Into the Fire

As a Christian, I'm thankful beyond my ability to express for all that God has done in my life. May your Thanksgiving be filled with the beauty, grace, and mercy of Jesus Christ. 

Enjoy your meal(s), love your family and friends, celebrate your traditions, remember the history, and don't forget to be thankful even when it's hard to do. 

I wish you the best of this holiday and the most of Jesus. 

Father, thank you for our abundance. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Many readers enjoy Christmas novels/novellas. Much like they enjoy Christmas movies and Hallmark Christmas Specials. I do not. 

I have included Christmas celebrations in two of my novels, but each one is just a part of the timing in the storyline not the main feature. 

For someone whose favorite holiday is Christmas, and it always has been for me, there's no explanation for my "aversion" to Christmas movies or books. I probably fit in better with the crowd who exclaim that the Bruce Willis film Die Hard is the best Christmas movie – or perhaps Home Alone. Yet, every year I cry when I watch the Wells Fargo Christmas commercial.

I always look forward to Christmas once summer has concluded. "It's the most wonderful time of the year!" 

But here's the most important part: Jesus Is the Reason for the Season and nothing can top that fact. 

Jesus, thank you is never enough. You experienced humanity so we could see what perfection looked like, and then you took the horror of our sins upon yourself for our redemption. You salvaged the mess we were and gave us the white robes washed in your sinless Blood. Thank you will never be enough. In your Name above all names, the Name of Jesus, Amen.

A nice little love song with some good saxophone. Hope you like it. 

Father, thank you for those you've given to create and play music. May each one know who has given them their gifts. Please bless them with that knowledge. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Do you have favorite opening lines from novels you've read? They're either so bold, so unusual, or so touching that they stick in your mind. After several years, you pick up that book again just to read the opening line word for word. Opening lines matter, but, in all honesty, they aren't critical to the story. I know we, as readers, can be fascinated, impressed, amused, or elated at an opening line, but we don't necessarily judge the book and its story by that line. As an author, we want to make those first lines pop, to entice, and draw the reader into the story. However, sometimes that opening line isn't sufficient for what we want to do in the story's timeline. 

And the adage not to judge a book by its cover is overstated. A cover is essential to picking out a good story. A cover has power. Trendy covers don't offer much excitement because we readers see them so frequently. The first author who got that design and color scheme scores mightily because if there are others so similar to it, it makes me wary of what they offer since they copied a cover design. But that's me. 

As an author, I definitely – or probably – won't judge a book by its first line, but I do tend to judge books by their covers. If it's a trendy cover design, if I know and like the author, I'll ignore the cover and get the book. If I don't, chances are I might skip it. 

Do you have an opinion on opening lines and/or novel book covers?

Father, you know my desires in my writing and book designs. Thank you for giving me great designers along the way and opening lines that work for me. Thank you is never enough. Please continue to help me tell the stories you have for me to tell. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

     Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city. On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be any curse. The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in the city, and His servants will serve Him. They will see His face, and His name will be on their foreheads. There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them their light. And they will reign for ever and ever.

     The angel said to me, "These words are trustworthy and true. The Lord, the God of the spirits of the prophets, sent His angel to show His servants the things that must soon take place." 

Revelation 22:1-6 (NIV)

              From Chapter 2 of my novel . . . in a love song

Chapter 2

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 Benton, 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 feet without socks. 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 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 ya 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.

     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 every word, character, story, novel. Every one. Thank you is never enough. Apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

"Those were the days, my friend. We thought they'd never end . . ." Once upon a time a very long time ago . . . 

Father, thank you for always watching over me and rescuing me when I finally emptied myself of me. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

On this writing journey some of us have been walking aimlessly through the desert wondering how far we'll have to go before we see what we might want or need or hope to receive. 

Some days are fruitful with words and other days are empty of words.

There are times when the mind is full of scenes and the fingers fly across the keys while other times the hands are way too busy doing useless things elsewhere to sit down and write a sentence because, you know, there are still more useless things to do! 

Ignoring the story doesn't work. It's like the characters stand there with their arms crossed leaning against invisible walls asking, "Are you done yet?" 

But of course, we pretend like they're not really there demanding to be noticed and desiring their stories to be told since we've given them a life and started them on their journeys. 

Yeah, I've had a lot of those days lately. 

Which is precisely why I'm here on Wednesday taking part in "wanderings" . . . 

Father, only you. Help me to do what I need to do. I'm desperate for you always. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

I know it's not my usual 60's and 70's rock, but I really like the sound of this song. Hope you do too. 

Father, we're all desperate for you whether we know it or not. May those to whom you've given great talent meet the One who gave it to them. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Did you ever want to ask an author a question? Maybe not about writing but about something related to their personal lives and/or interests? Their backgrounds? 

Did you ever wonder why some authors constantly barrage their social media with the type of marketing that compels you to buy their novels? 

Did you ever think "this book should be a bestseller" in its genre – but it's not? 

What do you wonder about authors – or do you ever think about them? 

Father, thank you for the gift, pleasure, and all that goes with writing. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.