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.
One of the Mamas and Papas greatest hits. They were a great group.
Father, only you know hearts. We're all desperate for you whether we know it or not. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
I'm a reader. I'm also an author. I was a reader before I was an author. I can tell you all about my reading choices: my favorite authors in their genres, my favorite genres, etc.
What I can't tell you all about is the tastes of readers.
Let me start with authors. We all have our "pet" words. We can't help it. I'm not going to mention one of mine because now (if you haven't already) you'll notice it in every novel I write. I love the word because to me it "means" exactly how it sounds in every situation. But enough about that. However, without restriction of the overuse of certain words and phrases, as a reader I'm prone to shaking my head, rolling my eyes, and closing the book or Kindle in disappointment. When these words or phrases are used as frequently as every other paragraph, it shows to this author that whoever (if anyone) is doing the proofreading has failed to notice or bring it to the author's attention when any sharp reader will become acutely aware of the repetition and the laziness of being unable to find any other expressive descriptions to cover the action, reaction, or situation.
But then . . . the books keep selling, the good reviews keep showing up, and I can't help but wonder how other readers can ignore these same old, same old habitual and tedious repetitions.
Are they AI novels? Are they rough drafts? (Some of them have to be. Seriously.)
I understand there will be some repetitive character traits or expressions in series novels – to keep the character familiar. But some of those are not worth continuing when the character has been clearly established. And when "fists are clenched," "knuckles are white from gripping -fill in the blank", and "adrenaline creates a jolt, excitement, a boost, and runs through the bloodstream" ad nauseum, I'm so done with it.
My final complaint: the story is the same. I'll be the first to tell you that Solomon was correct: "There's nothing new under the sun." (Ecclesiastes 1:9) So when we as authors write a "new" story within the genre we choose, we acknowledge it's not going to be something that no one in this world has never heard of or experienced. And before I go on, I want to say we have to do something that's unique to us and our storytelling that will make the novel seem worthy of reading. And that, of course, is subjective and a matter of taste. But, when the story in the series seems to be exactly like the previous one using all those familiar phrases/terminology/images for the protagonist(s) and the antagonist(s), again: disappointing. Unimaginative. Offering nothing new from what started out to be enjoyable and entertaining.
But, again, there's just no telling what readers will choose.
Father, help me to be the one you designed me to be. And when I write, may each story you've given me provide something meaningful and unique to the readers you've given me. Apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
She is clothed with strength and dignity;
she can laugh at the days to come.
She speaks with wisdom,
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children arise and call her blessed,
her husband also, and he praises her.
Proverbs 31:25-28 (NIV)
Happy Mother's Day, Mom. "Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all." (Proverbs 31:29) Thank you, Jesus, for giving me the best mother I could ever have. Love her so much and miss her. One day . . .
Sidewinder by L.T. Ryan and Brian Shea is Book 11 in A Rachel Hatch Novel Series.
Rachel Hatch is a subdued version of the "Ham" character created by Dustin Stevens. Similar but different backgrounds both with great intelligence and mad skills. "Hatch" is working for a private security outfit that used to be something far less reputable than it is now. Having settled her debt with that firm, her familiar and well-liked boss and fellow employees provide the necessary link to her former skills and the confidence she needs to do what only a certain kind of people can do to protect others.
What in the beginning seems to be a relatively easy assist to a friend of a former police detective (Harvey Linden), quickly devolves into multiple life or death situations – one of those lives being Hatch's. The road trip to Diamondback, Arizona, where it's a bit of a drive to the sight of an ancient jail built into the natural rock structures supposedly "under renovation" proves to be the holding place for two kidnapped females, one of them the wife of the former detective.
The Belarus Norvik criminal brotherhood is willing to exchange the detective's wife for the jailed brother that Linden put away and just prevailed at his parole hearing to keep him where he's at. The demands are impossible without Hatch's partner on this case (Banyan). As their last hope he masters a near-miracle to make the exchange possible.
Hatch has been away from the action for a season of time for several reasons, but she's learned enough about her inner workings to know that she needs this work to feel complete. It's harder emotionally than it used to be and having been away, she makes a mistake or two but vindicates herself to herself in the end results.
Hatch shows her tender heart more than once in this story which only makes her more likable and easy to root for. She's a great character, written well, and this Book 11 in the series is a good one.
Highly recommend this series.
Father, please continue to bless this writing duo and may each one know from whom their talent comes. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
