one. I need to figure out why I keep having it. I’ve prayed about it, but the Lord seems to be kinda quiet on this one, and, to tell you the truth, I can’t figure that out either,” he said with disappointment.
“You know I’ve read that recurring dreams can be because of unresolved fears. I had a dream several times before Bill got so sick.”
“So, was it prophetic?”
“Bill is alive and well as you know. Miraculously healed. So, no, it was not prophetic, although in all honesty, there were times when I thought it was going to be.”
Dick stared at her.
“It’s about Cee, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is, Elena, and I’ve had it three times since we got married.”
“I believe the Lord will make it known to you, Dick. You seem to have that kind of relationship with Him. He shows you things. Hasn’t He used dreams to show you things before?”
“Yes, He has. Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of. What He’ll show me, I mean.”
Grady Hutchinson sat in the kitchen nursing a large styrofoam cup of hot black coffee as he perused the local sports page. Occasionally he looked up to see if there was someone he might possibly recognize in spite of the great odds against it. He’d heard Robert Sanders came out here last season and made a killing, but he didn’t know if he was back. It would be nice to see Robert again—he was a class act.
He looked out the window of the racetrack kitchen viewing someone’s rig parked on the side of the nearest barn to the south out of the way of the hotwalking machines. It had to belong to another horseshoer. Staring out the window, he saw a squatty built man with farrier chaps come out and open a compartment on the silver Chevy custom pickup. Hutch could tell he grabbed a couple sets of shoes before disappearing back into the shedrow.
Not the first time Hutch had come to a new track. It usually didn’t take him long to fit in and find work. He liked people as a rule, and they invariably liked him. He was grateful for that because when it came time to collect money, he discovered people had a tendency to pay him before they’d pay others. Of course, that probably had a lot to do with the fact he was just plain good at what he did. He kept up with every new shoe or experimental method used in his field, and he was so confident in his work he’d use anything to try and help a horse—no matter who “pooh-poohed” it or criticized a new idea. If it worked, he wanted to be able to use it. Who cared what people thought? All he cared about was being an expert. At times he knew he cared too much about it. And it had cost him everything. Everything except his work.
At least it’s not raining this morning, still staring blankly out the window.
Glancing at his watch, he decided to head to the commission office to get his farrier’s license. After that he’d start cruising the barn area, start up some conversations, see if he could introduce himself to the other guys in his field and endure the inevitable sizing up and competitive nature of the other horseshoers. He’d been through it before many times. It was just part of the process.
Boy, I’m a long way from home.
(For His Glory; sequel to Hope Of Glory) (Yes, the “of” is captialized on purpose.)
Failing to do something means to not accomplish what was either required or desired. Failure itself exudes too many possibilities to explore in a blog post.
So. Let’s limit ourselves to the all-too-familiar aspects of writing. Journeys taken. Destination goals. Places reached. Or not.
Stephen Parolini, writer, author, screenwriter, editor, over at Noveldoctor wrote a painful post entitled “10 Reasons You Don’t Have an Agent” (http://www.noveldoctor.com/).
Michael Snyder, writer and author of My Name Is Russell Fink and his new release Return Policy, wrote a terrific piece over at The Master’s Artist (http://aratus.typepad.com/tma/) which made me nearly cheer out loud—or perhaps that’s known as col these days.
And still another interesting concept on fiction writing by Debbie Fuller Thomas, author of Tuesday Night at the Blue Moon and Raising Rain, appeared at Novel Matters (http://novelmatters.blogspot.com/).
If we let others determine our successes and failures, chances are we will experience extremes at both ends. Perhaps there is no better demonstration of this than in writing. Subjectivity plays a major role in what anyone likes, loves, hates. In the publishing world there are so many variables added on to the writing part (i.e. platform, projected sales) that “success” or “failure” can’t be guaranteed.
So who gets to determine our failure(s)? I have failed to secure an agent or a publisher with my meager queries. The sting of rejection at the few different attempts leaves me sometimes paralyzed and often disenchanted. Once again it feels like high school where the popular crowd dictates your value as a human being, and somehow I’m out there on the fringe. Which is kind of where I like to be. At times. Because once in awhile the view is clearer out here than when you’re all sucked into the preconceived and accepted role of “author”. Out here there is perspective which tells you that God has seen your work and knows your heart and it’s okay to bring Him up and talk about how He gave you the stories and the words because without Him you couldn’t write your own name! And nobody rolls their eyes or instructs you to never admit that in a query. Because if whoever is reading your query thinks God couldn’t possibly be responsible for such drivel, you’re immediately not trustworthy because only you could’ve put together the slop appearing in their inbox, and to slander the Lord by professing it was His inspiration—well, geez Louise, don’t even go there!
I’ve failed many times at many things in my lifetime. Emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Regret surfaces frequently when recalling the multiple experiences. However, as is over-said, there can be learning, growth, acquired wisdom from failures. I testify this is true. But not always. Nope. Huh-uh. Sometimes failure is borne of self-willed disobedience and bears no excuse other than rebellious stupidity. Consequences to follow. Most unpleasant. Worse than that at times.
But in writing, failure can be immeasurable. And invisible. And apparent. And hidden. And obvious. And not so obvious. Subjective.
I don’t have a failure button on my novel experience. Do you?
Father, my hope is in you. Period. Let my obedience to you be paramount. In all things. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Author Tosca Lee finishes our interview here in Part Two . . .
11.Outside of the United States, in your travels do you have a favorite place or two?
Always the place I haven’t been yet. J
12.What scares you the most?
Failure. Whatever that is.
13.What inspires you in this life?
Beauty. Love. Epiphany.
14.What do you want most out of your life?
To fully understand and grasp grace. Beyond that, for God to be glad that He loves me.
15.Favorite actor/actress? Film(s)? Music?
Meryl Streep—Out of Africa. I am not a love story/movie kind of person, but I love the themes and the dialogue in this movie.
Music: pretty much anything. Seriously. And I am a sucker for soundtracks.
16.Is there any one thing you do which you really wish you didn’t?
I’d say biting my lip and picking my cuticles, but I actually kind of like doing those things. It drives anyone around me crazy, though.
17.If you could find the one word to best describe yourself as a writer, what would it be? As a friend, what would it be?
As a writer: You know, I don’t know!
As a friend: Loyal
18.Finally, for those who pursue publication but have yet to reach it, what do you want to say to them?
If it’s something you feel is important, keep after it. Take advice, expand your network, and attend conferences. And keep writing—when that day comes, your publisher will want to know what else you’ve got. Take advantage of the time between now and then to build your inventory of stuff.
“Stuff” being a technical term, of course. 😉
Father, you’ve gifted Tosca in many ways, and you’ve given her a humble spirit. Please do continue to instruct her, guide her, fill her up with your Spirit as she tackles this next project. Keep her safe from all harm. Remind her daily of your love for her. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Most of this blog’s readers know how much I respect Tosca Lee as a person and as a writer. Her unique and profound stories (Demon . . . a memoir and Havah, The Story of Eve) gained her attention from all kinds of fiction fans not only because of their fascinating and captivating portrayals but because of the stunning writing itself. Tosca was gracious enough to consent to an interview which I will post in two parts. Here is Part One . . .
1.Tosca, you’ve written two novels in Demon . . . a memoir and Havah, The Story of Eve, which I will label important fiction. Now it’s no secret you are endeavoring to write a novel about Judas Iscariot for Broadman and Holman Publishers. You’ve nicknamed it “The Big Scary”. What is your biggest concern tackling this character, and do you think it will be your most difficult book to date?
I keep wondering why I write these kind of heavy duty and, I won’t lie, really challenging stories. At the end of the day, they just seem to be what I’ve got. So here I am. And each time I wonder, “How the heck am I going to do this??” Because I just don’t know. The Judas story is the Big Scary because good grief, the research is staggering. I feel completely cowed by the subject matter. I am not a first century history expert. At the same time, I believe that just as we are all Clay and all Eve… we are all Judas. We could all do and have done the very same thing Judas did. We do today. I feel very strongly about this.
2.Besides writing and that includes the research you do, what occupies your time?
I work as a senior consultant for an international consulting organization, so that is a great chunk of my time. I travel a lot for work. I also love to travel for fun. I get a little weird if I haven’t gone anywhere for fun in a while (and I’m weird to begin with). So I’m on planes a lot. Beyond that, the business of writing takes a surprising amount of time—web and e-mail and blogging and Tweeting, and the logistics of attending events. I could spend all day doing this stuff. But I always make time for e-mail. I’m slow sometimes, depending on how my week’s been, but I always respond to e-mail.
3.You just lost a precious pet, Attila. How long did you have him and will you get another dog?
I had him for eleven years, and then he lived the last year and a half of his life with his adopted father. My travel schedule was too crazy for me to be able to take care of him well, especially as he got older. My dear friend, Scott, was his constant companion. The last night of his life, Attila woke him up and some time later died in his arms. I’m so grateful to Scott that Attila had him.
4.You’re very open—and humorous—about some of what you consider your “quirks”. Do you consider yourself an open book—forgive the pun—or are you a private person at heart? If private, how do you guard that privacy within the framework of your exposure, publicity, and the required marketing?
I think the thing that people notice is that I’m not hung up on trying to seem like I have it all together. It’s easy to look at someone who is writing or traveling the world or has modeled or whatever–and construct a picture that is put-together… and therefore extremely inaccurate. A person is more than what is on their bio. So I fill in the rest of the stuff—my obsessive quirks and weirdness and issues—because those are more my daily reality.
That said, I’m a pretty private person. Though I love people and am comfortable speaking to large groups, I always retreat back to my house or hotel and the comfort of my sweatpants and the SyFy channel when left to my own devices.
5.What do you consider your greatest strength as a person? Your greatest weakness?
I’m a raving perfectionist. On one hand, I think it has served me well—I always think anything can be a little better. I strive to reach 100% on everything I do. But it’s a tough way to live and to find peace.
6.What do you consider your greatest strength as a writer? Your greatest weakness?
I think I see the humanity in those we write off as two-dimensional. I think I can make people think and see things in new ways. But I am not good with routine and not well-disciplined. That’s why, if you follow me on my blog, you may not hear anything from me about my writing for weeks… and then I’ll be blasting out 10,000 words a day.
7.What sorrows, struggles, or mishaps in your life have influenced your relationship with the Lord? Have you ever experienced being “mad” at God?
I’ve been flummoxed with God, mystified, caught off guard by God, but never disappointed or mad at God. I thought I was disappointed through times like my divorce, but I’ve come to see that I was trying to view life in a narrow and linear fashion, that I believed if I acted in a certain way, that outcomes were as sure as equation sums. And it doesn’t work like that.
8.Tell us what and why you studied at Oxford University?
I studied International Economics. If you know me, you know how ridiculous this is, since I am horrible with numbers and in fact have no left brain. But my dad thought it would be a good idea, and it was a great excuse for me to do some research on Stonehenge, which I used to write my first (unpublished) novel about the Stonehenge people of Salisbury Plain.
9.If you could insure a specific accomplishment with your novels, what would that be?
This is so hard to answer because of course, I’d love them to sell well. But I want most of all for them to be works that impact people. I want to have done something in my life that had some worth and really made a difference.
10.Most of us writers have favorite genres we prefer to read? What is or are yours?
I will read about anything!
Come back tomorrow for the rest of this interview with author Tosca Lee. May she continue to be blessed of the Lord Jesus Christ.
The third and probably final book in the Nick Barrett mysteries by Sigmund Brouwer was published by Tyndale House Publishers in 2003. The Lies of Saints is the shortest of the three book collection, and, in spite of Sigmund’s always interesting stories and well done writing, this one is my least favorite of the series of southern mysteries.
Nick Barrett gains possession of a diary belonging to a crucified cadet at The Citadel many years after the horrifying and infamous event. The young man who was the victim notes his progression from sinner to saint and the faith which kept him steady amidst terrible hazing at the elite academy. In the course of helping an injured female friend who operates a private investigation service, Nick discovers an old secret way of punishing the wealthy members of Charleston’s finest for their hidden crimes against others of their ilk. The convoluted trail of finding an abused former beauty queen and her daughter also leads Nick to the mothers of two deceased cadets, the author of the diary and one of his tormentors. Not only does he learn that his P.I. friend’s car accident was anything but an accident, he ends up on the verge of being murdered.
Last week I posted about the trend of using the back and forth of past and present woven within the story, and Sigmund Brouwer’s version of this method worked fairly well except that this novel seemed to have so many disconnected subplots to finally connect that they were hard to follow. Added to these unusual subplots are the interactions between Nick and the young sisters under his guardianship, and I found myself trying to keep track of all the story angles. Maybe it was just me, but I didn’t have similar issues with the two previous mysteries in this series (Out of the Shadows, Crown of Thorns), and you can count on Sigmund running more than one story vein in these particular novels.
This is a good series if you like the culture of the South mixed in with good solid mystery, but for me it rarely works when an author either chooses or is forced to shorten up the length of a book in a series—especially when the plot is complex as this one most certainly is.
There’s no question that Sigmund Brouwer is a good writer, and The Lies of Saints is an entertaining story—just not up to the caliber of his previous two with the Nick Barrett protagonist.
Father, please continue to supply the stories you have for Sigmund to tell. You know the plans you have for him. May he follow them faithfully. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
One thing I respect about literary agent Rachelle Gardner is that she frequently mentions the subjectivity of this publishing business. Yes, occasionally, she uses the customary platitudes about “great writing”, et al, but I’ve yet to hear a publishing professional who doesn’t.
So let’s examine subjectivity. Again. Briefly. And let’s start with The Shack, a huge bestseller written by a man who calls himself “an accidental author”, knowing his writing skills at the time of composing this little novel were limited. No matter. This novel took off like an unmanned missile locked on to a target bigger than expected. With accusations of heresy to claims of life-changing spiritual awakening, The Shack did in fact touch many lives—some positively, some not. But the more the controversy raged, the more the little book sold. So, like it or not, this not-so-well-written little tale erupted into a massive success story. And no one was touting it as being superbly written because they knew better than to make that claim.
My friend Dayle sent me an email regarding one of the novels on my “profound” list. For him, this particular book was anything but profound, and he explained why he held his opinion. Dayle writes, studies the craft, has completed one novel, and leans toward a literary style for his reading preferences. His reasons made perfect sense to him. We disagreed about the novel.
My reading preferences vary as far as style and voice are concerned, but I certainly do enjoy a well done literary novel. I consider Chris Fabry’s first adult novel Dogwood especially beautiful writing—even though the ending of the story didn’t particularly appeal to me. However, the Ty Buchanan series (Try Dying, Try Darkness, Try Fear) by James Scott Bell is absolutely magnificent: clever, hilarious, touching, amazing, brilliant. Totally different styles. Loved them both.
So, most of you know I read a lot. A lot. And I have read the superb, the good, the bad, and the really bad. Subjectively speaking, I really do like my own stories, my voice, my writing. Why else would I write if I couldn’t stand my work? And, yes, I like my style and stories better than many of the novels I’ve read. So what, huh?
Since I cannot seem to attract the attention of an agent, I can like them all I want with no results. In the big picture it means little. Yeah, it produces a lot of doubt. Yes, it makes me wonder what exactly God expects of me. And, no, I certainly don’t profess to have the answers because at this time the Lord has not given me specifics. However, I know God does have a plan, and it’s the one that’s best for me.
Through it all the strange views of subjectivity remain unpredictable and controversial.
Father, I remember what you’ve told me, and I can count on you always. Thank you for that. Always. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
No one from the east or the west
or from the desert can exalt a man.
Psalm 75:6 (NIV)
I had my very first Cherry Lime-ade from the Sonic Drive-In. And an order of the best Onion Rings I’ve ever eaten. I’ve been wanting a Cherry Lime-ade ever since Susan Meissner mentioned it on her blog months ago after a Sonic opened in her area. I wish I’d ordered a large. It was all I hoped it would be. Mouth watering delicious. It’ll have to last me a long time, though, because it’s too far to make going there a regular practice. Dang!
The least comments for blog posts occur–or would that be don’t occur–on book reviews. Next it seems the posts about serious God issues. The quiet is deafening.
I need to write on my novels, but there is a reason I’m not doing so. Just not sure what it is. Yet.
In recent months tears have been a mainstay of my days. Brief sessions of weeping. Then recovery. Life is good. Yes, hard things press and push, but God loves . . . us all.
It’s weird when I feel like a particular post was worthy of comments and none show up. No predicting what inspires others to offer a word or thoughts. Thank you to each one who takes the time to write a comment. No one knows better than me that sometimes there’s just nothing to say . . .
Father, thank you for life. What a privilege and pleasure to live it for you–as best I can which sometimes isn’t that well done. Forgive me for that, Lord. I love you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Let me give you the first definition in one dictionary of the word “profane”: sowing contempt or irreverence toward God or sacred things; blasphemous.
Now “profound”: situated at, or extending to, or coming from a great depth; deep.
Writers present many personalities inside of and outside of their writing. Within the multiple and merged genres, authors form all sorts of stories, worlds, situations, whimsy, and opinions about what their chosen means or mode of writing construes to readers and to themselves. Some authors insist they only desire to create art in their books, with their stories—that the genius of sweating over and finding the perfect word after word after word elevates their writing to the profound, or, with their noble heads bowed, at least it is their goal. Forgive me for the sarcasm, but art will always remain in the eye of the beholder just as beauty always has. Yes, it is easy to select pieces which demonstrate superior skills in writing, but excellence in craft does not guarantee a designation of artful prose and certainly does not insure either a large audience or the wide praises of multitudes or elitists.
Considering the definitions above, writing itself can be profane. Set up as an idol and worshipped by the one caretaking and placing the “perfect” words in place to create a profound art form. All the time we hear the instructions to write an “excellent” story in order to gain a contract. Or to write excellent-ly to gain a contract. And then we read published stories. And we know that excellence is not truly required—or we ascertain that “excellent” must have multiple definitions.
If you gather all your memories of novels together in your mind, to how many of them will you attach either the “art” or “profound” label? I’ll be fair and bold here by giving you a handful of novels I consider to be profound and not always because of the writing itself: Redeeming Love, And the Shofar Blew by Francine Rivers; Demon . . . a memoir by Tosca Lee; This Present Darkness, Piercing the Darkness, Prophet, The Oath by Frank Peretti; In High Places by Tom Morrisey; Secrets, Unforgotten by Kristen Heitzmann; Deadline, Safely Home by Randy Alcorn; Firestorm by Jeanette Windle, The Eyes of Elisha by Brandilyn Collins, The Passion of Mary-Margaret by Lisa Samson, and C. M. Burney’s Zora and Nicky. Books I still think about, remember, and recommend to readers. Because they mean something in this life. The messages are timeless.
I can’t testify to these authors’ creative processes. I don’t know whether or not these particular stories drove them to wage war against idolatry in the architecture of these books. Did their constructs of these stories result in a profane value attached to their creation? When they wrote the final draft and attached “The End” to the last page, did they realize how important their work was? Did they consider it “art”? Did they inherently know this story could/would be labeled “profound”?
When we read innumerable posts about writing, the physical, emotional, and less often the spiritual aspects of the process, I often wonder if all of this hoopla is necessary. Should we really get all serious and reverent about writing? Yes, I do value my stories. I pray someone, actually many someones, somehow will find them and read them and wind up profoundly affected by them. Creating them was a deep experience. I worked hard on them. I wanted to write meaningful words to touch hearts, recognizing that only certain types of readers would appreciate the kind of stories I write. Was my goal to create “art”? No. No, I cannot say that. My goal was to use what little talent given me by the God of all creation to touch people, to be obedient to the task set before me regardless of the outcome.
So is writing without a desire to create “art” ignoble? No. It can be profoundly obedient.
I’m weary of the profane element of writing. The idolatry of making an art form with it. That writing is somehow less meaningful when viewed through a lens of others’ making. The high-drama instructions which send drama kings and queens into isolation or seclusion or therapy in order to capture the depth of their profound souls. Communication in written form can be painful, provocative, intense, lovely and lyrical, and a catalyst to confrontation, even healing, but it can also be hilarious, goofy, inane, helpful, and simple and produce the same results. Sometimes writers need to step down off their self-made pedestals before they fall off their rickety stanchions into the thick goop of humiliation puddling beneath them.
I still remember the absolute excitement and joy of reading Walter Farley’s The Black Stallion Collection. I don’t remember the individual stories, but I remember the thrills of reading them. This many years later I think they merit a “profound” label because of their impact.
When it comes to truth in art, when it comes to truthful profundity, only One provides the anointing to produce it, and because of its origin, only He is capable to put that stamp upon it. We are powerless and inept to create anything of value apart from Him and even less able to judge it.
Signing off here without profundity and/or profanity. Call me “Just another writer” who wants to obey God in all things.
Father, I’m desperate for you: that much I know for sure. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
