Into the Fire

Saturday Sample . . .

Dee Stewart is a respected book critic and freelance writer for various publications, among them “Spirit Led Woman”, “Romantic Times” and “Gospel Today” magazines. She also hosts her “Christian Fiction Blog”, “Third Thursdays”, and “The Perfect Romance Reader Event Series” in Atlanta. She has coordinated the Christian Fiction Workshop Panels for the 2007 Romantic Times Booklover’s Convention in Houston, TX.

Dee currently resides in the North Atlanta suburbs with her family and Girl Scout troop. She can give you the scoop at http://christianfiction.blogspot.com or you can find her on Mondays at “The Master’s Artist” (aratus.typepad.com/tma).

You’ll enjoy this!

Here’s the blurb for her WIP:

Blessed to Kill is the story of a former reporter who reopens a church scandal investigation to catch a killer.

(Blessed to Kill, an excerpt)

At two in the morning my sister Ava showed up on my doorstep. She wore a floor length silk, peach marabou robe, my niece and nephew strapped to her hips, and the most apologetic pout a twin could make. The only thing that stood between us was my locked screen door and a year of resentment. I prayed to God to help me get over the latter and let her in. Besides, tonight felt scorching hot, even for an Atlanta September.

Ava stood in the foyer a few steps ahead of me. Her kids were still asleep and as comfortable as ever. I wondered how she managed to keep them from sliding off the silk. All my life I’ve wondered how she constantly kept her life on such a perfect a pedestal …until tonight.

She peaked down the foyer and looked up toward the staircase, which compelled me to check my foyer and search my staircase. Wait a minute. I shook myself together. You know what’s in your house, girl. What’s wrong with you? My older sister-- by a mere four minutes-- still had the knack of making me second-guess myself, even when the obvious hit me smack dab in our thirty-four-year-old faces.

I turned toward her, really looked at her, and observed the situation. She comes to my house unannounced, before day in the morning with her children, but without her husband…

I asked her the only obvious question anyone would ask in my situation. “What are you doing here, and where is your husband?”
No reply. Not a good sign for a preacher’s wife, or at least the ones I knew.

My brother-in-law, Dietrich ministered the largest church in Atlanta. Big Atlanta Faith to be exact. 30,000 members. Six years ago a local paper botched a tax scandal news investigation of the church. Since then anywhere Ava went or anything she said, my cronies from television and radio were sure to note and file away.
I was once a reporter. I know the game.
So, this infamous, provocatively dressed, preacher’s wife sneaking out in the middle of the night with the celebrity preacher’s kids to a sister she promised to never speak to again doesn’t look like big faith is involved at all. Looks more like big trouble.

I don’t like any kind of trouble, big or teeny tiny.

“What are you doing here, Ava? Is something wrong?” I asked her again.

Ava shifted her kids on her hips, and spoke so soft I had to read her lips. “I don’t know.”

Granted. It’s not hard for me to read lips. All it takes is a basic knowledge of the human face and some Bayesian logic. But, I was confused.

We’re in the North Atlanta‘ burbs. Ava’s safer than an angel at dawn here. Yet she’s scoping my place like Satan’s lurking behind the couch. She’s searching my eyes like our being twins never mattered. Like I hadn’t battled Hell to save her or that Bible spouting husband of hers six years ago. And the best answer she could come up with was a puzzle. Now that didn’t make sense at all.

“You don’t know what? Why you’re here or where your husband is?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place. Honey, you know I’ve been fresh out of answers since Y2K.”

She chuckled and shifted the kids again. “How about a fresh pot of coffee and a place to rest until I figure some things out.”

“Now that I can do.” I pointed toward my staircase. “Why don’t you put the kids upstairs? Lil D and Katy can sleep in the guest room next to Bella’s. I’ll pull out my generic instant brand and some stale coffeecake that’s been hovering in the back of my fridge.”

She hesitated before she nodded. “Sounds perfect.”

As we approached the stairs, I listened for Bella. She’s my five-year-old, who has longed for another sister or brother since she realized all her friends had sisters and brothers. Why we women can’t be satisfied with what we have is beyond me. So she’ll get her wish tonight.

From where I stood all I heard was her soft snore and her Vacation Bible School music stampeding down the floor. This year’s theme was Western Roundup. We had to giddy up by eight in the morning, so I needed to be asleep like now.

“Let me help you.” I outstretched my hands to take one of the kids from Ava.

She turned away from me and clutched them tighter. It reminded me of the time she didn’t want me to play with her porcelain dolls. It reminded me of how awkward and unworthy I often felt around her. Why did I let her in my house?

“I wouldn’t hurt them. You know that,” I said.

She nodded, but wouldn’t release one bambino. Whatever.

I pointed toward the stairs. “After you.”

Ava floated up the stairs. The moonlight created a warm peach halo around her body. It followed and so did I. To me, she looked like a 1940's starlet, not a preacher’s wife. I wanted to look just like her when I grow up. Wasn’t too keen about marrying a minister, though. But I wished I had the faith to run to my sister in a time of need like she just did.

When the shoe was on the other foot all she offered was a thirty-minute prayer meeting with her Big Faith Divas Missionary Group and a pedicure. My own problems needed more than Big Faith and cute feet to solve. I wonder what would have happened had I agreed to that mani-pedi?

I stopped at the top of the stairs. “I’m going to check on Bella real quick. Okay?”

She nodded with a slight hesitation again, then continued toward the guest room.

An old statistics professor of mine once taught me that over sixty-five percent of communication was nonverbal. Fifty-five percent of what a person meant was in their facial expression. Ava hadn’t looked me in the eyes since she got here, and that last bob was suspect.

“Avalyn Marie McArthur?”

She turned around and winked at me. “I’m good, Angel.”

I sighed. That Betty Boop-esque wink of hers still calmed me down. For a moment we were little girls again, sneaking off at dawn to fish in Granny’s Creek. No puberty, boys or any of those things that eventually separated us. We were in sync. It had been a long time coming.

Prayer changes people, including me.

I winked back, and went to check on my child. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions again.

That’s the only negative about being a retired reporter. I can't stop questioning every doggone thing. Like lately I could swear that Ms. Hattie Mae, my neighbor across the street, stays up at night watching passersby out her window. Or Darlene Eades, the mother of three under three two doors down. I have never seen without a well-rested smile. Creepy.

I walked to Bella’s room. At night the walls appeared a dreamy blue. She loved mermaids, so I painted a kingdom under the sea mural for her. I used a pearlescent paint that made the walls shimmer once the lights were off. The sparkling wall was a big hit with her Daisy Scout troop, but not with her. I had hoped the lights would help her get over her fear of the dark. Yet the last few mornings, I’ve found her at the foot of my bed.
She told me she left her room, because… something about witches in the water.

Witches? I'm thinking about changing the wall.

Woo. Woo. Clickety Clack.

A weird noise near her closet made me jump out of my skin. I stepped back, ready to pounce until I found where the creepy noise was coming from. It was the great oak tree in the backyard. Its branches clawed Bella’s window near the closet. Those leaves intertwined in thick Spanish moss whistled with the clacking every midnight summer’s breeze.

Woo Woo Clickety Clack. The witches in the water. I grinned.

The first time she told me about the witches I thought she was watching too much Kid TV. Guess I was wrong. Sometimes I forget that some people tell the truth and you don’t need logic to prove it.

I hope I don’t forget that I need to call a tree trimmer first thing in the morning.

I kissed her cheek and left for downstairs. When I got down Ava wasn’t there. So I went back upstairs to see if she needed any help with my niece and nephew.

But when I got up there I couldn’t find her. I searched the guest room. No Ava.
Searched my room. She wasn’t there either. Then I heard a car door slam outside. You gotta be kidding me. I ran to the window and looked outside. My stomach quaked. Sure enough my perfect sister politely backed out of my driveway.

My heart pounded. My feet turned to jelly. I raced out the room, slid down the banister—Never do that. It’s not pretty and it chafes-- and yanked the front door open. But I was too late. She peeled off into the night just as I hopped off the porch steps.

“Avalyn!” I screamed. “I can’t take care of three kids.”

The only sound I heard was the oak tree wooing and clickety-clacking behind me.

Taken from Blessed to Kill (2005-200?; written by Dee Stewart)

Review and Preview

Tomorrow’s “Saturday Sample . . .” will feature respected book critic and freelance writer Dee Stewart, author of the blog “Christian Fiction” (christianfiction.blogspot.com) and regular contributor at “The Master’s Artist”.

Her WIP is entitled Blessed to Kill, and you are in for a real treat. So join us, won’t you? You won’t be disappointed.

And while you’re at it, stop by to read previous guests on this feature: Mark Harbeson (WIP Samaritan), Jason Joyner (WIP Beauty of the Broken), Rebecca Luella Miller (The Lore of Efrathah [a trilogy]), and Katie Hart (Evergreen Secrets). Talented yet-to-be published writers sharing excerpts from their novels . . .

Father, I pray that you would provide exceedingly above and beyond what Dee can ask or imagine. I ask that you would be close to her and lead her in your ways everlasting. I pray you would protect her from all harm and continue to give her the time and the words she needs to write the story you’ve given her. Bless all of her efforts done to give you honor. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Types of Writers

I’m sure this is a subject that includes too many selections and variations to cover adequately. So let’s just come up with a few.

The business-like novelist. Disciplined, successful, efficient, productive. Kind of churns out the tales within a decent allotment of time, and in that way keeps his/her particular fans happy while providing an ample supply of books for the new reader of his wares. I tend to think of James Scott Bell or Karen Kingsbury in this crowd.

The laborer novelist. Every word is crafted and honed. Books don’t appear that often, leaving their fans wanting, eager, sometimes wondering if there are more to come.

The fun-specialist novelist. Trip, delight, fantastic stories. Nothing too deep but still provides a barely disguised poignant message. For those who desire fluff and need relief from the pressures of reality. Usually quirky with doses of humor and a few skin-deep characters, nothing that requires heavy thought to “get”.

The intense novelist. Creating suspense in the simplest of situations, portraying the darker side of humanity but exposing the light.

The supernatural novelist. Heavy on the heavenly or demonic superimposed throughout normal life occurrences mixed in with characters who are aware and those who are oblivious.

The historical novelist. Providing insight through their research into a distant time, allowing it to be experienced in present tense.

The science fiction novelist. Those who yearn for unknown civilizations far, far away and take their readers on the journeys to find them.

The fantasy novelist. Providing visions of all kinds of beings and places of both incredible beauty and macabre practices.

The romance novelist. Since this is my specialty, I will say there are different kinds of these writers. Those who focus on relationship, contrasted between the world/secular viewpoint and that of God’s definition of love, romance, and sex (moi), and those who write more traditional “boy meets girl”, conflict, strife, resolution, yahoo. There are a few who write the star-crossed lovers stories and only arrive at “happy” endings after much sorrow. Heavy on the tears.

So, where do you fit in? Or do you? In more than one place?

Father, thank you for the place you have me right now. Thank you for the stories and those who have read them. Thank you for allowing me to write and giving me a passion for it. Please, as I always ask, use me. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Studying, Writing, Reading

When you study what editors are crying out for in the current publishing trends, it changes you. It changes how you read fiction. . . . And it isn’t always for the best. It can also change how you write, which is their objective to get you published. That can be for the best . . . or not.

In my studies and in my reading I have determined that some of the recent writing is coming across to me as trying too hard to meet a certain standard. I can almost see the writer with his dictionary, thesaurus, clever quotations, and other reference books stacked on the floor beside his desk or cluttering his work space so he can grab one of them every few sentences when he needs to show not tell, eliminate an adverb, or accommodate one of the other current instructions for making the novel publishable.

Sometimes plain language works. It “feels” right. Sounds natural. Doesn’t make the reader think they have to qualify for something to read the story. The literary crowd just heaved a collective sigh and simultaneously rolled their eyes, wondering why the masses want to remain “unintelligent”.

Think about it, though. All we hear about as writers is “serving the story”. Eliminate it if it doesn’t “serve the story”. Well . . . what the heck does that mean anyway? To me stories are a picture of life. Life isn’t cut and dried. It isn’t precise. Well, maybe for some of you obsessive compulsive types it can be at times, but still you can’t control every person, place, or thing that enters and exits your life. Some writers and editors have a very narrow view of story. They’ve been taught and instructed by professionals—either other writers, editors, scholars of literature—who insist a novel must be constructed and meted out a certain way. Yet if you read and examine some of the acclaimed novels, they are as diverse in telling a story as their authors' origins and lives were here on earth. Story is as story does. No box of chocolates here.

It goes back to the audience. If you’re writing to please those who enjoy elegant prose, conflicted characters, symbolism, obscure theme, then your language will suit your purpose. But don’t expect those who prefer a page-turner with thrills and chills to linger over writing that seems stilted and obtuse to them. And, of course, vice versa.

The great American novel, whatever it is, is the one that makes you, as the author of it, smile when it’s done. You accomplished what you wanted to do—told the story of your heart and found the language to do it just right. If you’re a Hemingway clone, so be it. If you’re a latent Daphne Du Maurier, so you are.

When the writing is done to satisfy a standard, the current rules of writing if you will, it doesn’t read right. Forced metaphors that make a reader pause and try to imagine them—guess what: they didn’t work. High-minded language where plain and simple verbs of the “was” nature will seem more real—it stops the reader who takes note of the words used instead of the character or action that’s happening around them—they aren’t working.

I’ve seen these efforts lately in a few novels I’ve read—and that’s exactly how they struck me: as efforts to make the writing “better”. The choices made by these authors didn’t make the story better, regardless of whether or not the editor or pub board was impressed with the final outcome.

If you’re serious about writing, I’ve said before and you’ve seen it all over writers’ blogs, you have to know the rules before you can break them. There is value and importance to understanding the craft of writing. However, at some point, you’re just going to have to write—from your heart if this is what God has given you to do. Because anyone can follow rules but not everyone can write a good story.

Father, you’ve given me the stories I’ve written. I’m far from perfect and will never be considered one of “the best”, but you know exactly who you had in mind for these novels I've written and why you had me write them. I’m trusting you to do as you wish with them, to point them to the places they need to be to bless, encourage, or minister in whatever way you choose for them. Thank you for each one, Lord. Thank you for trusting me with your stories, for giving me the words to tell them. Please use me, God, in the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Flavors

My husband prefers his coffee strong. His favorite at home is Tully’s Espresso. I prefer my coca cola with ice, crushed or shaved, but not an overpowering amount. If we took a poll on ice cream brands and flavors, we’d probably get a huge variance.

I prefer my Christians strong and passionate. And by strong I don’t mean able to handle anything all the time, although I think in Christ we’re all capable of that if we’d just totally surrender ourselves to His perfect will. Maybe it’s because I came out of the world, and the reality of forgiveness from sin overwhelms me.

I struggle with Christians who dance and romance worldly values, philosophies, and practices. Don’t get me wrong here—we all have our areas of weakness. No one lives in this body of flesh without fighting one lust or another, but under the guise of freedom, sin is indulged and in some cases celebrated.

Turns out my view and my tone regarding this matter of lukewarm Christianity can be offensive to some. So I will say I regret that, but it doesn’t change my position.

Belonging to Jesus Christ, knowing the brutality of the beating and crucifixion, the horror and vulgarity of my sins taken upon his purity—it’s all of a magnitude too vast for this small mind. I have no choice but to be completely humbled and emotionally eviscerated and then reconstructed with new living parts.

Someone died for me. And not just someone: the King of Kings, the Perfect One. Geez, for me?! And for you.

If that alone is not enough to stir up the emotion and passion in a person, what is? A book? A painting? A car? A cause? A film? But not the death and resurrection of the Lamb of God?

People need to quit hiding behind their excuses for not getting excited about our God. If we are real about our faith, we’re the ones with the answers. We’re the ones who know Truth, the Truth that has been and forever will be. Distinct. Real. Alive. Everlasting. WE know the Truth! So why do we act like we have to conceal it or rearrange it or dress it up or dress it down or re-tool it or re-style it as if it doesn’t have eternal staying power?

We have invested our hearts and minds in the Creator of all things, the dispenser of every good and perfect gift, the One who is and was and will always be. We’ve made the right choice. We are children of the King of Glory. We reside and abide in Jesus Christ who is seated at the right hand of the Father where He intercedes for us and defends us from the accusations of our enemy. He has given His name and its Authority to use for accomplishing His will and for establishing our needs. He has invited us into the throne room of God for citing our case in what we desire and receiving mercy and grace in return, not to mention blessings.

So, what can the world offer that even remotely compares to the treasures of heaven? I’ve sampled almost all the world has to offer. Although it’s all wrapped up in enticing packaging, and, yes, for a moment in time it’s fun to tear off that paper and bow, once it’s opened and experienced, it feels like a fluke or a trick, and the emptiness is haunting. So we continually search for more of the same to fill those holes that just keep expanding, demanding more to fill them, only we’re always coming up short, failing to be satisfied with any of it.

I am not discounting the tragedies of this life. There are innumerable ways to suffer in this body. Sin strives against saints. And this corrupted flesh does face trials of many kinds. Life is a gift, but it can be filled with pain for some. Christians are still martyred in this world after being tortured. They are the stars of our world, and will share in triumph with the martyrs of old. But the promises of heaven tell us that the tears will be wiped away, and all the suffering of this sinful earth will no longer occupy our eternal residence.

So I ask you: how can you not get excited about what you have acquired from God, what you have gained from Jesus Christ, how you have benefited from the Holy Spirit’s counsel, direction, and comfort? If you’re not excited, you must be dead.

Father, you alone are worthy of praise and adoration. Jesus, there are not words to convey the gratitude for your sacrifice, your love, your friendship. Just too deep. Holy Spirit, continue to bring the passion, the depth of emotion, the total submission into the power of God. Please, fill me up, in the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Promotion

If you’ve been a fan of Rebecca Luella Miller’s blog “A Christian Worldview of Fiction” and visited her as a guest on one of my “Saturday Sample . . .” features, or if you’ve read any of Susan Meissner’s novels* or visited her input over at “We CAN! promote our books”, you know that neither of these women are comfortable with self promotion. Well, add me to that list.

Ask me about different authors, and I’ll give you rave reviews for some and kind “declines” of others, but I love to talk about their writing, their books. I’ve gained a pretty good idea of what my friends like to read, so it’s easy to recommend to them certain novels I’ve read, and some of them search my “library” for their latest fiction venture. It’s a good thing when people come to trust your opinion—and even want to hear it!

But . . . blowing my own horn and heralding my own “accomplishments”. Yuck.

Soooo . . . what does that mean? It means that I absolutely have to depend on God to do the “promotion”. If you ask me about my novels, I can tell you all about the characters, their stories, and get excited about them because I honestly like them. The reason I like them so much, though, is because the Lord dropped them into my heart, gave me the characters and took them to places I would’ve never dreamed up. I’m tellin’ ya they just came and went at will, and it was thoroughly exciting to write these stories because it was as much of an adventure for me as it was for the mind-of-their-own characters.

Seriously, I’ve read a lot about marketing books. And it’s a whole lot easier to market someone else’s work than it is my own. Of course one of the reasons for that is because my book is self-published. And we all know what a “black mark” that can be.

Some authors are natural promoters. It’s just in them to do it. One of the best is Karen Kingsbury. People love her as an author and as a person. She has written stories that resonate with a huge audience, and her outgoing, caring, and innovative personality acts as a conduit for selling her books. No one works any harder at it than Tricia Goyer, Mary DeMuth, or Susie Larson. There are a number of others who handle it well and remain remarkably humble in the process.

The one thing that is puzzling to me about this marketing gig is that there are professionals in this book biz who can’t get it right, yet the amateurs are expected to contribute viable ideas and resources to promote their own books. We’ve discussed here and elsewhere in the blogosphere how some Christian men’s fiction is mostly unsuccessfully marketed, and there are some virtually unknown but truly gifted men who write it. Why is that?

Anyway, Becky (aka Rebecca Luella Miller) has suggested we should be praying for each other and celebrating each other’s accomplishments, mentioning each other’s writing(s) which she has done on her blog, and for that matter Susan Meissner has promoted some of her favorite authors on her blog “Edgewise”. That was the objective of the Saturday Samples on this blog—to promote those writers who have yet to be published. Generating interest in the “lesser known(s)” is a blessing to do. Encouraging those who take the craft seriously and are working at it is important. Not everyone will get to be published in the traditional sense, but it seems there are still a lot of writers out there who are worth reading. So why not draw attention to them?

It sure beats pointing all the arrows back to oneself.

Father, you know how I am. You’ve given me a lot of boldness, yet I can’t talk up my stuff. I can talk about it and give you all the credit for anything of value, but that’s it. Guide me, Lord. Teach me what you want me to know because the only One I can really all-out promote is you. Lord, I trust in you. Please make sure I don’t try to lean on my own understanding. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

*Visit an interview with Susan Meissner and see the list of books she’s written in the archives (04/18/07).

Sunday's Offerings

My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit's power, so that your faith might not rest on men's wisdom, but on God's power.

1 Corinthians 2:4-5 (NIV)

Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to the power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever. Amen.

Ephesians 3:20-21 (NIV)

For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love, and of self-discipline.

2 Timothy 1:7 (NIV)

Saturday Sample . . .

Faith Daniels looked up as the tiny bell over the door tinkled quietly. He was the first customer of the morning, the darkness remaining outside as he walked in and closed the door.
“Good morning,” she acknowledged him as he looked past her and above her at the menu of coffees, teas, and other beverages.
He gave her a hint of a smile to indicate he wasn’t trying to ignore her. She waited, not wanting to pester him. He’d come to a conclusion soon enough. They always did. The customers who couldn’t choose were almost always friendly, outgoing, bubbly even. He wasn’t one of them. She’d seen that kind of look before but wasn’t sure if she could place where or when. When it dawned on her, she blushed in spite of herself. She’d seen it multiple times looking in the mirror.
She busied herself with the pastries, putting the remaining selections in the case.
“Uh, I’ll take a double espresso and one of those,” he said finally, pointing to an éclair.
“Cream or whipped cream?” she asked quietly.
“Oh. Yeah. A little cream, please.”
She began to fix the espresso and put the éclair on a plate. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring it right out to you, sir.”
He smiled slightly—surprised a bit by the “sir”, she supposed. He sat at a faraway table for two at the other end of the shop, folded his hands on the table and stared out the window into the dark, rainy morning.
When the coffee was ready, she took it, the éclair, a fork and some extra cream to his table.
“Thank you,” he said, finally looking directly at her. “What do I owe ya?”
“Four dollars and 50 cents,” she said quietly. “But you can pay on the way out if you like.”
Instead, he pulled out his wallet from a hip pocket of his faded Levis and handed her $6.00. “It smells good,” he said gratefully.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “Anything else I can get you?” she added quietly.
“I wish,” he said almost inaudibly, then smiled up at her again. “I’m fine.”
Faith walked away reluctantly. It wouldn’t be long and the rush would hit. Marnie would be in for her shift in about 15 minutes. Jackie would be along in a half hour. The day would be underway, busy for a few hours, then a calm, then charge up again during the lunch hours at which time Reb would arrive. Another day at the office, she mused.
When she got back behind the counter, she glanced back at the man, surprised to see him looking at her. Another blush occurred as a result of his brief attention. She couldn’t remember blushing in years. Not even once, let alone twice. Crazy. She began the morning inventory, re-stocked some coffee beans, and went to the kitchen to check on the pastry supply, bringing out another éclair to replace the one she’d sold. When she’d tallied the orders she needed to place, the faithful early customers began arriving just as Marnie walked out of the back room ready to make and serve all kinds of coffees and teas and miscellaneous other beverages for those who liked to indulge in specialty drinks to get their days started or enhance their days with flavorful treats.
“Hi, Faith. How’re you this morning?” she asked cheerfully.
“Hangin’ in there, Marnie. How ‘bout you?” she responded, trying to muster some enthusiasm.
“Not too tired this morning, for a change. I went to bed at 8 o’clock. Can you believe that?”
“For me, yes. For you, no.” Faith smiled at the young woman, knowing Marnie’s social life was usually full of boyfriends and girlfriends and all the activities that accompanied that youthful lifestyle.
“Hi, Faith, Marnie. The usual, please.”
“Mr. Johnson,” Faith greeted the man who was usually the first customer.
Marnie went right to work on his triple mocha with whipped cream.
John Johnson glanced around the shop. “I can’t believe I’m not the first customer,” he said half to himself.
Marnie looked around as a result of his comment. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t even see him.” Then she lowered her voice. “Who’s that, Faith? You know him?”
“No. First timer, I think.”
“Kinda handsome for an older guy, huh?” she whispered.
Faith rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s ‘older’ compared to you,” Faith teased the 21 year old.
Marnie giggled at that and then took care of Mr. Johnson.
“See you ladies tomorrow then,” he said pleasantly as he headed for the door after leaving Marnie a generous tip.
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. Have a great day,” Marnie said happily.
“See ya tomorrow, John,” Faith added.
As John Johnson was leaving, several people filed in and business was clearly on its way for the day. Jackie joined Marnie from the back room and began taking orders and making the customers’ requests. During the course of the next 25 minutes, the man who’d come into the shop first this morning, made his way to the door. Faith happened to look up as he put his hand on the door knob and looked over at her, his eyes almost smiling but not quite and hers doing the same. Then he was gone, and she felt a tinge of sadness, the continual emptiness that dominated her life rising up in her like a concrete wall, nearly impenetrable in its size and fortitude. Oh well.

Taken from Wounds . . . And Healings (2005; written by Nicole Petrino-Salter)

Friday Feelings . . .

Brewing . . . the smell of excitement, hope

Courageous--hard to be but necessary. Strong and courageous: powerful instruction.

Capabilities are in His hands, not mine.

Growth pushing up through slate, through arid dried dirt in the summer heat

Vulnerable. Touch with care.

Celebration! Life gives breath, the Spirit gives Life

Forging onward, sometimes knowing, often not

Thankful. Truly.

Father, you know. That's all I have to know. You give, create, persist, calm, inspire. I love you, Lord. Help me to be strong and courageous, in the Name of Jesus. Amen.

Thursday Thoughts . . .

Seek the One who can answer, who truly cares about the question.

Look, listen, uncover, get down on hands and knees to find, discover, and learn.

Why should it all be easy? We take so much for granted. This is where the trials come, the tests live, the failures experienced, the triumphs shared. Here in imperfection.

Hold on to friends. Hold friends. Love them. Let them get close, serious. Need them.

Look up. See skies of all colors, clouds in all forms, weather uncontrolled by the likes of men.

Horses and maple trees tell of season’s change. Clues foretold in the fuzz of new hair and the hint of yellow soon-to-be orange leaves on the lawn.

Chosen. Unbelievable. Chosen! Rejoice that you have been chosen for life. Created for pleasure and purpose. Plans. Truth. Treasure.

Do not delay. Or lose sight of the glory. Or neglect your design. Or compromise your faith. Do not waste this precious life.

Lord God Almighty, you alone are praiseworthy. Thank you for it all. Help me to honor you, to make you smile, to bring you to laughter. Thank you for weeping with me, for keeping my tears, for knowing me. Please hear my heart and always, always help me to be the one you want me to be. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Why it can hurt.

People come in all varieties. So, as we often do, let’s discuss readers. Some readers are writers. Many are not. They just love to read. Let’s narrow it down to readers who love fiction, those who like to have a novel available most of the time.

Now, for those of us who write fiction, and novels in particular, we have a general idea of who our audience is or will be. For example, I have specified that my readers should be adults because of my themes having to do with sexuality. To narrow it down further, the majority of my readers will likely be women because there is a predominant slant to romance. To get even more categorical, I could say that my readers shouldn’t object to an accurate portrayal of people stuck in the throes of sinful behavior, either decidedly and rebelliously or in ignorance of its consequences. That’s a fairly defined audience.

Before I get to the main body of the post, let me define myself as an audience. I want to read contemporary novels with realism and authenticity in situation, plot, language, characters, and dialogue. Since I limit my reading to Christian fiction, I want to “hear”, “see”, or read the gospel in some capacity, worked into the story just like it gets worked into real life. I don’t want to have to guess or search for where the author was attempting to work “God” or “spiritual” references into the story.

There are certain writers I favor in the romance department because when they introduce romance to the story, it captures the nuances of attraction, desire, insecurities, and longing. They make it sizzle without any erotic graphics. And although I’ve read a lot of romance, it isn’t all I read. (It is all I write, although somewhat untraditional. So far.)

I love mysteries and thrillers—especially with a little romance mixed in—cops, lawyers, military, and adventure stories. As long as they’re real, I’m in.

I don’t mind the occasional use of the words “hell” or “damn”—but I do mean occasional. No cheap, irreverent swearing. The intimation of cussing is fine, but I don’t want to read the words—good grief, I quit using them when I got saved. I don’t need to be reminded what they are—I’m all too familiar with them.

Okay. Having said all that, as a writer of seven novels, I can tell you this. When I write, there is more than a little piece of me that goes into those stories. As my friend and guest on “Saturday Sample . . .” Jason Joyner over at his blog (“Spoiled for the Ordinary”) discovered, when you elect to share your writing with another person, a part of you is exposed. To a degree how you think, how you transmit your thoughts to paper, how you perceive certain individuals and situations, and how you view the journey through life is now evident in some capacity through those pages of description, action, and dialogue. Yes, it’s make-believe, but you alone are the imbiber of the experience you are now pouring forth to share. It’s personal.

That’s why it’s so daunting once the manuscript is finished to allow someone to read it. That’s when the insecurities abound. Because it’s personal.

You see, when a reader decides to comment on your work and their comments are harsh, mean-spirited, questioning your salvation, or ridiculing your supposed “talent”, what they are really saying is this: I don’t like you. At least, I don’t like the part of you that’s in this story. And that hurts. Or it can.

I’m the oversensitive type. Drama deluxe. Deep emotional pain-feeler. Always have been. My blessing and curse. Once in a great while, the Lord has allowed me to feel His emotion. It’s overwhelming. I can’t take it for very long, and He knows that. His heart is bigger, stronger, unlimited in its durability, compassion, never ending love.

Writing fiction is personal. We might write about people and places we’ve never known or been, but somewhere in them there’s a piece of us. Tiny or large, it’s there. Because honesty comes from the heart, and developing a story has to have its birth in honesty. We have to come from a place of understanding to capture that authenticity, even if we dare to write about a fantastical location with unforeseen creatures lurking in hidden places. Still, our concepts and sometimes our dreams are set before our readers to be handled with care but even moreso to be judged. We’re exposed, and it’s personal.

That is why it can hurt. So much.

Father, as a writer, I'm vulnerable to all who read the work you've given me to write. I will be judged. The only judgment that matters is yours. May I write to please you. Please protect me from the enemy's arrows as I hold up my shield of faith and trust in you. You are my hero, my strong tower. Help me to be faithful and obedient. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

And In Conclusion . . .

After much thought, investigation, consideration of information, and even more prayer, I have come to the conclusion that it is a different path I walk in the arena of writing. That is not to imply my path is better—or worse—than those that others take. Just different.

Sometimes what seems the obvious choice is not the right one. I tried to adhere to the qualifications necessary for invasion of the publishing world. I could not—or did not—meet those standards. In fact, I learned I didn’t even favor some of those standards, which might explain one of the reasons why I couldn’t and didn’t meet them.

Lately, various writer blogs (including this one) have been addressing writing as art, accepted rules of writing, and what editors are seeking or hope to find in those horrendous stacks of manuscripts piled on their desks or floors.

Beginners and yet to be published writers soak in the words of professionals and become either fretful or eager to manipulate their current WIP to achieve the status of “published”. While it remains an honor to be “professionally” published, many authors are fearful of their low sales and strain toward finding that “divine” marketing technique which will work the best for them and convince publishers they are a force to be reckoned with in the writing world—or at least one who can figure out a way to make their novels pay for themselves.

Stripped down we’re talking about stories here. Stories here at this blog which are written to honor the Lord. Stories which attempt to bring fresh looks and words and plots to the eyes of readers who will laugh or cry or cringe or shiver at them.

A writer who reads many, many books will decide who of the authors tells a good story, who of the authors writes uniquely, who of the authors has an appealing style, who of the authors they admire or emulate without even trying, and who of the authors they don’t particularly like. They will read the novels and make these decisions, slowly at first, and then the more they invest in their own writing, the decisions they make about others’ writings will be more discerning, more involved, more distinct. They will decide to separate their skills from those whose writing they don’t appreciate without being critical because they will have determined that there are all kinds of books for all kinds of readers.

When you consider how many writers are out here creating manuscripts, it’s knee-buckling. No way can we all make it into the “golden” circle of the contracted author in traditional publishing. And if we don’t?

Oh yeah: The Plan.

Writers, do you love to write stories? Do you have a participatory process with the Lord in your creating? Is there the gamut of emotion as the words either soar to the screen or ache to be written? Do you know, feel, believe this is what you must do? To get that story down?

Then you must do it. And you must do it well. As best you can. Give it as an offering to your Lord. Not for a critique group, an editor, or pub board, but for Him. Let Him take it wherever He wants and do with it what He will. Remember He speaks, you listen and do.

Then and only then will you have followed the path designed for you.

Father, I pray for steadfastness. Hold me steady on my path. Please don't let me waver just because it's not the same path as someone else's. Hold me fast to your appointed ways for me. That's all that really matters to me. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

God Speaks

God speaks, you know. And not only through His Word. If the Bible alone was the only way He chose to communicate . . . well, what a fine mess we’d be in, huh, Ollie?

Prayer. Two-way communication. The question is really: Are you listening? For His voice?

If nothing is too big for God, then the reverse is true also. Since He tells us that whatever we do, whether in word or deed, do it all for His glory, then that includes a lot of stuff we would consider small and insignificant. Think of the smallest bacteria, insect, animal—intricate or simple, still created by a hugely complex Creator, the One who has made the way to redemption so simple a young child can grasp it. The One who came as the man Jesus Christ, born to a woman, lived among his creation to show the way to what humanity needed to conquer the grave.

So . . . when God speaks, what do you do? More specifically, when He speaks to you, what do you do? The Holy Spirit knows your name. He knows how to talk to you. If you’re a King James fanatic, maybe you have to hear Him with thees and thous. However you will understand, that is the language He will use.

Sometimes we don’t want to hear what He has to say. We don’t ever want to admit that, of course, but it can be true. My favorite thing to ignore is: “Wait.” Ooohhhh, do I ever not want to hear that. I can’t count as high as the many times I’ve heard that instruction. However, always looking back I discover how critical the waiting time was, how necessary, and how right. The Lord knows what I cannot see, imagine, or proclaim with any understanding. He is omniscient.

I believe that Christian writers need to listen foremost and above all to the One who is, who was, and who always will be. We will leave this earth and move on to eternity with generations to follow for however long our God lingers in His end times. We have a particular number of days allotted to us to complete His plan for us. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? If not, why does He bother with plans for us?

Writing is a powerful medium. Millions of people read writing of all kinds. Those of us who are called to write fiction will be assigned an audience by our Lord. It is our job to fulfill His plan for our stories, those tales He implants in our hearts, trusting us to use the talent He’s provided with an ever increasing desire to perfect our work and present our best efforts for His pleasure and purpose. And since He knows the individuals who will read our writings, and whether or not those individuals will multiply into great numbers, He will speak the story into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who will desire to point that audience to His Son Jesus Christ. Somehow. Some way. Let us never forget what our objective is as Christians—if we’re writers, parents, laborers, white collar business people, or in the sunset of our years. We must share Jesus as “the Way, the Truth, the Life”. Subtly, cleverly, flamboyantly, dramatically, or infused with humor, the message remains the same. And so does the purpose. Every talent and gift given to man by the Creator of the universe is to be used for His glory, for His pleasure, for His purpose.

We will not reach the lost or strengthen the church any other way. There is no substitute for the mandate of God. No reasonable alternative. No “new” flashy approach. Just God-given talent dedicated to Him and used for Him can accomplish His purpose in our work—however He decides to use it.

So, what do you do when God speaks . . . to you?

Father, let me hear your voice repeatedly, often, whenever you speak to me. I want to always hear your voice. Teach me to listen always. Help me then to obey. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Strengthen me in you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Sunday's Offerings

Yet at the same time many even among the leaders believed in Him. But because of the Pharisees, they would not confess their faith for fear they would be put out of the synagogue; for they loved praise from men more than praise from God.

John 12:42-43 (NIV)

Who do you trust?

Okay, who do you trust as a writer of Christian fiction? You’re in the process or have completed a novel, maybe more than one. You’ve passed along what you’ve written to spouse, friend, stranger and are beginning to get feedback on what you’ve got so far. I’m not specifically addressing critique groups or professionals yet. I’m talking about those people who might in fact make up your proposed audience.

Let’s start with the spouse. If your spouse is a reader, they’re a legitimate test culprit. Some husbands or wives are able to give thoughtful or even provocative responses to your work, providing they like the chosen genre. If they don’t prefer the topic of the novel and are hesitant to read it, they’re probably not your best audience or test reader.

Then there are friends. Females usually have an array of friends who are anxious to read a novel written by one of their own. Depending on personalities and tastes, most females are supportive, and if you have a close relationship with the friend, they will tell you kindly if they had a problem with any part of the book.

I have two main friends who have read almost all of my novels. No one but me has read number 6 which I just finished. One of these two read my seventh novel Breath of Life and was so angry at the characters in the ending I chose, while the other one thought the ending was just a part of life. I knew exactly how my first reader felt because I didn’t really want that ending either, but it was, in fact, just the way life goes sometimes, and I knew it was the ending that was supposed to be there to demonstrate some faith issues.

My second novel The Famous One is the only one of my seven books that has been read by three men and several women. The men enjoyed it as much as the women, being emotionally impacted by the story. That was a major thrill.

Strangers. By that I mean anyone you don’t know well enough to decide if they would like your book. You know they’re a reader, and they’re interested in your description of the novel, so you decide to share it with them—after giving them the usual numerous disclaimers, of course. Chances are if they’re male, they’ll give you an honest response. Depending on their reading choices and even their education, their reaction(s) might offer some pointers you can use. Or not.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Again? You might or might not agree with these multiple assessments. Some you will undoubtedly value more than others. Some will be unexpectedly helpful. Others will simply be opinions—either for or against—and you will judge those based on what you know about the reader.

Okay, what about the professionals? Not all critique partners/groups are good enough to be considered any more valuable than your other selections of readers unless they have a few pros in their midst. You will have to evaluate their status if you join a group. There are innumerable freelance professional editors ranging in price from expensive to ultra expensive, possibly all worth their weight in publishing gold—but probably not really. I mean, I would imagine it’s similar to other services offered by professionals. Some are worth every hard-earned dime you pay them and others simply are not. Again, you’re going to have to establish the criteria for judging their abilities and credentials if you invest in one.

And you must consider this: professional editors whose purpose is to aim your work toward publishing will be geared toward the particular trends and desires of the publisher types you’re seeking. So, you must decide if you’re going to write to please them.

Or are you going to write to please a different group? What if your test readers gave you rave reviews? Not just your wife or husband, but the guy you work with who you really barely know, the six friends of different ages and genders who gave you multiple reasons why they enjoyed the writing, plot, story, characters, ending, etc. Your novel spoke to them. They were impressed.

So, if the editor and the test readers agree for the most part, you’ve got something to look forward to in the form of a contract when all the nips and tucks are made to the manuscript. And if you’re gung ho for the changes, minimal or maximum, to get that project published, this has a “happy” ending.

So, on the other hand, if the editor tells you the major faults with the project which will keep it from being accepted by “most” readers and uses the term “rewrite” in his commentary which insinuates major changes before it sees publication, while the diverse test readers were rejoicing in the novel’s brilliance, who do you trust?

Believe it or not, a part of your decision will depend on what you’ve read. Are you satisfied with those novels published in your genre? Do you think your writing is at a level to compete with books in print? Are the comments you’ve received from readers giving you an idea as to what styles of writing they like and purchase? Is yours similar in appeal or punch or twists and turns? What do you think?

Most of all, and I do mean first and foremost, as a Christian writer, what is your objective? Who do you truly trust and listen to the most? Is it the Lord? Is the Spirit of God leading your pursuits? Has He given you the go ahead to write, to change and alter, to seek one avenue or the other? What is His plan for you? Do you know?

I think once you answer those questions, everything comes together. Maybe not immediately, or even perfectly, according to your desired preferences, but once the Lord heads up the writing/publishing efforts and you decide to follow, wait, or plunge ahead according to His directions, real success awaits you. We’re instructed not to rely upon our own understanding. Indeed.

So, who do YOU trust?

Father, teach me to trust and obey more, to quote an old hymn. Over and over, teach me your ways, so much higher than my own. Help me continually. I need you, am desperate for you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Of Summer . . .

colors . . . sun-turned skin, not scorched, deep browns, yellow golds

flowers dance in shapes and sizes and every variation of the rainbow

sky perfect blue from sunup, waiting for the pink and orange of sunset extinguishing sun's gold as the silent rumbling of fog overtakes the evening shadows

the steady hush of ocean, faithful waves in and out, soothing, ministering God's ever present kindness, His incredible order to the unsearchable universe . . .

Thank you, Lord God Almighty. Thank you.

Greetings from Seaside

Hi guys from Seaside, Oregon. Tourist city USA. Lots of people, shops, busy-ness. Tomorrow Canon Beach and Newport. We'll see. It's all freelance for us.

Talk to you all soon.

Father, keep us safe and be close to us as we enjoy your creation. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

My Audience

The audience I must please is the one true God. Jesus Christ gave me life, and I must honor Him in all I do--failing and falling at times, only to have Him rescue me again, set me right, lavish His forgiveness on me, and assure me of His divine love.

Writing fiction is the passion of my heart in this phase of my life. It is essential to make the stories resonate with those who escape to literature, search for meaning in literature, or desire to connect with characters in a place where perhaps their emotions, their spirituality, or even their physical desires are captured in a way that makes the reader feel as though they know these people personally. Connection is the desire of most readers, be it for fun and entertainment or for challenge and conviction.

In the process of creating these stories I write, these characters that live both in my head and in my heart, I must point out arrive from the Lord because I have not one single idea until the Lord through His Spirit imparts these novels to me. I'm just not that creative.

But these novels I write are not written for those who are easily offended by the sinful goings on of our lost world. People in all stages of their humanity are portrayed in the pages of my novels, and you will see the warning on each of my stories: "This book is for adult readers."

My goal is to contrast the sinful to the divine, to capture the world in its inherent sinfulness and ugliness while effectively making the contrast of living for Christ both plausible and desirable in a powerful way.

In life and in story there will be those who reject the Lord, who remain in opposition to the truth of His claims as well as to those who proclaim His love and forgiveness to them. There will be those who insist they’re good people and that they’ve never hurt anybody. There are those who are so invested in the secular lifestyle they see no need for a personal redemption from whom they perceive as an impersonal God.

In life and in story the need for redemption is not optional to an eternal life which beckons beyond this unpredictable existence on this planet. Because of that fact, I cannot be coy about the Gospel of Jesus Christ within the pages of my novels. So, if you’re uncomfortable with characters who know Him, come to the place of wanting to discover Him, or pray within the context of the story and exhibit other behaviors that are genuinely “Christian” alongside those characters who have no knowledge, desire, or behavioral evidence of Christianity, you are not “my audience”.

One would never intentionally put off potential readers, but more importantly is the awareness of what my novels contain in order to ward off unwarranted criticism. I take the role of writer as a “call” from God. It isn’t a coincidence that I write, compose stories, create books. It is much like a ministry to me to reach out to any reader who desires to experience Christianity in the environment of “story” and to recognize the transparency of sin in our lives and in those lives we come in contact with daily. Not to condemn but to expose, explain, exemplify the choices involved in deciding where one intends to spend eternity.

Father, I love you and my hope is in you. That hope, that assurance, that deliverance that your love and forgiveness provide through your Son Jesus Christ is too critical, too wonderful, too necessary not to share. Yes, it offends the perishing in its purest form, but your Holy Spirit draws people to Jesus in unfathomable and often unpredictable ways, so my desire is that somehow you will elect to use what you have given me to write to amplify and increase your kingdom, in the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Sunday's Offerings

The Reubenites, the Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh had 44,760 men ready for military service--able-bodied men who could handle shield and sword, who could use a bow, and who were trained for battle. They waged war against the Hagrites, Jetur, Naphish, and Nodab. They were helped in fighting them, and God handed the Hagrites and all their allies over to them, because they cried out to Him during the battle. He answered their prayers because they trusted in Him. They seized the livestock of the Hagrites--fifty thousand camels, two hundred fifty thousand sheep and two thousand donkeys. They also took one hundred thousand people captive, and many others fell slain, because the battle was God's. And they occupied the land until the exile.

1 Chronicles 5:18-22 (NIV)

Saturday Sample . . .

“Hey, name’s Grady Hutchinson. Know anyone who needs a good shoer?” Hutch asked, extending his hand to the veterinarian outside his truck.
“Pete Keppler, Grady. You look familiar. You ever shoe in the Midwest or upstate New York?”
“Well, both places, actually. I’m sorry, you don’t look familiar to me. And my friends call me ‘Hutch’.”
“I think somebody pointed you out to me once is why I remember you. We’ve never met or anything. If I remember right, it was Ernestine Palmer in upstate New York. Said you were the best shoer around, bar none.”
“Wow. Small world. Ernie was a client of mine for several years. She’d even fly me in to shoe for her when I left the area. Great gal.”
“Yeah. Lots of money. Were you sleepin’ with her?”
Hutch stammered a little. “Uh, no. Purely professional.”
Pete laughed. “I didn’t know you could be ‘purely’ anything with Ernie.”
Hutch smiled. “Well, it wasn’t easy.”
“Yeah, she had me in no time flat. We were hot for awhile. She dumped me just as fast as she took up with me, too,” he chuckled. “But it was a good ride for awhile. Anyway, I’ll tell you who you might check with is Mick Webster over in Barn 17. He always wants to be in on the latest in everything. This would be a perfect time, too, because his shoer is in and out right now. He’ll probably use both of you guys, but it’s a good place to start. Pay’s good, too.”
“Well, thank you, Pete. I owe you one.”
“I’ll let you buy me a beer sometime if you get the job.”
“Fair enough. I’ll see you around then.”
Hutch got back in his royal blue custom painted Ford F250 4x4 pickup with a matching custom canopy and drove the short distance to Barn 17.
“Hi,” he said, introducing himself to the foreman. “Is Mick around?”
“He’ll be back in a few minutes. Can I help you?”
“Well, I know you folks have a shoer, but I thought maybe I could be of some assistance. If you need references, Pete Keppler can vouch for my reputation. I worked mostly back east and in the Midwest. I’m up on all the latest shoes and methods. Don’t like to be behind on anything that’ll help a horse.”
Mick Webster’s foreman Nelson Scarston was a pretty good judge of character. He was a man of few words—his reputation spoke for itself. He’d earned it, and he figured a reputation was pretty much all you had at the track. Most people’s weren’t so good, so for Nelson a good reputation said it all.
“You got names?”
“Benny Hilyard, Richard Jamison, Cedric Halls, Jeffrey Karston, Libby Sensten—”
“Whoa, not bad. What’re you doin’ out here, for cryin’ out loud?”
“The truth?”
“Preferably.”
“Divorce.”
“Messy?”
“I don’t know how messy. Just not what I had in mind when I got married, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do. Been divorced myself. Wife said I was married to these horses. Turns out she was right. Married to a racetrack woman?”
“Yeah.”
“She shoulda known. Don’t blame yourself.”
Just then Mick walked up.
“Mick, Grady Hutchinson. Highly recommended horseshoer from back east. Knows all the latest shoes and techniques. Needs a job.”
Mick extended his hand. “Mick Webster. That right? Well, I’m sure Nelson told you we have a shoer, but we have a full barn and definitely have a few problem feet. Yeah, well, if you’ve got time, let’s put him to work on The Senator. He’s due, and he’s got the worst feet in the barn. If you can help him, you’re hired, but I’ll probably keep Bob, too.”
“I’m not trying to undermine your guy. Somebody said you might need a second shoer and that you wanted to keep up on all the latest stuff, and that’s what I do, so, yeah, I definitely have time. Bring him out.”
Nelson and Hutch formed an instant rapport. They knew a lot of the same people even though Nelson had been out here for several years. Hutch got him caught up on all the current information about people he hadn’t seen for years. Most of the stories were typical. So and so was sleepin’ with so and so. So and so divorced so and so and married so and so. So and so got caught sleepin’ with so and so and caused so and so to get a divorce. So and so was suspended for using some kind of illegal drugs on his horses. So and so was into so and so for so many thousands of dollars. Etc., etc.
“So, how long you been divorced?” Nelson asked.
“I signed the papers before I left. Whenever.”
“Well, technically, you don’t know when or even if you’ll be divorced. She could backpedal.”
“Not her.”
Nelson paused and then asked, “So who’d you sleep with?”
“I didn’t sleep with her,” he replied, tapping a nail into the foot he was shoeing with sharp, abrupt moves of his hammer.
“Hard time convincing the wife of that? Musta had somethin’ goin’ on then.”
“Not on my part. She was a client. She kept calling me at home. Wanted me at her barn all the time. I doubt if you knew her—she’s just been around in the last couple years. Came out of the show crowd. Name’s Marilyn Chambers.”
“Nope. Never heard of her.”
“She was some kind of wealthy. Had all the looks to go with it. The other trainers were tryin’ to take up with her—heck, there wasn’t a guy on the backstretch or in the office, for that matter, that didn’t want to get it on with Mare. I have no idea why she elected to give me a run, but she made no bones about it. I guess it was the fact that she wanted the best for her horses, and she wasn’t afraid to try the latest thing. Made my life very difficult in the end. To tell you the truth, I didn’t see it comin’. You know what it’s like around the track. Everybody always tryin’ to get it on with someone else. Some people couldn’t care less who’s married and who’s not. I thought my wife understood that I didn’t want anything to go on with this woman, but I think Marilyn musta been settin’ her up because I had an appointment to shoe one for her on an off day in the afternoon. She’d given her help the afternoon off, and she was the only one at the barn when I got there. She told me to come down to her office because she wanted to write me out a check when I was done. So I put away my tools and walked down there. I opened the door and she’s standing there in her underwear leaving next to nothing to the imagination.
“I froze. I wanted to run, but I just froze. She says to me, ‘Here’s your check, and I’d like to give you a little bonus for all your expert work.’ Man, my feet were like cement. So she walks over to me and puts her arms around my neck with the check in her hand. I finally started to wake up and reached up to remove her hands and push her away when my wife pokes her head in the door. I look over, see it’s her and can’t get out of there fast enough. She won’t even turn around when I call her. She wouldn’t even let me talk to her for two days, and then she wouldn’t believe me when I told her the truth. And that was pretty much it. Five years down the tubes.”
“Over one woman? C’mon, there’s gotta be more.”
“When we got together, I had a reputation for being a ladies’ man. She knew that. But she hooked me. I mean, when we got serious, she was the only one I wanted. Still is. But I blew it. I didn’t know how to reassure her. You know, I probably wanted Marilyn’s attention. I know I didn’t want her, but she fed my ego because all the other men were droolin’ over her, and she wanted me. Told me I was the best she’d ever seen, and the fact was she’d worked with the best in the field. So it was a lot my fault. I guess I didn’t get how much it was hurtin’ my wife, and I didn’t really give her any solid reason to trust me.”
Hutch stood up. “Walk him off, Nelson.”
The Senator walked off with no hesitation.
“Hey, Hutch. He has never walked off without a few gingerly steps after being shod. Never. I’ll tell Mick. His feet look great. What kind of pad is that?”
“Brand new material I bought just before I came out here. We’ll let The Senator be our guinea pig, okay., big boy?” he answered, patting the horse’s neck. “Anything else for me today?”
“Not today, Hutch. But I guarantee I’ll have some for you at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning. Alright?”
“Great. I’ll be here. Nelson, thanks for listenin’,” Hutch said a little sheepishly, reaching out to shake Nelson’s hand.
“Hey, I been where you are now. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
Hutch picked up his equipment and walked out to his truck. It felt good to do some work. As he was about to get in, a man introduced himself by the name of Brady York.
“Look, my shoer stayed down south this year. I just talked to Pete Keppler and he said to give you a try. I’ve got a barn full all near ready or overdue. You got time to shoe a few for me?”
“All the time in the world, Mr. York.”
“Call me Brady, and follow me.”
“Call me ‘Hutch’, and lead the way.”
By the time Hutch was done at Brady York’s barn, he had shod 10 head all with his new pads. He dreaded going back to his motel and determined he would find an apartment or a small house to rent in the next few days. Maybe Nelson would know of some place. Another night to stare at the ceiling and toss and turn. For a moment he felt the tears want to come, but he quickly drove out the front gate introducing himself to the late afternoon guard before he left.
It wasn’t late but he saw no reason not to eat dinner now rather than going back to the motel and then heading out again. Since he was sweaty from working, he spotted a hamburger joint and drove up to the window placing his order for a double bacon cheeseburger, a large order of fries, and a giant size coke. Then he drove to his motel to clean up, eat, watch some TV and turn in early. Now the fatigue was beginning to hit him. He’d driven nearly all the way across the country as quickly as he could with as few stops as he could safely manage. The 3 hour time difference was just starting to catch up with him, and since he hadn’t worked in a week, he could tell his body was objecting to the 11 head he’d demanded of it today. Maybe now he could finally sleep. Tomorrow was going to be another full day. He knew he’d have plenty to shoe in both of his new barns. Plus he had to find time to meet some of the other shoers, check out where the best place was to get supplies, and he knew if these new pads caught on like it looked like they were going to, he’d better call in his order to be shipped out to him right away. He’d brought a lot with him, but at this rate, he didn’t have enough to last even a month.

Taken from For His Glory (2002-?; written by Nicole Petrino-Salter)