I wrote the following blog post for Novel Rocket (if you haven't subscribed to that excellent feed, do it now. Especially if you're hoping to learn more about writing fiction). 




       I can still remember the ringing telephone.
 Coming through the door -- beach sand still in my hair -- I lunged for the phone, always certain somebody has just died.

     But it was my editor at Revell.
     "You won!" she exclaimed.
     It will sound disingenuous but the truth often embarrasses: I didn't know what she was talking about. Several significant moments of silence passed. Then an idea dislodged itself from my beach brain. 
     Oh. Christy Awards. This weekend.
     My first novel, "The Stones Cry Out,” was nominated for best first novel.
     "What's wrong?" the editor asked, as the silence stretched on.
     "Nothing."
     "You’re probably in shock. Isn’t it great news?!"
     Yes.
     And no.
     Despite the nomination, I never expected to win. Given the great novels competing in the same category, I didn't think my book would win.
    Actually, I didn't think it should win. 
     My first novel reminded me of a knock-kneed colt struggling to stand up on its own feet. That it would win an award like the Christy seemed absurd. I wondered if a mistake had been made.
     Ever since, I've felt a certain ambivalence about winning that honor. I figured my problem was pride (I’m human; there is always pride). But four novels later, I can see some sense in my ambivalence. And I can share three important lessons. 

One: Pray that your first book is not your best. 
     Despite the award in my hand, I remained busy grieving my novice abilities. Fortunately, God countered the sackcloth-and-ashes with a spirit of perseverance. I decided the only way to get better was to keep going.
     “Most people won’t realize that writing is a craft,” said Katherine Anne Porter. “You have to take your apprenticeship in it like anything else.”
     Of course, you will find your own ways of enduring the early apprenticeship, but one of my favorites was The Tour of First Novels.
     One day, at my most frustrated, I stormed into the library and checked out first novels by my favorite authors. Within hours, relief was humming through my veins. Not that schadenfreude sort of relief, but something productive.
     Most of those first books were bad. Some even stunk. And none matched their author’s later output.
     Like most first novels, those first books read like seed pods yearning to bloom. 
    Or: knock-kneed colts struggling to stand. 

Two: In the modern era of e-books, the first book might not be so final. 
     Some months ago, the copyright to "The Stones Cry Out" returned to me.
     Here came my colt, running for home.
     Unfortunately, temptation was riding with it.
     The rationalization went like this: It won a Christy. Received good reviews. Launched a successful series. You should just put it on Kindle. As-is….
     But we’re called to be workers who need not be ashamed, “rightly dividing the word of truth." (2 Tim 2:15). Since I still didn't love my first book, it was my responsibility to do something about it.
     With prayers for humility and discernment, I proceeded from Page 1 and continued to the end, rounding out scenes, adding flesh to characters, trying to bring the story closer to what followed in the rest of the Raleigh Harmon series.
     And when "The Stones Cry Out” was put on Kindle, I didn't hesitate to add the Christy Award honor.
    Because it looked different to me now.
     Not only for the new work done, though it played a large part. The difference was lesson three.
      I didn’t write that first book to win an award; I am grateful for it. But I am also grateful that the honor didn’t fill me with (more) pride. The simple fact is, I write because God made me a writer. That's what I’m supposed to do. Any honors, awards, or leading positions on the best-seller list can only be viewed through the lens of grace.
     Completely undeserved: And yet, there it is.
     And the apprenticeship carries on accordingly.

For the Love of Dog

Our family dog, Jesse. Ever protective, she's watching the kids swim in the river.

Here's a short story by Ray Bradbury, posted on mockingbird.com.  You will never look at dogs the same way again.

Read and reflect.

And rejoice.

The Poet as Prophet

Today's news is that Usama Bin Laden is dead.

Today is also Holocaust Remembrance Day.

God's timing is ceaselessly fascinating. While each individual can draw their own comparisons between the two events, I found myself recalling lines from a W.H. Auden poem, "1st September 1939."

September 1, 1939 was the day Hitler invaded Poland. The 20th century was never the same again.

They say history repeats itself. It does. But history also rhymes with itself.

And Auden's poem fits both then, and now.

Here is the poet reading his poem.

The Blues

Joe "Blue," bringing down the house

When it comes to music, I prefer long ballads and poetry.

But I married a blues musician. Our first years of wedded bliss included dancing every weekend -- with me thinking, "You're not going to repeat that line again, are you?"

The structure of a blues song is so simple it seems cruel. Usually there's nothing more than three stanzas with two repeating lines, followed by a third line -- that replies to the repeating line!

It's enough to drive a novelist straight into the arms of William Faulkner.

But a funny thing happened on the way to growing up: My appreciation for The Blues has deepened every year.

Rock music can obscure any shallow sentiments with decibels and lightning guitar licks. Folk singers can pirouette on brilliant phrasing, even if there's no feeling involved. Grunge grinds down on despair, proving misery loves company. And rap -- well, let's just say rap doesn't belong in this paragraph about music.

Meanwhile, the simplicity of a Blues song works like an auger for truth. The song's meaning doesn't come from its words or fancy chord progressions. Its meaning comes from the heart, and the repeating lines underscore the sentiment -- sorrow, pain, loss, affliction.

A good novelist can't simply type a book. And a true Blues musician can't just sing a song. The common goal is to reach the heart. Which often requires bleeding in public -- on purpose.

Some religious people describe The Blues as "the devil's music." But I think it's closer to the opposite. It's about those sighs "too deep for words."

Recently The Hunk of Italy and I attended the Washington Blues Society's annual awards show. For the second year running, The Hunk was nominated for best blues harp while his band -- Hot Rod's Blues Review -- was nominated for best band. (By the way, double nominations two consecutive years doesn't means poor supply. Just the opposite. Most states are fortunate to have one blues society. Washington has six -- six! -- grooving the Northwest from the Oregon border up to Canada and across the Cascades into Spokane. From April to October, there's a blues event nearly every weekend.) Although The Hunk lost to the gracious and equally talented Jeff Herzog, it was a lovely night at The Triple Door.

And it reminded me once again why The Blues and the people who play it are so special.

Here's the short list:

Age. Other than the beautiful Stacy Jones, who can belt it out like LouAnn Barton, most blues musicians are pushing 40 or 50. A serious percentage are giving 60 new meaning. And since age generally matures the heart, the older the musician, the better his Blues.
      Take that, MTV.

Tone. Not just musically, but conduct. As wild, individualistic, and imaginative as these musicians are, nobody's shouting a blue streak through the microphone or grabbing his crotch or pulling a gun in the parking lot (although those impulses might wind up in a Blues song).

Men in suits. Zoot suits. Double-breasted sharkskin. Suits as green as parrots. Blood-red smoking jackets. Paired with two-tone oxford shoes. And fedoras.
       Man, it's style.

Finally, most importantly, Truth.

These songs of pain and sorrow celebrate life.

Yes, it's a paradox.

Just like another paradox.

A homeless guy was tortured and mutilated and hung on a cross for everybody else's faults -- and we call that day "Good Friday." Scandalous and beautiful, the greatest story ever told reads a lot like a Blues song. A fallen world, the wicked human heart. A fallen world, the wicked human heart. But God came back, He came back.

Now get up and boogie.

Get up and boogie.

Poetry Month

In honor of poetry month -- which, really, deserves to be 12 months long -- I dipped into one of my favorite anthologies.

"Northwest Verse" was published in 1931 by Caxton Press of Caldwell, Idaho.

Most if not all of these early poets from Washington, Oregon, Idaho and Montana have been forgotten. But here is just one of its delicious offerings:



   Notes on a Concert

While scientists debated whether
'Twere wise to publish their decision,
The morning stars sang all together
In gay derision.

They said: "This planet is the greater,
And that the less, of those before us."
The stars lampooned each commentator
In ribald chorus.

Antares, Betelguese and Mira,
The big and little constellations,
Sang "fol-de-rol" and "tira-lira"
With variations.

For stars have little else to do
But chant in praise or sing in revel,
And glorify what things are true,
And shame the devil.

But the astronomers still peer
Through telescopes, and jot down data;
They are too occupied to hear
The great cantata.

And one will wag his beard and say:
"Behold, I've solved a hard enigma;
This star, ten billion miles away,
Shall be called Sigma."

                                              ---Stoddard King

Trivia!

Thanks again for making the Raleigh Parteigh on Facebook such a wonderful event!

I can't think of better company than a lively group readers. Thanks for the smart and witty comments, beautiful pictures, and funny answers.

I'm grateful to each of you for coming out to play Tuesday night.

And because some of us require closure (your humble scribe included) the trivia answers are posted below.

See you at the next Raleigh Parteigh!

What did I do for work before I was an author? Newspaper and magazine reporter (also worked as a farm hand and bartender)

How many books are there in the Raleigh Harmon series? Five, counting next year's release, "The Stars Shine Bright."

How many daughters do I have? NONE! I have sons.

Do you think I have a subscription to Scientific American? Nope. And if you read the blog, you'll see why....

Now, for those of you who have read The Mountains Bow Down – here’s a few questions about the book:

Geert Van Broek is head of ship security. What country is he from? Holland. Bonus question: What agency trained him in law enforcement? Royal Marechaussee

How does Special Agent Jack Stephanson get to Alaska? He flies his plane.

What is a phillumenist? Someone who collects matchbooks. Bonus: Why does that word have two Ls? Because one root of the word comes from Greek (phila) and one root comes from Latin (luma).


Where does Raleigh's mom always go to find peace for her troubled mind? Church or chapel -- God's house.

What is the name of Aunt Charlotte's New Age store? Seattle Stones.

DeMott Fielding's family has lived on the same Virginia estate since the early 1700s. What is the name of that property? Weyanoke. BONUS: Can you name two of DeMott's family members? MacKenna and Jillian are his sisters. Harrison is his father. And Peery is his mother.

And the winner is ... Was it YOU?

I'm thrilled to announce that

Cathy Wilcox from Texas

will soon be sailing on the high seas because she has won a $500 Vacations To Go gift certificate to put toward the cruise of her choice! Amy from Litfuse Publicity Group will be in touch for your info Cathy - congrats.

And thank you to everyone who entered and helped Spread the Word about The Mountains Bow Down!