Into the Fire

Nostalgia Week . . .

                         

Posted on 02/19/08 -- titled "Confessions of an Unintentional Rebellious Writer".

In a few weeks my second novel entitled The Famous One will be available for purchase at several online outfits including Amazon. While the satisfaction is sweet, it is inherently mixed with the accompanying human fears experienced by anyone who shares something so intimately entwined with who they are. Perhaps some authors detach themselves from their work and creatively assess the human condition through characters so different from who they are in places so obscured from where they’ve been in circumstances stranger than any place they’ve ever visited, seen, or experienced. Perhaps.

Most novelists write from some distinct place of truth, whether personally known or unknown to them by direct participation. Whether they address the story through humor, tragedy, or ordinary ways, what they write exposes them in a form of nakedness, more emotional than physical. Exposure can be painful or cathartic, laughable or empathetic. It can even be ugly. Or beautiful. How those words play out on the page determines much of how an author is laid bare before his readers.

My first novel Hope of Glory is every bit a first effort. No doubt. The objective in writing it was to fulfill the specific instructions the Lord spoke to my heart. There were times when I feared I would fail to complete it as the years passed. But I did it. And it’s published. For Him. And because of Him. And I trust God to continue to do with it what he had in mind for it when he assigned it to me.

The Famous One is entirely different from that first book in subject, style, and size. This novel is written like a fictional biography beginning from an omniscient POV. I can almost guarantee if you attempt to read it with all the established writing rules in the forefront of your brain, you will be shaking your head and rolling your eyes. It wasn’t written with those in mind. There was a character inspired by the life experiences of a real actor whose story would not be denied. It simply had to be told, and the way it came to be told is what it is. You know what I mean?

I can say that the test readers of The Famous One varied in ages from 30-something to 60+, both male and female readers, with one professional endorsement on the back cover which is a truly wonderful gift to me, one I didn’t expect. The novel received rave reviews from the particular readers who took the time to invest in the story. We’ll see what the tougher crowds think, if they dare to tell me. Some people probably won’t get through the first 50 pages because it doesn’t fit into their definition of what a novel should be. It will have a particular audience, I’m sure of that much.

The other novels I’ve written have similar themes but are different still than these first two. As you know if you’ve been reading this blog for long, my novels are generally longer than the typical CBA novel, focusing on relationships, fairly heavy on the romance—with the worldly contrasted to the godly.

You have to realize I’d completed five novels before I’d read a single blog or website. I’d written all my life in spurts until I gave any creative writing ability I had to the Lord for His use. Hope of Glory was borne out of that as the other six novels have been. I didn’t mean to break the rules. I wrote what I liked to read, what I wanted to read. What can I say? The rebellion wasn’t intentional—it was natural.

                   

So . . . now you know part of the story behind this story.

Father, thank you for the stories you’ve given me. If they minister to a few or many, please allow them to minister in some way—however you choose to use them. Just please help me to write totally for you, for your glory. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Tuesday Tunes

       

The iconic Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Amazing career, amazing theme song, and amazing film. Always good for nostalgia. 

 

Lord, only you know hearts and minds and the number of our days. May those still searching find you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.  

 

From a while back . . . and still applicable.

                 

"Don't Make Waves" (Posted in 2013)

Sit quiet with your hands folded on your desk. Don't ask any questions. Just write your stories and praise your publisher, your editor, and your agent. Be a good little writer and wait until we don't want you anymore.

Hey, I'm sure it's not like that. That was just a snarky opener. Yes, there's a tiny truth in there, but probably not enough to matter.

Here's the main thing. If it's your nature to accept, to "sit quiet", then do it. I can say it used to be mine. A long time ago. Maybe it was growing up in the tumultuous 60s and 70s that brought the change. Maybe it was when authorities power-grabbed instead of being respectful of their positions. Maybe it was when I started to examine motives more closely and discerned the heart of man. I don't know. At some point, people had to earn my respect and demonstrate they deserved to be an authority. During some period of my life, what I had to do needed to make sense to me before it got done - other than basic speed limits or No Trespassing.

I don't want to generally "make waves" mostly because my wave making is off so far in some remote region of a deserted beach as to go unnoticed by anyone anywhere, but there's one area where I will not cease to stir the waters. It has proven to be damaging to a certain extent but beneficial in other ways. It's a risk worth taking. I love my country. God blessed me with being born in this country, one nation under God, and I intend to go down fighting for it if necessary. I will make waves, I will shout from the housetops, I will not be silent about the destruction being perpetrated on this country by a crooked and ruthless regime that believes in nothing this country was built on and fought for by brave men and women. It's being disgraced and dismantled by a group of people who don't value its sovereignty or its heritage or the law of this land: the Constitution of the United States of America.

Writers can choose their topics of discussion and conveniently stay out of the controversial "religion and politics". Secular humanists will continue to incorporate their worldviews in their work, and Christians can choose to do the same. Discussing their opinions on these electric topics in any public forum can elicit positive or negative attention and publicity. Again, it's a risk because those who resent the writer's opinions can decline to support them by not buying their work. Many have chosen to keep their literary publicity on placid lakes without making waves. Christians tend to clothe their choices in the "love" themes with refrains of not "judging" others. Secular writers have no such motivations, but, for some, if sales reflect unfavorably, there will be those who withdraw and slip into silence with the objective of selling their wares more effectively. (Hollywood filmmaking must have missed the memo because their liberal agendas in producing movies have failed miserably at the box office.)

The trashing of my country matters more to me than book sales or my "career". I will not sit down and shut up. I will not ignore the obvious and let it go. I will pray fervently and hope God will act soon, but if He allows our nation to perish because of the filthy vile sin going on before Him today, then I will know His return is imminent. Just as He told us.

So, if you wish to abandon this outspoken female who will not stop "sharing" those patriotic, factual posts on social media, it's your prerogative because I will definitely not stop making waves. Not until this ship is sunk.

 

Father, you designed me. Help me to the one you want me to be. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Sunday's Offerings

 

. . . They tell how you turned to God from idols to serve the living and true God, and to wait for His Son from heaven, whom He raised from the dead -- Jesus, who rescues us from the coming wrath. 

 

1 Thessalonians 1:9b-10 (NIV)

Fan Fiction . . . a la Mitch Rapp

         

Friday fun for me. Continuing in the first meet between Mitch Rapp and the girl I've selected for him. 

 

     He turned and left her office, quietly shutting the door behind him.

     Back in the car, he put the key in the ignition but didn’t start it. Instead he took the envelope addressed to him and used his knife to slice it open. Unfolding the letter, he scanned the handwriting. Easy to read, so he began.

     Hello, Mitch.

     This is no doubt an unusual circumstance if you’re now reading this. I’m assuming I got to know you a whole lot more since writing this. We’ve met in passing, and I’ve talked to Stan about you. I won’t bother writing his colorful reply, but beneath all the rhetoric he had a certain gleam in his eye when he spoke of you.

     I’m sure you can relate to that innate trust factor which very few people in this world inspire in us. It’s the nature of the beast. I knew the first time I spoke with you on the one assignment where our paths crossed that I had it in you. It was instantaneous for me, and, because of that, I’m writing this to you with specific instructions for my daughter which I know she’ll respect and obey.

     Personal experience tells us there’s potential for our loved ones to come under threats and terrible danger – some we see coming, and those we don’t. I’ve done my best to educate my daughter and teach her “the ropes” of self-defense. You know the drill. Know this: if you ever have the pleasure of meeting her – which I hope the reason for that isn’t because she’s in terrible danger – she probably could’ve been one of us with her talents, but her tender heart would’ve prevented it, and I’m grateful for that. I’ve told her to change her name as a professional, but her real name I want you to know: Raven Christine – and you know my surname. Her first name was decided upon by something significant between her mother and me.

     All of that brief background to say this: I’m asking you, if there’s any possible way that you can, if you will rescue her if she is in trouble. There is no one else I trust to do what will need to be done. Since her mother’s death, we’re all we have, and we don’t have near enough time together. And if I’m around when you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be there for you no matter what. Just, please, if you can, take care of my daughter if I’m unable to do so.

Daniel Wilson   

     Mitch lowered the letter to his lap and stared straight ahead through his bulletproof windshield. He remembered Daniel well as he’d told his daughter. Respected his skills, professionalism, but mostly his heart. He didn’t “eliminate” unnecessarily. Their “jobs” made them cynical at best, but he also noted it could make psychopaths out of some, sociopaths of others, and almost suicidal and broken operators of still more. As he’d noted to Christine, he’d wondered why and how he was still around – especially of late.

     Should he read the letter addressed to Daniel’s daughter? Picking it up off the console where his dessert rested, he slit it open and began to read.

     Hey, Sweet Girl.

     No time to waste here if you’ve opened this. You must find a way to contact Mitch Rapp. If you can’t locate him quickly, get to Irene Kennedy for assistance immediately on one of those burner phones I told you to keep handy.

     Mitch is the best of the best. I’ve worked with the best and have even been the best at one time, but Rapp is the absolute top of the line. He’s around your age, and if anyone can help, it will be him.

     I hope you will meet him one day simply because you need to know that there are others out there giving their all in this thing we do. He’s young, focused, and utterly skilled. He knows good and evil and never confuses them. He’s had to do things – as I have – which are soul-crushing, but he’s withstood them and will continue to.

     If you’re in trouble, find him, Sweet Girl. Do it quickly. Tell him I sent you. I love you more than life itself, and I hope I can always be there for you, but you know that’s not a given. Take good care, Raven. I love you.

     Always,

     Dad 

     What hit him first was that he wasn’t “young” anymore and was truly astounded that Daniel Wilson had given him that much credit so many years ago when the letter had been written, before he became more experienced – back when Irene was constantly running interference for him after his assignments.

     And then it occurred to him that Daniel had an inkling of his own approaching death.

     He inserted the letter back into its envelope, grabbed both letters and his dessert and got out of his car, locked it, and headed back to “Raven’s” office. 

     She tossed her purse to the floor and sat down hard on the chair, pushed off her shoes, folded her arms and crossed her legs. She forced back the tears and grief and frowned at her behavior. Completely at odds with how she’d conducted herself in front of Mitch Rapp, she admitted to herself that in person he personified the previously ill-defined cliché “larger than life”. Now she knew exactly how the expression translated in real time.

     Over lunch, it had been easy. He, as expected, didn’t want to discuss himself and preferred she speak freely about herself which was easy to do on a surface level. Admitting her Christianity got the response she anticipated. Not negative. A moment of surprise quickly concealed.

     A light knuckle tap on her door brought her abruptly to her feet giving a quick glance at the wall clock, knowing she had nothing expected for the rest of the day. She walked across the room to answer it after seeing Rapp on the camera image mounted beside her door. She quickly opened it wide for him and saw his dessert box and the two letters in hand. He walked in and she closed the door.

     “We didn’t finish our lunch,” he said, continuing to the chair he’d adopted.

     “You’re right.” She took her box off her desk, kicked her shoes out of the way, and once again sat across from him. “I have trays in the closet if you think we need them,” she offered.

     “I’m good,” he said, placing the letters on the arm of his chair and opening his box.

     It took him no time to unwrap the napkin and fork inside, taking a bite. “Wow. This is as good as the rest of the meal.”

     She quickly sampled hers. “Mmmm.”

     After a few bites, Rapp said, “So, Raven, I read both letters.” He looked directly at her, watching her startled expression.

     Something happens inside a woman when a man she admires or is attracted to uses her real name and says it with deliberation, firmness, and just a hint of affection. Whether it’s actually chemical or some kind of romantic hit-piece to the heart, the sound taps a target, strikes its mark, and causes an unscheduled emotional reaction close to an inflamed melt-down – all of which must not appear visible to his naked eye.

     With an extreme effort to keep her voice and expression neutral, she responded, “And . . .”

     “Your assumption regarding your father’s intent in writing the letters is correct.”

 

Father, only you. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Those authors of thrillers . . . Part Three

                       

As noted in previous posts about thrillers and their authors, it takes a special kind of writer to embrace the research demanded for authenticity, to create the type of man or woman required for the hero/heroine position, to develop their abilities in an enticing and meaningful way, to fill in their backgrounds which pointed them to their roles, and to craft a story that requires their unique skills to solve a threatening issue of great magnitude. 

If you recognize any of these thriller heroes, you know exactly what I've been describing over the last two parts of these "analyses" of thriller authors. Take a look: the legendary Mitch Rapp (Vince Flynn/Kyle Mills), Scot Harvath (Brad Thor), John Milton (Mark Dawson), Jon Reznick (J. B. Turner), Courtland Gentry, aka The Gray Man, (Mark Greaney) to name a few.

Most readers establish their favorites early on after reading a couple novels by the author. I confess Mitch Rapp is and will always be my favorite hero. He's iconic with characteristics that separate him from all the others. I enjoy all the other heroes listed here and will probably acquire a taste for even more as I expand my reading on the thriller journey.

The authors of these heroes have met all the challenges covered in Parts One and Two for writing thrillers. They've created solid and appreciative audiences for their work with few exceptions who wait with anticipation for their next adventures. And these authors seem to have the key resources to portray modern-day crises before the public sees portions of them actually happening in this world. 

One other piece to the thriller story regarding their heroes, there is inherent tragedy involving those with whom the hero has engaged in any serious and/or romantic capacity. At some point the hero realizes anyone who is close to him is in potential danger because of those enemies who want to get to and harm the hero in every way possible. What better way than to eliminate the few he's dared to hold close to his heart. If there is a traumatic loss, each hero reacts in individual but similar ways, having two things in common. One, they're reluctant to get involved again because of the innate danger to the other person; Two, the intensity with which they intend to exact vengeance upon the perpetrator(s). Ultimately, it forces them to consider the obscurity of ever having a "normal" life outside of what they do.  

And the final plot item included in the heroes' repertoire is either that one person or a small team of people from their pasts together who they can contact for assistance in a dire emergency where access to information, equipment, or anything else critical to the hero's needs is unlikely to be available to him. He has connections if he has to make them.  

I'm not as familiar with thriller heroines although I've read a few suspense and mystery novels with well-written tough women solving crimes and "kicking-butts", but with the exception of the Beatrix Rose Thriller Series by Mark Dawson, these unique heroines are not in thriller novels. 

These are all general market heroes so profanity in varying degrees is always present.

Hoping you enjoyed this thriller author series. Definitely some gifted writers in this genre. 

 

Lord, I ask your blessing over each of these authors who continue to write with the gifts you've given them. May they know and seek after you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

  

 

Fully . . . Armored

                              

                Armored is Mark Greaney's latest release.

If you've ever been struggling to support your family and maintain the most basic of lifestyles, you can relate to Josh Duffy (aka Duff) after having been an elite Close Protection Agent before losing the lower half of his left leg in a brutal battle trying to get his "primary" safely to a destination. 

Back home years later, now a mall cop, of all the humiliating occupations for him, and truly in need of a higher paying job, Josh runs into a former friend who he knew while in the military. After talking with him, Josh asks if he'll put in a good word for the new assignment with a group called Armored Saints. Josh is familiar with their tainted reputation and that of their leader, but he's decided for the money his family desperately needs, he wants to be included and has determined they won't find out about his leg.

Josh's wife is a former Army Captain and also well aware of the ugly rep Armored Saints has established. Also working nights doing cleaning services and paying for a friend to watch their two young children, she knows they need a break, but fearing for her determined husband, she finally succumbs to his decision but not without helping him with final preparations. 

As it turns out, this assignment has a group of men in superior armored vehicles escorting a UN group trying to establish a peaceful solution between the cartels in the Sierra Madre Mountains in order to avoid a war between them and between them and the Mexican army. It's a delicate balance and their attempt to do this with the cartel that presently owns the mountaintop of drug production and distribution is based on a tentative cooperation to this truce. Underlying the communications and unknown to the peacekeeping party is a man (Cordova) who is familiar with each of the cartels, proclaiming he is "just a consultant" to each group, pretending to favor none and being fair to all. 

Greaney takes his time establishing this story, allowing characters to reveal pieces of themselves, slowly displaying the cunning Cordova, the willing betrayers, the foolish expectations of the diplomats, and the real concern of Josh and his fellow protection unit.  

When the journey goes forward, yes, as the saying goes, all hell breaks loose. And the action in the story picks up at a frantic pace, leaving terrible destruction and more multiple layers of betrayal. With several exceedingly daring choices, the group with Josh suffers and strains to complete a new mission: survival. There are those twists Greaney always throws in near the end, definitely hard to see coming, and then provides a satisfactory conclusion to what could've been a total disaster. 

(Reminiscent of an old NCIS episode that took place at the tip of South America, there was a similar betrayal/connection.) 

If you're patient and want to get a feel for the cartels that operate the drug trade, Armored rolls out a bit slowly but when it cuts loose with the action, it's tough, taut, and treacherous to the near end. 

(Profanity present.)  

 

Father, may each one who's chosen to use the gifts and talents you've given them know from whom they've come. May you continue to bless Mark's writing endeavors. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Tuesday Tunes

 

       

Anyone remember this one? In keeping with the love theme. 

 

Lord, you're the lover of our souls. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

 

Finding those . . . Lost Bits

                          

First off, I have a confession to make: I did not read Kerry's novel. I listened to a portion of the audio book done by Joseph Courtemanche, author and audio book narrator - he did my novel Race. 

What I listened to were several chapters of Kerry's innovative and well-written unique characters given individual voices by Joseph. I don't need to elaborate on what a feat this would be for a narrator, but I can tell you this: if you love distinctive, entertaining audio books, you will love Lost Bits. Joseph gives singular, often quirky, and quickly recognizable voices to each character so the listener immediately knows who's speaking and is able to follow the multiple speakers in the story. 

If you're familiar with Joseph's voice, you know he's easy listening with that smooth timbre inviting you to embark on a book adventure. And if you're familiar with Kerry's work, you know he writes unusual novels with a science-fiction bent to make meaningful literature. 

If you enjoy good writing and an exceptional listening experience in the audible book form, I highly recommend Lost Bits by Kerry Nietz and narrated by Joseph Courtemanche. 

 

Father, your gifts and talents are abundant. Thank you for giving Joseph that special voice and his sterling writing abilities and thank you for Kerry's unique talent to take a look at life from a different perspective. They both know from whom their talent is given. Bless them, Lord, in your ways that supply it all. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Sunday's Offerings

 

but the wicked will be cut off from the land,

   and the unfaithful will be torn from it.

. . . 

Do not set foot on the path of the wicked

   or walk in the way of evil men.

Avoid it, do not travel on it;

   turn from it and go on your way.

For they cannot sleep till they do evil;

   they are robbed of slumber till they make someone fall.

They eat the bread of wickedness

   and drink the wine of violence. 

 

Proverbs 2:22; Proverbs 4:14-17 (NIV) 

 

Fan Fiction . . . a la Mitch Rapp

   

YAY! It's Friday, and I get to present my ongoing initial meet-up for Mitch Rapp with the woman I've selected for the love of his life. Probably only those in the die-hard Mitch Rapp fan cult will understand why I created her. It's simple really: I can't stand the women he's selected who've been his love interests. Apparently, there are many more fans with the same opinion. So. Continuing . . . (with a little from last week to start it off)

   

      Once inside the car with their desserts in her lap, Christine said, “I won’t keep you long at the office, Rapp. I just need to speak with you for a couple of minutes.”

     He glanced at her noticing the subtle worry on her face. “Okay.”

     After arriving in the private parking area, he turned to her. “You seem worried about something. Want to tell me why?”

     “I do. I’ve been given something to give to you. Many years ago. It’s a letter from my father addressed to you. He instructed me not to read it but to give it to you if I ever had the opportunity. I’ve kept it with me wherever I’ve been and gone. It was one of the last things he gave me on that fateful 21^st birthday.” She dropped her head and took a deep breath. Sitting back upright and looking straight ahead, she said, “He gave me one also. About you. My instructions were to read it if and only when I ever felt truly threatened. I haven’t read it yet.” She looked at him and met his serious gaze.

     He undid his seatbelt and said, “Well, let’s get to it then.” He got out, did his usual inspection as he walked around to let her out. Before she got out, she left his dessert on the console. 

     Once inside her office, Rapp took his seat, relaxed. He watched her set her dessert on the desk and quickly attend to the phone. Keeping her purse, she came around her desk to sit across from him, unzipped a compartment of the large leather bag and pulled out two long envelopes, handing both of them to him.

     Picking up on her nervousness, he listened as she said, “I apologize for the wear and tear. I did my best to keep them somewhat pristine. I know Dad wrote them in his own script, and I was afraid the ink might bleed or something might interfere with his message.” She stopped.

     “One of these is yours.”

     “I know, but I want you to read it. In case there’s anything in there you’d rather I didn’t know.” She looked down at her hands, having not felt this nervous since she couldn’t remember when.

     “What do you think is in it?”

     She looked directly at him, knowing he could see her discomfort. “I suspect he was truly concerned that at some point his family would be in danger due to his . . .”

     “I get it. Definitely a concern. So you assume he wanted you to contact me somehow if you suspected your life might be threatened?”

     She nodded, thinking she might not be able to utter another word without either saying something stupid or resorting to ugly crying, both of which she considered embarrassingly unprofessional. The loss of her dad still resurrected that intense grief, something she'd never displayed so openly with anyone else, keeping it well-hidden until now. 

     He stood. She stood, clutching her purse, then quickly set it on the chair, trying to hold his gaze and find her voice. 

     "I'll call you," he said. 

     "Thank you." It came out just above a whisper. 

     He turned and left her office, quietly shutting the door behind him.

     Back in the car, he put the key in the ignition but didn’t start it. Instead he took the envelope addressed to him and used his knife to slice it open. Unfolding the letter, he scanned the handwriting. Easy to read, so he began.

     Hello, Mitch.

     This is no doubt an unusual circumstance if you’re now reading this. I’m assuming I got to know you a whole lot more since writing this. We’ve met in passing, and I’ve talked to Stan about you. I won’t bother writing his colorful reply, but beneath all the rhetoric he had a certain gleam in his eye when he spoke of you.

     I’m sure you can relate to that innate trust factor which very few people in this world inspire in us. It’s the nature of the beast. I knew the first time I spoke with you on the one assignment where our paths crossed that I had it in you. It was instantaneous for me, and, because of that, I’m writing this to you with specific instructions for my daughter which I know she’ll respect and obey.

     Personal experience tells us there’s potential for our loved ones to come under threats and terrible danger – some we see coming, and those we don’t. I’ve done my best to educate my daughter and teach her “the ropes” of self-defense. You know the drill. Know this: if you ever have the pleasure of meeting her – which I hope the reason for that isn’t because she’s in terrible danger – she probably could’ve been one of us with her talents, but her tender heart would’ve prevented it, and I’m grateful for that. I’ve told her to change her name as a professional, but her real name I want you to know: Raven Christine – and you know my surname. Her first name was decided upon by something significant between her mother and me.

     All of that brief background to say this: I’m asking you, if there’s any possible way that you can, if you will rescue her if she is in trouble. There is no one else I trust to do what will need to be done. Since her mother’s death, we’re all we have, and we don’t have near enough time together. And if I’m around when you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be there for you no matter what. Just, please, if you can, take care of my daughter if I’m unable to do so.

Daniel Wilson   

     Mitch lowered the letter to his lap and stared straight ahead through his bulletproof windshield. He remembered Daniel well as he’d told his daughter. Respected his skills, professionalism, but mostly his heart. He didn’t “eliminate” unnecessarily. Their “jobs” made them cynical at best, but he also noted it could make psychopaths out of some, sociopaths of others, and almost suicidal and broken operators of still more. As he’d admitted to Christine, he’d wondered why and how he was still around – especially of late.

     Should he read the letter addressed to Daniel’s daughter? Picking it up off the console where his dessert rested, he slit it open and began to read.

     Hey, Sweet Girl.

     No time to waste here if you’ve opened this. You must find a way to contact Mitch Rapp. If you can’t locate him quickly, get to Irene Kennedy for assistance immediately on one of those burner phones I told you to keep handy.

     Mitch is the best of the best. I’ve worked with the best and have even been the best at one time, but Rapp is the absolute top of the line. He’s around your age, and if anyone can help, it will be him.

     I hope you will meet him one day simply because you need to know that there are others out there giving their all in this thing we do. He’s young, focused, and utterly skilled. He knows good and evil and never confuses them. He’s had to do things – as I have – which are soul-crushing, but he’s withstood them and will continue to.

     If you’re in trouble, find him, Sweet Girl. Do it quickly. Tell him I sent you. I love you more than life itself, and I hope I can always be there for you, but you know that’s not a given. Take good care, Raven. I love you.

     Always,

     Dad  

     What hit him first was that he wasn’t “young” anymore and was truly astounded that Daniel Wilson had given him that much credit so many years ago when the letter had been written, before he became more experienced – back when Irene was constantly running interference for him after his assignments.

     And then it occurred to him that Daniel had an inkling of his approaching death.

     He inserted the letter back into its envelope, grabbed both letters and his dessert and got out of his car, locked it, and headed back up to “Raven’s” office. 

 

Father, only you can give me what I need to write. Only you. Thank you is never enough. Ever. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

     

Those authors of thrillers . . . Part Two

Let's get right to Part Two of those thriller authors. I've noticed Prologues serve a precise purpose in thrillers. They establish two noteworthy factors for the oncoming story. One: they can be used to depict something in the past responsible for something else which will be occurring in the future. Two: it might reveal the motive for vengeance, it might be considered a debt to be resolved, or it might present the reason for an unforeseen opportunity which has yet to be apparent. Considering thrillers are at some point action-packed, that action either begins in the Prologue or sets the stage for the onslaught. The reason for that preview is either quickly brought to the forefront or languishes in the reader's memory while other events hustle into the present. 

Thriller authors keep an accelerated pace, as inferred by the genre title, but it does waver according to the story. If the author is involved in perpetuating a particular hero throughout a series, he's responsible for many circumstances threatening the hero's life. I've noticed that with most of the thriller series I've read, each novel attempts to hold open the possibility of making the book a standalone while trying not to be repetitious with necessary inclusions. I've also watched as the character development of the hero and those semi-peripheral characters included in the series expands to give the reader a view of all of them from the inside out, showing who they are through the life-and-death struggles within the chaos of the plot as well as slipping in the varying degrees of their relationships to each other. 

Most of the heroes in the series thrillers I've read are insanely tough men, a cut above because they've wanted to be, they've trained to be, and they've had to be -- either to survive or to be an example to those who come with them or after them. Not all of them have that keen sense of good and evil, but all of them recognize the evil. They are more than "proficient" in weaponry of all kinds and how to kill another human being. Their personalities reflect the seriousness of their assignments, and most of them earnestly work against emotional reactions to their work out of necessity. The thriller author determines how their character will respond to what's placed in his path and that determines how the reader responds to the hero. 

I'll do a Part Three on thriller authors' individual heroes next week. 

 

Father, thank you for the wonderful art of writing characters and developing stories. So many gifted authors. Thank you for each one and may they know you, the real author of those gifts. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

 

Those authors of thrillers . . . Part One

   

I've been reading a lot of thrillers lately - and it's one of my favorite/primary reading genres, as you know. I've noticed some things about their authors. If you also enjoy reading thrillers, let me know if you agree with my assessments. 

First of all, I need to make one distinction. Christian authors of thrillers do present a succinct difference in their work. Not in the mechanics but in the plot point. There is a faith factor, not always detailed but definitely a point at some juncture in the story. It's what separates their novels from the general market thrillers. 

I'll begin with the best Christian thriller writer I've had the utter pleasure of personally meeting: Robert Liparulo. Robert has an uncanny knack for making the reader hold his breath or take a breath because the pace is breakneck at times. Racing through dangerous circumstances in some of his older books, it is indeed a thrill ride to read his stories.

Okay, let's move on to the general market thriller writers. Here's what I've deduced:

Type One: Timing is everything. Some authors want to assault you with a jolt immediately in Chapter One or in a Prologue. And it's no simple bump - it's a life-or-death situation, and the hero or multiple characters are hard-pressed to escape it with their lives. Once that's resolved, there's a chapter or two to get comfortable or let down before the next assignment appears with another deadly situation to be faced. While preparing for that, there's a sub-story or a backstory presenting an emotional attachment or reaction to be addressed and hopefully resolved before the expected crisis takes the hero away again. This is one formula I've noticed. Definitely varies from book to book in a series, but this has been a pattern for some thriller authors. The pacing rushes and slows, builds again and then races to either one or many highly contested and dangerous trials before the mostly satisfying conclusion. 

We'll address Type Two tomorrow.   

 

Father, you've gifted so many with gifts and talents for all kinds of writing. Thank you for it all. May each one of the many know from whom their talent comes. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.  

Tuesday Tunes

   

Eric Clapton, one of the best guitarists back in the day and still able to rock 'n' roll, in one of his most recognizable hits from the "Derek and the Dominos" band, one of several in which he performed.

 

Lord, you're able to reach anybody. You know just when to call us. Thank you for every rescue, every heart yielded to you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Monday Musings . . .

 

From my latest novel Then . . . you.

From Chapter 5 

She finished getting ready and walked down the hall to the tantalizing aroma of bacon and biscuits which quickly reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since a light lunch yesterday at work. Does the man cook too?

     Walking into the kitchen, she observed him standing over the stove, maneuvering eggs around in a pan. Dressed in black Levis without rips and another black long-sleeve T-shirt with a depiction of a yellow “Don’t Tread on Me” flag on the back, he asked, “Hungry?” without turning around.

     “I didn’t think I was until I smelled your cooking. Now I am,” she said. “What can I do?”

     “Get us something to drink. I’ll take a glass of milk. You help yourself to whatever you want. Are you a coffee or tea drinker?”

     “Both actually, but coffee in the morning usually does it for me.”

     “I’m out right now which doesn’t happen very often. We’ll stop on the way at a stand. That okay?” He turned to look at her then.

     “You shaved off your beard,” she said without thinking, seeing the moustache remained.

     With his free hand, he rubbed his face. “Yeah, I was being lazy. Feels better this way.” He turned off the burners, grabbed the biscuits out of the oven and tilted them into a towel-lined basket. He set them and the butter on the island along with two kinds of jam he snatched from the fridge and a container of honey.

     “Here ya go,” he said, handing her a plate. He’d already set out silverware on a napkin.

     She’d poured him a glass of milk, setting it on the island and selected a small bottle of orange juice.

     “This looks delicious.”

     “Glad you think so,” he said, taking a bite of bacon. “Help yourself.”

     She buttered a warm biscuit and dabbed some honey on it, savored the taste. She put a small portion of scrambled eggs on her plate and took a strip of bacon. “This is a treat, Stone. It’s rare when I eat a real breakfast. Thank you.”

     “You’re welcome. I’m a breakfast junkie.” He shook some green Tabasco on his eggs. “Probably because I tend to eat early in the evening but rarely get to bed early. So I wake up hungry.” He stopped eating and talking and looked at her. Serious.

     “What?” she said, intimidated.

     “It’s weird talking to you. No one’s ever here. I’m surprised we’ve had a conversation.”

     “Really? You seem so easy to talk to. I wouldn’t normally admit to just anyone all the stuff I said to you last night. I mean, I did of course owe you an explanation for the intrusion, but I could’ve opted to tidy it up a bit, I guess. That didn’t even occur to me. I do apologize for being such a wreck.” She felt the color heat her face.

     He kept his eyes on her and took another bite of eggs. His stare did tend to unnerve her, but she did her best to hold his gaze.

     “Your eyes are green,” he said.

     “You walk with a limp. Your right leg. It’s permanent. Some atrophy from a serious injury.”

     “Shattered the femur. Enemy sniper. He missed his target. Should’ve been my head. Hardware keeps it together.”

     Her professionalism kicked in. “Please understand how I say this. A massage could help you. And by that, I mean it could give your musculature some stimulus to increase the circulation, the blood flow, plus there are other specific techniques which could relieve pressure areas. I would love to help you.”

     Her sincerity and business-like delivery impressed him, but she had no idea what her words actually said to him. He kept his eyes focused on her, trying not to watch her lips speaking them. He almost missed when the words ended. He continued to look her in the eyes for an extra couple of moments.

     He finished his nearly full glass of milk in one large, quick gulp. “Understand how I say this: under the circumstances it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. But, thank you.” He said it quieter than he normally spoke and with a respectful consideration to his tone.

     His look once again unnerved her while the flame consumed her entire face. She hurried and collected their plates and rinsed them in the sink.

 

 

Father, apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you for it all. You've blessed me more than I can ever know. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Sunday's Offerings

 

. . . I [Paul] have become its [the church's] servant by the commission God gave me to present to you the word of God in its fullness -- the mystery that has been kept hidden for ages and generations, but is now disclosed to the saints. To them God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. 

 

Colossians 1:25-27 (NIV)

Fan Fiction . . . a la Mitch Rapp

             

Friday is now Mitch Rapp Fan Fiction Day. Picking up with a short overlap from last week:

   

     She took another drink and hesitated briefly before saying, “Is there anything you want to tell me or ask me? I know you’ve been trained to evaluate people. Not only because of your line of work but because of your innate sense of self-preservation, you won’t easily trust me if ever at all. If you don’t want to be my client, I would hope that somehow we might be able to cultivate a friendship. Do you think that could ever be feasible?”         

     Rapp decided right then that he liked this woman. She was truthful and had no obvious desire to play games. She didn’t pry into his life even though he suspected she knew a fair amount about him, having said as much in her office when she told him she’d admired him for some time. He considered her offer.

     “If you had to choose, which one would you take?”

     “Friendship, hands down,” she replied without hesitation. “But before that could happen, I have a confession to make. Not here though.”

     The waiter collected their plates, asked about their beverages, and replied he’d bring their check when Rapp asked for it. He returned quickly with two carefully wrapped dessert boxes.

     “Compliments of Paolo. He said he knew you wouldn’t stay for dessert.” He set the bill next to Rapp who picked it up, glanced at it and handed him a hundred-dollar bill.

     “Keep the change,” he said as he stood. “And please express our thanks for these and the perfect lunch.”

     Once inside the car with their desserts in her lap, Christine said, “I won’t keep you long at the office, Rapp. I just need to speak with you for a couple of minutes.”

     He glanced at her noticing the subtle worry on her face. “Okay.”

     After arriving in the private parking area, he turned to her. “You seem worried about something. Want to tell me why?”

     “I do. I’ve been given something to give to you. Many years ago. It’s a letter from my father addressed to you. He instructed me not to read it but to give it to you if I ever had the opportunity. I’ve kept it with me wherever I’ve been and gone. It was one of the last things he gave me on that fateful 21^st birthday.” She dropped her head and took a deep breath. Sitting back upright and looking straight ahead, she said, “He gave me one also. About you. My instructions were to read it if and only when I ever felt truly threatened. I haven’t read it yet.” She looked at him and met his serious gaze.

     He undid his seatbelt and said, “Well, let’s get to it then.” He got out, did his usual inspection as he walked around to let her out. Before she got out, she left his dessert on the console. 

     Once inside her office, Rapp took his seat, relaxed. He watched her set her dessert on the desk and quickly attend to the phone. Keeping her purse, she came around her desk to sit across from him, unzipped a compartment of the large leather bag and pulled out two long envelopes, handing both of them to him.

     Picking up on her nervousness, he listened as she said, “I apologize for the wear and tear. I did my best to keep them somewhat pristine. I know Dad wrote them in his own script, and I was afraid the ink might bleed or something might interfere with his message.” She stopped.

     “One of these is yours.”

     “I know, but I want you to read it. In case there’s anything in there you’d rather I didn’t know.” She looked down at her hands, having not felt this nervous since she couldn’t remember when.

     “What do you think is in it?”

     She looked directly at him, knowing he could see her discomfort. “I suspect he was truly concerned that at some point his family would be in danger due to his --”

     “I get it. Definitely a concern. So you assume he wanted you to contact me somehow if you suspected your life might be threatened?”

     She nodded, thinking she might not be able to utter another word without either saying something stupid or resorting to ugly crying, both of which she considered embarrassingly unprofessional. The loss of her dad still resurrected that intense grief, something she'd never displayed so openly with anyone else, keeping it well-hidden until now. 

     He stood. She stood, clutching her purse, then quickly set it on the chair, trying to hold his gaze and find her voice. 

     "I'll call you," he said. 

     "Thank you." It came out just above a whisper. 

     He turned and left her office, quietly shutting the door behind him. 

 

Lord, thank you for words that create stories, images, metaphors, symbolism. Truly grateful for the pictures in the mind that bring characters to life. Apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.  

      

Throwback Thursday

                             

Liberty Lake area in Spokane, Washington, way back in the day after my first season at Longacres Racetrack. 

 

Jesus, I didn't yet know you. There are many regrets back in those days. Thank you for forgiving and rescuing me farther down the road of my life. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Wednesday Whimsy

                                            

Destination presents a fusion of intersecting characters in a fictitious eastern Washington town in a way almost none of them see coming. In the midst of these lives meshing, spiritual battles rage against some of them, and a reckoning of their hearts is required. 

In reality some Christians resist coming face-to-face with our spiritual enemy. Spiritual warfare is often downplayed or ignored.

In Destination some characters can no longer pretend there is no spiritual battle for their souls. 

One of my all-time favorite characters is in this story. "Grams" is who I want to be when I grow up - I'm almost there. 

 

Father, thank you for each character, every inspiration and word. Apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Tuesday Tunes

       

An oldie from the Captain and Tennille from back in the day. Keeping with the love theme. 

 

Lord, you give creativity, music, gifts and talents. You know hearts and minds. May each one that participates in the various creative gifts know from whom they are generously given. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.