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By the title of this post, you might be expecting something shocking, vital, or profound. The only thing that might "shock" readers is what I will be "standing" on in my article. "Vital"? Well, yes, to me it is. "Profound"? At the heart of it, yes, and I'll do my best to explain my reasoning.
First, let me say Monday posts don't often generate a lot of traffic on this blog. I have no idea why one day is more "productive" than another. I chose Monday for this post because there are things I need to say, and I don't want to wait to say them. So let me begin . . .
I have a profession. I'll be the first to admit and tell you that few people recognize me as having it. I'm an author of 11 novels, 9 published, 2 not, with one work in progress - that's what we authors refer to as our "WIP". No one will recognize me on the street and ask for an autograph or want to take a selfie with me. I'm just another person going about my day. But, I'm taking a stand as an author who would love for more people to read my work, and I'm willing to explain the precise reasons for that.
The primary reason why this is "vital" to me and worth this drama of "taking a stand" is because, although what I write only affects a certain element of our reading public, it's the way it's written that makes it important to those who do choose to read the love story/romance genre. Christian Fiction is that segment of literature that gives a picture of a love bigger than our secular human version of romance, love, and sex. It provides a more intimate look at the origin of and deeper meaning to the dance of love. Does that imply that romance and sex are unimportant and/or unnecessary? It most certainly does not. To deny their value is to deny the gifts of God given specifically to the human race He created.
The tagline for my work is Raw Romantic Redemptive because it presents the worldly characters as they really are. Christians who prefer those stories with the "clean" labels might consider some of my characters undesirable - how they act and how they speak - because they are. Life is messy and unclean. I present both the ugly and the precious. It's critical to note here that I don't do "graphic" in sensual scenes. It's also critical to note that the undesirables are definitely in need of the redemption Jesus provides. Readers will not fail to see that choosing that redemption is a solution even the fictional character can make - or not - within the boundaries of the story. The vital choice within a love story.
Which brings me to the "profound" part of this message and stance. I spent 30 years in the world believing in God but not knowing His Son. Having been a person who's been writing since I was a child, it's no surprise that eventually I stepped into my calling after meeting Jesus and experiencing redemption. I had many regrets and sorrows to confess, particularly for the 9 years preceding my salvation. Having truly sampled what the world had to offer gave me a perspective some Christian authors haven't personally lived - and that's to their credit.
The profound love of God is often mocked, but in the end we know God cannot be mocked. The gospel message is one of deliverance from a sinful mindset, lifestyle, outlook, living in the flesh and ignoring the spiritual aspect of our 3-part creation. It took a tremendous sacrifice for it to be offered to us, a debt we could never pay resolved on a brutal cross. Why bother with this rebellious human race? The answer in all of its complexity is simple: "For God so loved the world that he gave His one and only Son so that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."
My novels demonstrate not only the beauty inherent in the dance of love, but the redemptive Love God offers in the process. Take Him or leave Him. It's a choice He gives His creation. The humanity of love cannot compare to the love of God. It would figure then that if you see the contrast between the world's version of love and God's design for it, you'd be more equipped to make the choice in an eternal matter of the heart.
So. The stand I'm taking is this: If you read love stories, romance novels, and/or Christian Fiction, I'm asking you to pick up one of my books to investigate, to decide if my writing appeals to your sense of what you want from the genre. I know they won't appeal to all of you, but some of you, hopefully, will decide my stories are worth your reading time. Then get back to me. If you enjoyed it, share your thoughts. If you don't, please don't.
Just a concluding side note: Men, I have a few novels that might interest you. My one and only mystery Race has been enjoyed by men as has The Famous One and Seeing . . .
My stand is I believe my work has something to offer readers of the genre. I want those readers to find my novels. So that's what all this drama is about.
Raw Romantic Redemptive . . . Love stories with a passion
Lord God Almighty, thank you for every word, every inspiration, all of my characters, the beauty of your design for love. Nothing equals what you do. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
As you know, I write love stories, heavy on the romance. I prefer love stories to general romance. Why? We've been over it in prior posts, but to reiterate the reason for my preference: In most of today's romance novels, there is a formula that is followed somewhat religiously.
It goes something like this: Guy meets gal and they either have this instant chemistry or they hate each other. Next, there's this conflict which somehow throws them together or they're already attracted to each other and they fight the conflict together or they create a conflict between each other and they part company, suffer the separation, realize their stupidity, get back together -- you get the drill. Different characters, same story.
Love stories go deeper into relationship and deeply into the characters in the story. There isn't always a complex plot or necessarily a lot of conflict. It's the story of how love happens and what those people do with it.
Each of these "definitions" is simplified, but I'm merely stipulating the differences are subtle, but they're real.
Having said that, if you're a romance reader, chances are you also enjoy love stories. However, if you prefer love stories, you might not appreciate the pure romance genre.
That's it for Friday. I will close with this recommendation at a terrific price right now in print if you're a lover of love stories:
Father, apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you for it all. Always desperate for you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
In the shed row at the now defunct Longacres Racetrack my first year. Sometimes there are still those days in life when you just don't feel like coping. Know what I mean?
Father, you brought me through all of them and still do. Thank you is never enough. Thank you for rescuing me. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Memory Lane is Becky Wade's Book One in the Sons of Scandal Romance Series.
Two individuals meet in the most tumultuous of ways when one of them physically rescues the other from drowning. She's the reluctant heroine to his battered hero, and as much as she resents having this gorgeous hunk of damaged man in her space, she takes her detailed care of him very seriously. In the most unlikely of circumstances, she and he both realize he suffers from amnesia, hypothermia, a wound on the back of his head, and some serious bodily injuries causing him considerable pain. She's Remy Reed, a sculptor of wood, and he's - who is he?
The isolated island in Maine where she dwells in her primitive cabin becomes his temporary home for healing. His memories aren't surfacing quickly, and he has no idea how or why he was out there drowning in the ocean while she searches the internet for possible missing persons, all about amnesia, and cracked or broken ribs. He really can't stay with her even though she's surrendered her only bed to him and sleeps on the floor next to him in case he needs her help at night.
Her lobsterwoman friend Leigh is rough around the edges, tough and tender at the same time, and has grown quite sympathetic to the stranger, willing to help however she can. Since there are no grocery stores on this island, she offers to take her boat for supplies. He gives her his extremely expensive watch to pawn to pay for them, having no idea how he came to own it. This is just one more of the many mysteries surrounding the man.
Remy fights all kinds of emotions surrounding her "patient", calls him "Duke" because he acts like one with his "demands" without knowing why. He finds he enjoys hassling her and takes pleasure in her exaggerated frustrations with and responses to him.
Finding out who he is in the most unusual way is a shock to both of them.
Writing a character like Remy is a challenge - at least from this author's point of view, it is. She's a wounded, eccentric young woman who's made a hidden life for herself that doesn't take this intrusion well. It's difficult - at least it is for me - to like her while still being able to realize whatever her past will reveal is probably the deciding factor to whether or not I can warm up to her. Although all of us - even without trauma - often lie to ourselves or fight our feelings or ignore what's been placed right in front of us to do or establish, I don't admire it in myself or others. That's a risk to make your co-main character one of those people who refuses to own up to what they're experiencing when it doesn't coincide with their agendas for their lives. Becky nails this unusual character in all her quirks, quick wit, frustrations, discoveries, and fears.
And needless to say for readers of Becky Wade's romances, the hero in this story is really a mega-hero. His character overshadows any flaws (although it's hard to find any), and what he endures in discovering who he is and what his life has been prior to the accident endears him even further to the reader.
Becky gets romance and she's not afraid to write it. On that point, it's a definitely pure (not graphic) sensual success.
My minor dislike has nothing to do with the story. It's the cover. For me, it doesn't point to the wonderful story inside at all.
Father, you know all about what Becky needs and desires for herself, her family, her career. Please be there for her as always and continue to lead her in everything you have just for her. Bless her and keep her safe from all harm. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Yes, finally!
Got a wonderful review on Barnes&Noble for Then . . . you. Made my day!
Certainly took a while to get rolling again. Something about Then . . . you - I know I keep saying that, but that book did something to me, and to this day I can't describe what it is/was. Special story to write.
This new book? Hard to say where it's going, but I welcome getting to know the hero and heroine. Not my usuals, it seems. Interesting people, and there's so much more to learn about them.
It's good to be writing again. I can definitely say that.
Father, apart from you, I can do nothing. That is the bottom line. I thank you for it all. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Reading is a huge part of writing. Authors need to read in order to write well. Reading other authors in your genre expands your inspiration while filtering your style and polishing your voice. We all write differently even if we resemble each other in the way we approach our genres. It's not that our voices sound alike. It's that there's an intangible connection to the way we write.
My reading of novels varies while I'm involved in writing one of my novels. And it seems I've noticed myself binge reading occasionally when my writing isn't sparking. Sometimes I read a novel while I'm writing, but sometimes I don't. It varies and isn't predictable. However, at some point, writing or not, I will return to reading a novel.
Authors, are you reading someone else's novel while you're writing your own?
Father, thank you for every one of the stories you've given me. And thank you for the amazing novels I've read. Thank you is never enough. Please help me to continue writing those stories you have just for me to tell. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
After finishing and publishing my latest novel Then . . . you, I languished in my writing simply because that entire book meant something special to me which included the cover shoot with people I love, the creation of the cover which resulted from that, the wonderful words on that back cover by a friend who did me a huge favor by reading it quickly when I asked, and the story within that front and back cover. To this day I don't know exactly why it was such a unique book to write. It just was.
But, we authors often find a way to get to it again, and I've slowly amassed 7000K+ words in the next novel with a story that continues to surprise me with its first person male POV - he who happens to be a bestselling author whose books content-wise might resemble a type of Charles Martin, although certainly not in personality or personal history. [Side note: If you haven't had the meaningful experience of reading a Charles Martin novel, treat yourself to one of them. I doubt seriously after reading one of them if you'll not pick up another.]
I have the title for this one which I think will remain, but there's no point in revealing it at this early time.
So that's it for this Monday's post . . .
Father, you are and have always been so generous to me. Amazing God. I will never be able to thank you enough, but I will continue to give you my deepest thanks for all that you've done for me. Immeasurable. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
This is from my ebook Destination.
REMEMBERED
He hoped this hadn’t been a bad idea, but even if it was, there weren’t a lot of choices as far as he was concerned. Why not go back to his roots? He just hoped she was still here right where she’d always been. How old must she be by now? At least 80 he figured. What if she was in some kind of facility? Not her. He couldn’t imagine it.
He drove his black Bronco II up the long gravel drive to the house, the hot dust spinning around behind him no matter how slow he attempted to go. No rain around here in awhile. Typical hot summer day. He reached the asphalt circular drive, the irrigated summer flowers brightly surrounding it on each side. He admired the sprawling Spanish style ranch house and put the vehicle in park, shutting it off. He stayed inside it for an extra minute trying to remember why he thought he should come here, but he knew. In his heart he knew. Heaving a weary sigh, he got out and walked along the stone path leading up to the exotic design of the carved double door. He knocked, a firm knock that spoke of a confidence he didn’t feel or own.
It took so long for her to answer he was just about to head back to his rig. He stayed put when he heard the big door open.
There she stood, a tiny wisp of a woman leaning on a cane on her right side. Her grey hair with a few black strands remaining was cut stylishly short and held its shape on her narrow head. She wore Levis and a bright yellow western blouse with white vertical stripes and matching dainty yellow and white sandals on her small narrow feet. Her blue eyes sparkled bright as he remembered how they always seemed to look right through him . . . and still did.
“Grams,” he greeted her quietly with the name he and many others had always known her by.
She narrowed her gaze and cocked her head just slightly. Then she took her long thin left arm and reached up to grab his right arm and turn him just enough to where she could see his dark auburn hair pulled neatly back and tied with a leather string in a ponytail resting just below the nape of his neck. Then she pulled him back to face her.
“Tommy, that you?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, Grams, it’s me,” he replied, realizing she was the only one on the face of this earth who could still get away with calling him “Tommy”.
She turned and began talking as she walked back into the house, expecting him to follow which he did. “Hank Jr. always used to like his hair grown all long like that. You know it drove Ace crazy. I think that’s why he did it. Course by the time he went into the military, all those pretty locks ended up on the floor, but he never really minded.”
She walked all the way into the kitchen before she turned around again and told him to have a seat at the kitchen table. The place was immaculate and it was like stepping into a fancy hacienda in Mexico—at least what he imagined one would look like.
“Something to drink?”
“A coke if you have it, please, Grams.”
“Of course I have a coke. Couldn’t live without it myself. Best drink on the face of the planet,” she said adamantly as she went to the modern stainless steel refrigerator and slid a glass into the alcove that produced ice. She filled two glasses with ice and then produced two cans of coke. “Here ya go.”
“Thanks.”
“So how old are ya now?” she asked, calculating in her mind how long it had been since she’d seen him. “’Bout 30 or so?”
“Yeah, 31, almost 32.”
“Seen some trouble, huh?” Compassion evident in her voice.
He laughed slightly. “I think you’re the only one who could ever read my mind,” he answered, solemnity taking hold.
“Ain’t about readin’ minds, Tommy. I always thought you pretty much put everything right out there for a person to see if they’d just look, you know?”
He smiled at the old woman, appreciation for her straightforward ways welling up inside of him. “What’s with the cane, Grams?”
She gave the cane a horrible look of disgust. “Temporary, my boy. Hip replacement. Won’t be long and I won’t need it anymore.” She paused. “I almost didn’t use the darn thing, but when the doctor threatened me with the alternatives should I lose my balance and yada, yada, yada, I decided I wasn’t too proud to use it. For a short season, you know.”
He took a drink of his coke, the cold welcome burn sliding down his throat.
“So you need a place to stay?”
“I do, Grams. But you know I’ll work for it. Anything you want done, I’ll do.”
She eyed him. “That bad, huh? Well, you know there’s always plenty to do, son. I don’t run the farm anymore. Leased out the hay fields. A good family operates it like Ace would’ve done, so it’s alright.”
“How long has it been now, Grams?”
“Ten years.” She paused and gazed across the room. “Seems like just yesterday he’d be comin’ in from the fields for supper. Darn him. The old soldier made it to see Jesus before me. We used to argue about it, you know. He insisted he’d beat me to Him. True to his word . . .” Her voice trailed off.
She stood. “Let me show you to your room, Tommy.” And off she went, tapping that cane at a rapid pace.
“I don’t expect to stay in the house, Grams,” he offered, not wanting to put his old friend to any trouble.
That stopped her in her tracks, and she turned around abruptly. “Ha! And just where would you expect to be stayin’, Tommy? In the hen house? Heaven’s sake, boy. I don’t care if you are hired help, you’re going to have a little space to call your own in this big old lonely palace. You got a problem with that?” She confronted him with a look that reminded him of an angry little bird.
“No, ma’am,” he replied. “Thank you.”
“Huh. ‘I don’t expect to stay in the house, Grams,’” she imitated him. “For cryin’ out loud. Think this old lady is afraid to have a handsome young man in her house? That’ll be the day!” she muttered as they traveled down a spacious adobe-looking hallway.
They came to a stop outside a large room. Grams pointed with her cane. “This’ll do nicely, I think.” She walked inside. “That bed’s never been slept on to my knowledge. Ace built this end of the house for reunions with family and his Marine buddies. He put this king size bed in here just before he went on.” She plowed forward into the bathroom. “This here’s got a nice Jacuzzi. Ace put one in our room, too. It’s good for what ails ya, you know? Must be them bubbles—kinda massages away the aches and pains.”
He smiled politely and wondered if a blush was threatening to warm his neck and face. The room and bath were like a hotel suite.
She went back into the main bedroom. “In here,” she said, pointing with her cane once again to some built-in cabinets, “are all the linens. Sheets, towels, blankets, the works. You can’t find somethin’ you need, you tell me. Alright?”
“Alright,” his voice soft.
She turned toward the corner of the room near the multiple shuttered windows. “That there fireplace and insert will feel mighty good this winter. Ace built ‘em in most of the larger rooms. Great idea for wintertime.”
Wow.
“Now, you go get what stuff you got and set yourself up in here. If you’ve got anything you want stored, I’ve got the big barn and the bunkhouse. As soon as you get settled, you come on out for dinner. Alright?”
“Alright, Grams. I don’t—”
Grams held up her hand in a stop position. “Don’t. You know I’ll make you work for it. It’s only right. That way you don’t have to feel guilty.” She paused. “Looks like you’ve spent enough time feelin’ that way. No more.”
Having said that, she put her cane in motion and strutted out of the room and back down the passageway. He stood there in wonder. God, I don’t deserve this.
He hauled in his belongings, short of some tools he left in the back of the Bronco. He needed a shower and felt privileged to take one in such elegant surroundings. He shaved only because he figured it would make him look more presentable, the menthol lather feeling good on his hot face. He slapped a bit of cologne on his jaw line and inspected himself. He decided a while back his long hair was here to stay. It made him feel new. Not so much like the uptight guy he once was with the perfectly styled hair and the expensive clothes he usually couldn’t afford. He shook his head a bit at the memory while he towel dried his thick wavy mane. A waitress in one of the small towns he’d stopped in to get a piece of pie and a glass of milk, had told him he had great hair—that normally she didn’t like long hair on a man, but that his was “plum nice, all shiny and well-groomed”. He’d thanked her with a smile and a good tip. When he was all dressed in clean jeans and a fresh T-shirt, he tied back his hair and went out to have dinner with Grams.
She glanced up from her spot in front of the built-in grill. “No need to tie your hair back on my account, boy. You shoulda seen ol’ Hank Jr.’s when he wore it down.” She laughed out loud. “Ol’ Ace threatened to take him down, but Hank knew he’d gotten big enough to best his ol’ man. He wouldna done it, of course. I told ol’ Ace just to ignore him, and he’d probably cut it himself before the jarheads did.” She laughed a short burst at the memory and turned a large juicy steak over.
As it sizzled profusely, two things happened. Thomas wondered how in the world Grams could read his thoughts, and his mouth watered at the wonderful aroma of that chunk of meat, the likes of which he couldn’t remember eating since . . . well, he couldn’t remember when.
“Pour us some milk, will ya, boy? You do still drink milk, don’t ya?”
“Yeah, Grams. Coke and milk are pretty much all I drink, I guess.”
“You and me both, Tommy. Yes sir. You smell good. I like a man who ain’t afraid to wear cologne. Ol’ Ace always cleaned up nice after a day in the hot fields. Put on some of that aftershave of his, and, well . . . he knew I liked it.”
Grams attended to some other things on the stove while the occasional flames jumped up and licked the steaks on the grill. He wasn’t there too long before she shut it down, having decided the steaks were cooked to perfection. Later on when she served the meal and Thomas bit into one, he knew she was right. Medium rare, juicy, and so delicious he almost moaned with pleasure.
“Wow, Grams. I’ve never in my life had a steak this good,” he said with complete admiration.
“I still raise a few good beef. The feed store mixes up that grain concoction Ace made up. Just before he died, ol’ Norrie who owns the place asked if he could patent it and bag it up. Ace made a deal with him and they split the profits and called it Ace’s Beef Feed. They sell the darn stuff all over the world now, believe it or not. Keeps money in the coffers of heaven—Ace made sure all his profits on that project went to the Lord’s work. Missionaries. Generous man, that Ace.”
“I remember,” Thomas said with genuine respect between the savored bites of his dinner.
“You probably don’t know this, son, but he really liked you, Tommy.”
Thomas was quiet as he remembered the attention Ace would give him whenever he’d wander over to visit, a curious boy who loved the big ranch down the country road from his modest home. “He was always kind to me, Grams. I remember he taught me something every time I came over—either about hay, or cattle, or keeping up a ranch. He made me feel important, like I could actually be useful if I put my mind to it.”
Grams laughed. “He told me he’d never met a kid who was so eager to learn. Our two boys, Samuel and Hank Jr., were just so used to everything, you know? They wanted to go into the military as soon as they could fight and play, I think. Be like their daddy. I think it’s a good thing when a man can die doin’ what he likes, you know?”
Thomas almost choked on his food as the image of walking in on Will Otis having sex with his wife popped into his mind. He coughed violently and choked out an “Excuse me” before he was able to stop.
“My land, boy. Didn’t mean to bring up a bad memory.”
Thomas’s eyes had filled with water and he needed to blow his nose. “Grams, is there a bathroom close or should I run to my room?” he asked hoarsely.
“Just down that hall there on the left, son. Then get back here and finish your plate.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The main bathroom was as elegant and charming as the other rooms had been. He felt like he’d been transported to another country where he was a privileged guest. He quickly rinsed his face, blew his nose, and washed his hands. Then he tried to compose himself enough to go out and finish the fabulous meal he’d been served.
“I’m sorry about that, Grams,” he said as he sat back down at the table.
“You gonna tell me what happened?” she asked, sending a direct glare across the table at him.
“Yeah, I am.” He paused. “It’s bad, Grams. And if you’re not okay with me bein’ here after you hear about it, I’ll understand.”
“Pssht,” she uttered. “Go on now. You’ve got my attention.”
Father, you give me stories, inspiration, words, and characters. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
This is my first audio book and this post appeared on 04/08/22, titled "My First One".
You see that very special name below mine? That's a very special author of his own novels, now the producer and narrator of Race. You know him. I've reviewed two of his novels here and here - and loved them! It's the one and only Joseph Courtemanche. That melodic voice will insert you into this murder mystery, written like a police procedural, and send you into your search for the killer.
The big "tease": our new audio book is now available.
Father, I pray you would pour out your Spirit upon Joseph, bless him in your abundance, continue to lead him on the path designed just for him, and give him those stories you have just for him to tell. I cannot thank him enough for his generosity, kindness, and steadfast commitment. He's amazing, and I thank you that I can call him a friend and a special man. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
The wonder of "story" . . . Authors who write novels perform that task in every way imaginable. Strict schedules, random organization, photographs, story boards, outlines, lists, rigid adherence to formulas for the genre, with abandon and disorder, written with paper and pen, laptops, personal computers, and probably many schemes I haven't even thought of.
And the variations to get their book(s) "to market" can be an all-encompassing labor of love, but it will require significant labor.
The hardest one for me to write was my first saga. No telling why it turned out to be 744 pages! Inexperience primarily. Safe to say if I wrote it today, it wouldn't be near that long. But it's a learning process - no doubt about that. The second most difficult to write was Race, my singular mystery, because I was so concerned with making critical errors in the police procedural part of the story. Thankfully, the detective who helped me encouraged me more than even he knew, and I got it written.
The beauty of stories is the inherent motivation to write them. They inevitably tell truths in all kinds of ways and touch hearts or elicit laughter or bring tears - all of which readers know to expect. Meaningful novels offer every kind of entertainment while contributing to life's experiences in a silent form - unless of course the "reader" listens to the story in audio form.
Nine published and two unpublished novels later, one WIP, I know it's what I'm supposed to do, and that gives me the fulfillment I need.
Father, again and again, thank you is never enough. Never will be. Thank you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
The obvious quest for success seems to be to make a lot of money and/or to gain notoriety and/or respect and/or fill-in-the-blank. Does it not?
Except the real meaning of "success" is perhaps as individual as the people seeking after it. First, a personal definition must be decided upon by the person on the quest for it. Second, after a period of time, the decision as to potential modification of that initial definition must be ascertained. Third, any modification must be interfaced with the original plan or hope. Fourth, absolute reality - good, bad, or indifferent must be applied.
This is not a post defining success, criticizing success, or pretending to understand the successes of some over others. I would enjoy hearing your thoughts regarding actual success.
Father, every good and perfect gift comes from you. Period. We must strive for obedience which you then follow with all sorts of blessings. Thank you is never enough. Please continue to help me to be the one you designed me to be. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.