A Heavenly Christmas in Hometown

Following is an excerpt from Sharon K. Souza's Christmas novella, A Heavenly Christmas in Hometown. We hope you enjoy our launch of the Christmas season.


Rehearsals were a frantic affair with Christmas Eve just a week off. Tim worked with the choir, while Bev directed the drama. Everyone worked on the props, including Eustace and Spencer.

It was awfully cold that December, everyone said so, and poor Spencer just couldn't adapt. "You don't suppose it was like this when Jesus was born, do you?" he asked, wrapping a muffler around his neck. He remained in a constant shiver, and had to set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

"No, I don't think so, Spence," said Eustace, "but He was born in Bethlehem, not Hometown, you know."

"Is it very different?"

"Quite. I doubt Bethlehem has seen a flake of snow from that day to this."

"It sounds like an inviting place." He looked out a window at the white mounds. "It's nice to look at, but it's so unpleasant in every other respect."

"Many folks would disagree. Really, they would. Look at the children. They enjoy it immensely. If Heavenly Chalet were completed, you'd see just how recreational winter can be."

"Amazing."

"What's the matter, Spence? Getting a little homesick?"

"A lot homesick, actually. I can hardly remember what it's like to be warm."
"I expect you'll find out before long."

"Do you think so?"

Eustace nodded. "Yes, I do."

"I've given the choir a twenty minute break," said Tim, joining his friends. "Thought I'd come see how the stable's progressing."

"If it looks half as good as the choir sounds I'd say we're doing well."

"Thanks, Spencer. Wow! It's amazing what can be done with a little cardboard and paint. You two have a talent for this. It's the most authentic stable we've ever had."

"It was Eustace's design," Spencer said.

"I just made a few little changes on the old one. If you don't mind, I'd like to make an adjustment or two on the manger. It looks more like a cradle on legs than a feeding trough."

"Be my guest," Tim said. "You're doing a great job." He left them to check on costumes.

"What's a feeding troth?" Misty asked.

"I thought you were outside throwing snowballs at your brother," Eustace said. He hadn't seen her come in with Tim.

"I was, but he threw some back and I got cold."

"Oh." Spencer knelt down beside her. "I can certainly sympathize."

She took off her wet mittens, blew into her hands, then rubbed them together. "What's a feeding troth?" she asked again.

"It's a feeding trough," Eustace corrected, "and it's a wooden box where hay and other feed was placed for the animals in the stable. Joseph and Mary used the trough as a bed for baby Jesus."

"Mama said they put baby Jesus in a manger."

"And your mama's right. Manger is another word for feeding trough. It just sounds a little nicer."

"Why did they put baby Jesus in there and not in a cradle? I had a cradle and so did Raymond. Mama lets me use it for my dolls now."

"I'm afraid they didn't have a cradle."

"But Joseph was a carpenter. Why didn't he make one?"

"Well now, Misty, that's a very good question. I think Joseph probably did make a cradle for baby Jesus, but they had traveled a long way from where they lived in Nazareth to Bethlehem where Jesus was born."

"I've heard of Nazareth," she said.

"They couldn't carry much on that trip, certainly nothing so big as a cradle, and I think they both were hoping they'd get back home before the baby was born. But it had to happen just the way it did, for a prophet -- do you know what a prophet is?" When Misty nodded Eustace continued. "For a prophet named Micah had foretold that baby Jesus would be born in Bethlehem long before it happened."

"How did he know?"

"God told him."

"God knows everything, doesn't He?"

"He certainly does."

"Then why didn't He put a cradle in the stable so that baby Jesus would have a bed?"

Spencer and Misty both looked to Eustace for an answer, but he was obviously stumped. "Well, now. I'll have to work on that one," he said, and returned to the task at hand.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A Heavenly Christmas in Hometown is a lovely little hardback with dust jacket that can easily be read in a few sittings and enjoyed by the whole family. For ordering information, contact Sharon at sharonksouza@gmail.com.

An Excerpt: The Color of Sorrow Isn't Blue

Here's another excerpt from The Color of Sorrow Isn't Blue, the latest release by Sharon K. Souza.


“Oh. Oh. Look!” Ainsley is on her feet and pointing at the water.

 

The reflection of the sun on the silvery waves hurts my eyes. I make a visor with my hand and squint until I my eyes adjust to the brilliance. Then I see what she’s pointing at.

“Whales?” Jaclyn, too, is on her feet. But she sees her error at the same instant the rest of us do.

“Dolphins!” Sissy says. “A whole school of them!”

“Pod,” Spinner corrects. “Dolphins are mammals, you know, not fish.”

Sissy turns an indignant face to the plebe who has dared to correct her. “Yes, well, mammals or not, school is certainly interchangeable with pod.”

Of course, Sissy would know.

“Although,” she concedes, “pod is the more common term.”

And Spinner, who must be smarter than he looks, gives a conciliatory nod to the woman who has fed him so well today.

Sissy and Ainsley have joined Jac and me on the starboard side. Or maybe it’s the port side. Who knows? Why don’t they call them right and left and make it simple for idiots like me? But I relinquish such immaterial thoughts in light of the frenetic activity in the water on my side of the boat.

“Six at least.” Ainsley’s voice is rich with excitement. “But it’s hard to count them!”

Their perfectly arced bodies breach the surface over and over, as if some unseen force beneath the sea is juggling dolphins. Their smiling faces come almost near enough to touch at times, as the water dances off the gleaming silver of their hides, and the sound they make is like laughter.

“They’re bottlenose, of course,” Spinner says. Maybe the most surprised among us, he’s as excited as anyone aboard his boat.

Jac digs in her pocket for her phone. “Can you believe this? Can you?” She begins to snap photos with a fury that matches the dolphins’ play.

Spinner holds up a finger as if to say wait a sec, then reaches beneath his dash and pulls out a big white bucket. “Lunch,” he says with a smile. He reaches in and pulls out something disgusting, something with lots of legs. Or tentacles. “Squid. Their favorite. Here you go, ladies, there’s plenty for everyone.” He tosses one overboard, and the frenetic activity in the water increases exponentially. “Don’t anyone be shy.”

Naturally, Sissy leads the way. She tugs up the sleeve of her sweatshirt and reaches in as though she’s mining carrots for a stew. And no surprise. Anyone who can mutilate a clam without so much as a gag, can toss a blob of squid to a hungry pod of dolphins.

Jaclyn goes next, then Ainsley. “Come on, Bree! Your turn.” They both urge me on. My sister touches a hand to the small of my back. “You can do this.”

“They’re waiting,” Jaclyn adds, with a push in her voice and an eyebrow hiked.

“Good Lord! They stink to high heaven!”

“Well, they’re not for you, love.” Sissy reaches past me and grabs another squid out of the bucket. “Let’s see who can throw the farthest.”

The farthest. As if it’s a softball-tossing match. Lord, will I ever get out of the sixth grade in this woman’s eyes?

She nudges me with an elbow. “Come on, love. LATSF.”

I stop half way to the bucket. LATSF. LA ...TSF. Launch a tasty squid, fast? I toss a frown over my shoulder.

“Look at their smiling faces,” she says. “Now, come on.”

I use my thumb and index finger like pinchers, touching as little of the slimy thing as I can and still manage to grip it. Then I reach back, careful not to drip anything on myself. On Sissy’s count of three I hurl the creature as far as I can. Which turns out not to be far at all. Because it splats against one of the aluminum poles that holds our Bimini lid up and bounces back at my feet, even squishier than it was before.

My audience laughs. Even Ainsley. And Spinner. And the dolphins. All of them laughing away. Well fine. I reach down, pick that puppy up, and send it sailing. It makes an arc against the crystal clear sky. Almost before it begins to descend, a sleek, silvery dolphin leaps and catches it midair, then does a cannonball. Right there in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, a cannonball. “You’re welcome,” I say under my breath. I reach over the edge of the boat and pour what’s left of my bottled water over my hand. It’s not enough to rinse the feel of the squid away, but it’ll have to do. And while everyone laughs and claps, all I can think is, Kinsey would love this. The thought weakens my knees. I clutch the pole for support and lower myself to the cushionless pad.

“Mama?” I love how she says this. Not like a monotone baby doll’s ma-ma, but like she’s calling me to task. Come here and explain, that’s what she says in that one, sparkling word. She’s crouched down in jeans and purple-soled sneakers that light up when she walks. She never fails to stomp her feet when she wears them. Or smile. She loves these sneakers. Her bottom nearly touches the brick patio where she squats. “What do you suppose that is?” She points at a snail inching its way up the sliding glass door that stands between the patio and our kitchen. The creature is right at her eye level.

“That,” I say, “is a snail.”

“Snail?” She scrunches her nose when she says it. “Can I touch it?”

She’s fearless, this three-year-old female version of Sam.

“Well, I wouldn’t.” That’s what I start to say, but catch myself. “Sure, baby girl. Go ahead.” I hold my breath and stifle a shiver as she reaches out and presses her little index finger against the amber shell. It has reddish-brown stripes in a pattern that’s surprisingly pretty running the length of its fragile carapace. The snail stops the moment it’s touched, pulls its slimy body into its shell, and hunkers down.

Kinsey presses again. “Why won’t it go?”

Do I tell her it’s because she’s frightened the poor thing? No. Absolutely not. “It’s resting. Like you do in the afternoon.”

“Oh.” She pulls back and watches. Waiting.

Just then, David comes through the doorway. “Hey there, ladies.” He presses his lips against my forehead—as close as he dares to come to my lips these days—and bends down and scoops up Kinsey, who laughs and calls him Daddy, and holds tightly to his neck. “Ah, what’s that?” And before I can stop him, he plucks the snail off the window and tosses it into the shrubs. Kinsey’s eyes follow its path as the smile drops off her face. My heart sinks right along with it.

“Look! Look!” It’s Ainsley again, calling me back from the place I’d much rather be. “What acrobats!”

She’s right. The dolphins’ movements aren’t random, not at all. They’re planned. Designed. I wonder which among them is the choreographer. Probably not my cannonballer. I can just see her instructor, clearing its throat, tapping its wand against a fin, calling back to attention the frolicsome one. The pod prankster.

The sun has broken through the clouds, and now that the boat is still, the blazing star sheds a blanket of warmth on us. Well, the boat is still except for the raucous way it totters on the waves, as if Neptune himself is rocking our cradle. Sissy tugs off her sweatshirt.

“Sissy.” The concern in Ainsley’s voice draws my attention. She reaches a hand toward our stepmother. “What happened?”

Sissy looks to the spot on her underarm that’s garnered Ainsley’s attention, and mine and Jac’s, too, for that matter. “Oh, that?” It’s a bruise the size of a grapefruit, all purple and puffy.

“And that.” Ainsley points to the other arm, for there’s another one just like it in almost the same spot.

“I got it, them, um ...” She’s suddenly one of her students, explaining why her homework isn’t turned in. “I fell. Off my pole.”

Ainsley pulls back, the way she does when she’s surprised. “Your pole? What, what kind of pole?”

“The, um, dancing kind?”

It’s like we’re instantly freeze dried, Ainsley, Jaclyn and me. Spinner too, except for the eyebrow that hikes up his forehead and disappears beneath the bill of his cap. His eyes lose their squint, and he turns them on Sissy.

We’re in a vacuum. No sound, no boat, no dolphins, no sea. Just this crazy vision of Sissy. With a pole made for dancing. It’s a vision I can’t quite wrap my head around. And I wonder, Does Dad know? But the vacuum doesn’t last long. It shatters in the laughter that erupts from Jaclyn. It bubbles up from her toes, this tsunami of mirth, and explodes out of her mouth. “Dancing? You were pole dancing?”

Splotches of red appear on Sissy’s neck. Oddly, that’s where her embarrassment shows. “Well, not dancing dancing. It’s an exercise class.”

“You pole dance for exercise? Whatever happened to Curves? Or Pilates?”

Sissy frowns and does her best to appear once again like the teacher in charge. “It’s quite a workout, really.”

“I bet. So how did you, you know”—Jac breaks into laughter again—“fall off your pole?”

“Oh, honestly, I don’t know. And I wasn’t even wearing high heels.”

High heels?

Spinner’s other eyebrow joins the first one, deep beneath the bill of his soiled Marlins cap. Judging by how wide his eyes spring open, those brows would be up to his hairline if he had one. I can tell by the way his open mouth turns upward that he’s gained a new appreciation for Sissy that goes way beyond her burritos.

“That’s what some of them wear,” Sissy is saying. “That, and their hot pink sports bras and these booty shorts that don’t begin to cover their cheeks, if you know what I mean. They’re all skinny. And focused. I don’t even know why they’re there. The instructor, naturally, wears the highest heels, the tightest bra and the shortest shorts. And she has this rose tattoo on the small of her back that might look cute now, but when that thing begins to sag, she’ll have thorns in places ... well, you get the idea.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jac says. “Ouch. And what do you wear?”

“Yoga pants. Floor length. And my Betty Boop T-shirt.”

Sissy’s a big fan of Betty Boop.

“And Spike? Does he go?”

“Spike?” Spinner can’t seem to help himself.

“Now why on earth would I take Spike?”

Ainsley is laughing now, too, bent over at the waist, hands on knees, not able to suck in a breath. She just hacks out this laugh that takes me back to when we were kids. If, for example, she was about to get caught in tag, she’d just buckle and burst into laughter. So naturally, everyone always went for Ainsley in tag. Now, they just go for her, period. Ainsley, the joyful one. I never understood why she’d give in without a fight, but I loved it about her. Then, because it made life easy. Now, because it’s a tiny strand that anchors me to sanity.

“Okay. Enough said.” Sissy claps her hands in that attention-getting way she has. “Now that you’ve all had your fun, can we get back to feeding the dolphins?”

But they’re gone, without a hint they were ever there. Like so many other things in my life. I sit back, stuff my hands in my pockets. And touch my starfish.
 

Available at amazon.com

The Color of Sorrow Isn't Blue

How do you lose a child?

It’s not so hard, really. You simply make one irredeemable choice. You ignore the warning bell that rings in your head, because it’s not a bell at all, you know? It’s just the gnat of a thought that’s too easily brushed aside. But in the scheme of things, it turns out that it’s the mother of all bells, made up of all the noise in the universe. You just don’t happen to hear it. Can you imagine?

Since that first irredeemable choice was so easy, I’m planning another. But I’m finding the serendipitous ones, the ones that are completely spontaneous, are so much easier. It’s one of those mysteries of the universe, like blinking out your last contact lens into the sink just as the water is swirling down your vanity drain along with the toothpaste you swished out of your mouth. You could try to do the same thing on purpose for a hundred years and never manage to do it.

As David and I sit across from each other at the dinner table, he pretends not to enjoy his meal. He downplays everything on my account these days. He toys with every bite, as I do in earnest, but he manages to clean his plate, while I don’t even come close. I rebuke myself for every morsel I swallow, for going through the motions of normalcy when things are so colossally abnormal.

I try to remember what dinner was like a year ago, the day before that day, when a little girl’s laughter was always on the menu. I try to remember how much I loved the three of us at the table back then, together again after a day apart. What I remember instead is how much I hated being apart in the first place. When you’re trapped in the dark, it’s hard to remember the light. Still I try. Try to recall what our last supper was, and whether Kinsey liked it. I’ve wracked my brain for three hundred sixty days now to remember all the details of the last good day of our lives. There are so many gaps. It’s a puzzle I work at even in my sleep. Occasionally I find a missing part, and it’s like a gulp of air in my drowningness. I just want to remember the last 3:02 my daughter and I were together, the last 7:49. The glow of Kinsey’s skin in the last bath I gave her, the last bedtime story I made up—because made-up stories were the ones she liked best. Is that too much to ask, I ask? The detectives, who now call this a cold case—as they called the Martin case until this morning—tell us as kindly as possible to accept that our little girl is not coming home. Well. How do you do that? How the—


An excerpt from The Color of Sorrow Isn't Blue, by Sharon K. Souza, which releases October 8. Available at Amazon.com.

Truth and Cookies

We've been planning...

Remind Us Why the Novel Matters

This is a summer re-run originally published at the end of 2012 - a gift to our readers to remind us why the novel matters.


Throughout 2012 we've been holding a conversation here at Novel Matters, a year-long exploration of the question, Why does the novel matter?

To help us poke around for some answers, we invited ten writers to weigh in with their thoughts. Those writers, Joy Jordan-Lake, Alice Kuipers, John Blase, Tracy Groot, Rosslyn Elliot, Sharon K. Souza, Athol Dickson, Claudia Mair Burney, Cynthia Ruchti, and Julie Cantrell, all offered their thoughts, impressions, and perhaps even more questions to why the novel matters.

Today, as a gift to our readers this Christmas 2012, we offer this “conversation” between 10 writers we love, to inspire you to read, write, create, and become who you were created to be. It is a conversation that never happened, but, of course, it did.

Novel Matters: Make room for Joy, everyone. She’s last to arrive. The room is a bit tight, but we’ll make do. Everyone smile for the group photo! Great. Uh, John? Rabbit ears? Really? Never mind, I’ll photo shop it out later. Sit, everyone, let’s talk about why the novel matters. What good does it do anyone anymore?

Alice Kuipers: Personally, the thrill of reading, of being consumed by a story so much so that the real world ceases to exist, is one of the great joys of my life.

Sharon K Souza (nodding emphatically): The novel matters for the sheer pleasure it provides. I often read two or three books at one time, a non-fiction of one type or another, a book on the craft of writing, and a novel. The novel is always what I conclude my evening with. I’ll read an hour or two before bed, and that hour or two is the dessert I look forward to all day.

Claudia Mair Burney (waving a hand): Novels take the edge off a brutal reality. Sometimes they distract me. Sometimes they make me laugh. Sometimes they remind me that I am not alone in my suffering, and often, they fuel the most reckless, glorious hope.

Tracy Groot (standing to address the group): Totally agree. Novels supply society with needed diversion, needed respite, and needed truth that may not come when it's served up cold.

Novel Matters: Oh, sorry Tracy, I thought you were standing so we could all hear you better. Could someone pass her the veggie dip? Thanks, Athol. Tracy, I love what you said about truth.

Julie Cantrell: There is no better way to deliver truth than through fiction. It’s as simple as that.

Tracy Groot (high fiving Julie): If we're really lucky, truth may come through a kid named Huckleberry, a ghost named Marley, a hobbit named Frodo, or a place due east of Eden.

Novel Matters: A ghost, a hobbit, and the Salinas Valley. How could this trio possibly have anything to do with truth? How do those stories manage to tell the truth about life while still telling a story?

Joy Jordan-Lake (looking professor-ly, but still very kind): As novelists, we have to figure out how to spin our stories for the modern, harried, distracted reader so that the old-fashioned words-on-page print form makes sense, is worth the time and trouble because the reader comes away changed—becomes a part of the Story, and the Story, a part of them.

Alice Kuipers: Novels allow me to live other lives, explore other realities, exist in places and in ways I never could otherwise. 

Athol Dickson (wiping veggie dip off his fingers with a napkin): The novel is uniquely qualified to weave the spiritual and physical realities of life together.

Rosslyn Elliot: Stories need to be told in a way that ignites our passion for us to imitate their sincere and courageous example.

Novel Matters: Great point, Rosslyn, but doesn’t non-fiction do that just as well?

Tracy Groot: the world is always looking for a good story.

Julie Cantrell: I believe that’s where sermons and non-fiction books can be useful. Novels should tell a good story that encourages the reader to close the book with questions. I’d much prefer to read a book that makes me think, than to read a book that tells me what/how to think.

Sharon K. Souza: The novel matters to me because a novel is a window into the soul of a society, an age, an era.

Alice Kuipers: The novel . . . is one of the best contemporary ways to encapsulate story without visual influence – letting our imaginations as readers do the work that other mediums may not allow.

Joy Jordan-Lake: . . . to allow ourselves to be transported to a different world, to see things from someone else’s perspective, to allow ourselves to be moved and frightened and inspired and entertained---and changed. It’s that chance to slow down and step away and look deep into what makes us tick as human beings, what really matters, what really doesn’t.

Cynthia Ruchti (jumping in): Every novel I've ever read has informed me, influenced me. Some have taught me what not to do or challenged me to write in a more compelling way. Some have edged me forward in my understanding of the human spirit and what it's capable of enduring, or strengthened my grasp of concepts like hope and grace.

Sharon K Souza (after the shouts of “amen” and “yep” and that’s it! Die down): You learn the things that make one age different from another, and that in more ways than not, we aren’t that different.

Claudia Mair Burney: And when the pages are all read, we put the book down with a sense that our lives matter; our troubles and our trifles. We matter, because we see ourselves right there in print. And we find ourselves in the work. Sometimes we say, "amen." Other times we say, "I'm sorry."

(there’s a little hush here, while we all absorb the wonder of this statement.)

Novel Matters: What we’re talking about is transformation. Or, maybe better, human formation. The novel matters because it helps us form as human beings?

Cynthia Ruchti: Every time a reader opens a novel of any significance ... [she doesn't] walk away the same.

Athol Dickson: Art is one of the objective proofs that human beings have a soul or spirit, and novels, of course, are art, so novels matter for that reason. Only in a novel can we become a kind of proxy for the work of art itself.

John Blase (raising two fingers to indicate he has something for us here): For example, a lower middle class poet (me) can read about a man dying of ALS (Jim Harrison’s Returning to Earth) or about two sisters being raised in Fingerbone, Idaho (Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping) or about the lifelong friendships of two married couples (Wallace Stegner’s Crossing To Safety) and to some extent I become a better person for it because I’ve entered into these lives that I have never lived and might not want to lead but nevertheless it stirs, I think, the sense of possibilities within life. . . You understand to some extent their lives, plus your own a little more, and to a greater degree this mystical incarnation we call life. It’s quite beautiful, really, this becoming more sympathetic or human. It entails becoming more compassionate and friendly and sensitive. I like that.

Novel Matters: Thanks, everyone. Can we try for another group picture, this time without the rabbit ears?

~

The 10,000 hour club and other musings.

I've never read Catcher in the Rye, never read anything by J.D. Salinger, never seen a documentary on him, though I might try to find the documentary Bonnie talked about in her post on Monday, where she certainly gave us a lot to chew on.

She made a very good observation when she said the media called him a hermit and recluse, yet the life he lived was only selectively hermit-like. I'm sure Bonnie's correct in that his part-time withdrawal from public life may have been partly "because he understood his capacity to be a dangerous man ..." But I'm taking a guess when I say I think he was probably also a media snob. He wanted his fame and fortune, but on his terms.

Like so many other famous people we could name.

Well, in all fairness, who of us doesn't? Who of us writers who dream of best-sellers, book tours and movie deals---and struggle with envy for those few who do achieve those things---don't want fame on our own terms? But is that realistic? Is it fair? We aggressively woo fans, hoping they'll buy our books and support our writing habit ... so long as they keep their adoration at arm's length? There's something very one-sided about that to me. Yes, I understand the need for privacy and safety and boundaries, but in my opinion, those who step from private life to public life have an obligation to the ones who help them achieve their dreams.

I know, easy for me to say since I'll never achieve the kind of fame we're taking about. I just don't happen to be a fan of elitism, or snobbery on any level.

That said, I'd like to address the other part of Bonnie's post, the 10,000 hours part. If the premise is true, that would be 416 days of round-the-clock, non-stop writing to master the skill. Taking my average weekly writing time and multiplying that to the 10,000 hours necessary to master a skill, I figure it took me 13-15 years of writing to reach that milestone. Like Bonnie, the thought of considering myself a master is laughable. But trust me when I say I've come a long, long way in 28 years, which is how long I've been diligently at this writing life.

And I have to believe if, after all those years of striving, I'd managed to gain even a tiny fraction of  the fame of a J.D. Salinger, I think I'd show more appreciation. At least I hope I would.

My musings aside, I have two questions for you:

1. Do you fear the fame you may be courting?
2. How long has it taken you to reach the 10,000 hour club --- or where are you on your journey?

Resisting Perfection

Katy began our discussion last week talking about the hazards of reading our old manuscripts. We all pretty much agree, even the most successful writers we can name, it's not necessarily a pleasant stroll down memory lane. Patti asked the question, "Can we see our own writing for what it is? I'm beginning to have my doubts." I'm right there with her. As I'm writing a novel I like to think it's pretty darn good, but golly. But by the time I'm finished with it I'm usually so saturated with the project that I can't begin to be objective. It seems completely flat to me. I often ask myself, "Who in their right mind is going to want to read this?" Or worse, publish it? That's when it helps to have a critique partner, someone to talk you down off the ledge, another writer who can objectively evaluate the writing, the plot, the character development, etc. Someone who will also give praise where praise is due, but is not afraid to point out the weaknesses as well. I am beyond blessed to have had Katy as that critique partner with my last three books, and now I have my other Novel Matters pals to lend their wisdom, knowledge and expertise to my writing.

So reading our previous work can cause us some anxiety, but in a way that's a good thing, because it helps us recognize growth. It lets us see where we've strengthened our writing and where we still fall short. Because, sorry to say, we'll never arrive.

One of my favorite books on writing is Elizabeth George's Write Away. I have so many tabs on the pages I can't see the edge of the book. The tabs are even color coded. Alas, I can't remember what the colors mean. No matter. This is a resource book I go back to time and time again, and one I highly recommend.

In Chapter 1, "Story is Character," she touches on our subject in regards to character development, citing a problem that new writers in particular tend to fall into. She says:

I try to keep some basic guidelines in mind when I'm creating my characters. First, I try to remember that real people have flaws. We're all works in progress ... and not one of us possesses physical, emotional, spiritual, and psychological perfection. This should be true of our characters as well ... As individuals we're all riddled with issues of self-doubt in one area or another. This is the great commonality of mankind. So in literature, we want to see characters who make mistakes, who have lapses in judgment, who experience weakness from time to time.

If I had my first manuscript to look back on -- the one I discarded in a recent move -- I know I'd see just how badly I fell victim to that error early on. It wasn't quite the "silent movie" depiction of good characters and bad characters, where the heroine is all perfection and the villain is a cigar-smoking jerk who spends most of his time twirling his black handlebar mustache, but it was close. My protagonist was an angelic creature, bearing her many trials and tribulations with quiet dignity, while the antagonist was cruel and rigid in her opposition to the heroine.

To quote Megan: B-O-R-I-N-G.

Well, I tend not to do that with my characters now, which hopefully shows some growth in my writing. I actually had fun creating the character of Aria Winters in Unraveled, a young woman flawed in so many interesting ways. A character who was relatable. And it was the flaws that gave me the story. Elizabeth George confirms this when she says:

... characters are interesting in their conflict, their misery, their unhappiness, and their confusion. They are not, alas, interesting in their joy and security. The first gives them a pit out of which to climb during the course of a novel. The second robs them of story.

She gives an entertaining example of this from the writing of one of her students, who was creating a private investigator in the story she was writing:

[In the first 10 pages] ... we met the PI, his sister, their mother, and their stepfather. the PI was from a large Irish family. His sister worked for him. He and his sister got along well; they were practically best friends, and they loved each other to pieces. On the night in question ... the PI and his sister -- loving each other to pieces -- are going over to their mother's house for St. Patrick's Day dinner. They adore their mother and wouldn't miss a St. Patrick's Day dinner for all the corned beef and cabbage in County Clare. Plus, their mother is a superb cook, the best cook ever, in fact ... So they go over to their mom's house, and the first person they see is their stepfather. He's a wonderful man. They worship him. He made their childhood bliss.

At this point in the chapter, one was praying for someone to come along and put all of these characters out of the reader's misery. Why? Because there was no conflict. There was nothing but happiness, joy and familial bliss. Alas. There was no story

.
No kidding.

Ms. George goes on to talk about the importance of giving your characters flaws. And she's absolutely right. There's no dimension to a perfect character, nothing the reader can connect to. And nothing on which to hang a plot.

Have you ever found yourself writing flawless characters? Been hesitant to show your characters' imperfections? And conversely, not allowed your antagonists to have any good qualities? Have you seen growth in your writing when it comes to character development -- or any aspect of creating story? What helped you see the importance of letting your characters' humanity show through?
 

Dig Deep

It's June 3, and before we get to my post, how about a trivia game? There's a song from the 60s that makes reference to today's date. (It also happens to be my nephew's birthday, so happy birthday, Johnny!). If you can think of which song it is, well, you're probably not a Gen-Xer. But if you know the answer and are the first to post it, we'll send you a copy of our fun and whimsical Novel Tips on Rice recipe book. If someone does come up with the answer, I'd like to have further conversation about the song ...

I recently answered some interview questions for a blog I'll be a guest on in July, highlighting Unraveled. One of the questions was what my top three pieces of advice to writers would be. One of my points is for writers to dig deep to make their writing as authentic as they can, so that it might have the biggest impact possible for the reader.I know I've said it several times on this blog so forgive my redundance, but it's my opinion that the first job of fiction is to entertain. That said, I don't have the time or the desire to read what I term "fluff" fiction, or fiction that doesn't deliver something of substance. By fluff, I mean cotton candy, which has absolutely no substance. It's sickly sweet, dissolves with hardly any satisfaction, and typically upsets the stomach. If I'm going to give up precious hours of sleep time, because that's when I read for pleasure, and invest time in a novel, I want it to strike a chord in me, to cause me to reflect on something relative in my own life.

My next novel, The Color of Sorrow Isn't Blue, due out July 1, is the story of a woman's emotional response to losing a child. In writing this story I drew from my own experience in losing my son seven years ago, and believe me, the well of emotion continues to be deep and raw. But that doesn't mean I believe our novels should be thinly veiled autobiographies. I don't. At all. There's no rule against it, it's just my preference as a writer and a reader. (There are those who write memoirs in novel form, and that's a whole different subject.) To that end, this woman's story is not my story. She responds in a way completely different to how I responded. She doesn't lose her daughter in the same sense that I lost my son -- but loss is loss, gone is gone. And I drew on my experience and emotions like never before. Trust me when I say this was a painful story to write, and there were many days I didn't want to go anywhere near it. That was often hard to overcome. But was it worth it? I certainly hope so. One thing I can say unequivocally is that this is my best writing yet.

When it comes to your own emotional well, do you draw freely or would you rather stay as far away as you can from it? How does that decision affect your writing and the stories you tell?

Ever Come Unraveled?

I was speaking to a small women's group soon after Unraveled was released. As a way to lead to my introduction, the moderator of the meeting went around the tables and asked the women to say something that makes them come unraveled, which I thought was a clever and innovative way to begin. Mostly the women stated their pet peeves rather than describing something that really rattles them. So after my introduction, before I got on with what I'd prepared to say, I told a story that, a few years earlier, had caused me to come unraveled, in a big way. As a fun way to spend our Friday together, I'm sharing that with you today.

I have to say, the one unanswerable question in the universe is, "Where is a man when you need one?" The answer for me might be Jamaica, Cuba, Siberia ... anywhere but home. When this particular story occurred, my husband was in the Philippines. It was the mid-nineties and Rick and I were brand new empty-nesters. My husband, who is a builder, decided he wanted to live in the country, so he built us a beautiful home on five acres a few miles out of town. We lived there three agonizingly long years. I wrote "Back Side of the Moon" as my return address on all correspondence, because that's how it felt to me -- like I was living on the back side of the moon. It took 15 minutes at 60 mph one way to get a gallon of milk. It was definitely not my cup of tea. But Rick was in country heaven and decided to fulfill a longtime dream: he began growing a herd of Texas Longhorn cattle. Moo.

So we got a couple of Longhorn cows ... that we named after our granddaughters. Don't you know those were the safest cows in the county? They weren't ending up on anyone's dinner plate. Every morning and evening Rick would go out and feed them, and put a special blend of oats in their feeding trough. Then he'd bang the can and they'd come running from whatever corner of the pasture they were in to enjoy their treat.

Whenever he was away, it became my job to do this. But I wasn't quite so cozy with our cows. No, I'd wait till they were in the furthest part of the pasture, then I'd tiptoe to the feeding area, pour their oats into the trough as quietly as I could, and hightail it out of the pasture before they got a whiff and came running. Remember, they had horns. Long horns.

Well, as I said, my husband was in the Philippines for a few weeks doing some sort of ministry, and one morning the phone rang at 6:00, waking me from a dead sleep. A woman on the other end of the line said, "Your cows are in my yard," then she hung up. I laid there half-asleep, trying to make sense of the call. Your cows are in my yard ... your cows are in my ... Wait! What?! "MY COWS ARE IN YOUR YARD?!" I jumped out of bed, threw on some clothes, popped my contacts into my eyes, grabbed my keys, and hauled out of the driveway. Then I hit my brakes and thought, "Wait. Who called?

Whose yard are my cows in?!" I had no clue. So I did the only thing I could think to do. I drove around looking for two runaway cows, feeling like Little Bo Peep, because I. Can't. Find. Them! Anywhere. And the things I was saying out loud to Rick ... well, I won't repeat them here.

I looked everywhere I could think to look, but no luck. So I drove back home, wondering, What do I do now?! I no sooner got back in the house when the phone rang again. This time it was my neighbor who lived on the acreage to the south of us, and who was the self-appointed, unofficial Neighborhood Watch Captain, because she knew everything about everything that went on anywhere within range of her binoculars. And she said to me, "Sharon, are you looking for your cows?" I swear, I'm not making this up. I looked at the phone in my hand. Am I looking for my cows? Are you serious? How could you know this?! "Yes, I am. I'm looking for my cows." And she said, "They're in so-and-so's yard." So I drove down there, and sure as the world, there were Haleigh and Katelyn in so-and-so's yard.

So what do I do now? I am not a country girl. I don't even own a pair of boots. Nor am I the Pied Piper. And they are not going to fit in my Explorer. And then it hit me. One of the guys who worked for my husband was a cowboy! A real one. With a horse and everything. So I called him. "Choya!" (He was even named for a character in an old western his mom had liked.) "You have to help me." And he did. He drove twenty or so miles to get from his place to ours, rounded up the herd, and got them back in our pasture. Then he mended the fence and made sure things were good the rest of the time Rick was away. God. Bless. Him.

Well, that's the kind of thing that happens regularly when Rick is on a trip, and it's one of the things that unravels me.

We sold the place shortly after that.

What unravels you? Share and I'll put your name in a drawing for a copy of Unraveled.

A New Year, A New Work

For 2013, we at Novel Matters are busy lining up interviews and guest posts with some amazing authors and industry professionals. We're starting off proud with Chris Fabry, whose gritty, suspenseful Western romance, Borders of the Heart, was released just last September. He'll visit us on January 28, so there's still time to read the book before his interview!

Carpe Annum! I love our theme for 2013. That's what the 6 of us plan to do, corporately and individually in the coming year, and I expect you do too. In my case I'm moving forward with indie publishing, and anticipate releasing my next novel on my birthday, July 1st. Happy birthday to me! I'm working hard at promoting Unraveled, and will soon re-release Every Good & Perfect Gift and Lying on Sunday, in both print and Kindle format. Yay!

As many of you can attest, there are a number of highlights in the life of an author: finishing a novel, signing that first contract, holding your published book in your hands, hearing from readers -- which really is one of the best things about being published. But another "best" for me is beginning a new manuscript. It's a thrill all its own, and holds so much promise. I can imagine Harper Lee sitting down to begin Mockingbird, creating one of the most enduring novels in literature, as told by one of the most endearing characters in literature, Scout Finch. I wonder how much Harper Lee knew about her story when she wrote that first paragraph. She could not possibly have imagined the lasting impact it would have on the world around her. She not only seized the year, she seized the ages. Wow. There's no end to the author studios our imaginations could take us to, envisioning ourselves looking over their shoulders as they penned, "Call me Ishmael." "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ..."

As this new year begins, I've just begun work on a new manuscript. In December, I posted the prologue I wrote several months ago, but the prologue was as far as I'd gotten with the story. Yesterday I began Chapter 1. I'm so excited to be back at work. Since I began writing in the mid-80s I've had a novel in the works, without exception. Until 2012. I completed my last novel early in the year, and except for that prologue, I didn't write another word. I've said this before, I know, but usually by the time I'm 2/3 of the way through one manuscript, ideas for the next one are pounding at my door. I begin making a file for the new work as scenes present themselves and characters begin to take form. Dialogue is loud in my ears. I give myself a week or two after finishing one manuscript, then I'm right back at work on the next.

But there was much about 2012 that sapped my energy, both physically and mentally. (Do you sense how glad I am that 2012 is over?) I had ideas for two possible novels, but I couldn't make up my mind which way to go, and couldn't get traction on either one. I dabbled in plot and character development, going back and forth between the two, but nothing jelled. Then, in November, my daughter Mindy and I were making our every-7-week, hour-long trek to Folsom, where we get our hair done, when I brought up my dilemma. Mindy knew about my two possibilities, but as we talked about them, one of the ideas really began to click with me -- especially when Mindy threw out a terrific idea for a cover based on my working title. That settled it.

An odd way to decide on a novel to write? Perhaps. But simply put, it tipped the scales in favor of one topic over the other. And it gave me the enthusiasm that had been lacking. So for the past few weeks I've been expanding on plot ideas and character development, which is by far my favorite part of this early process. I love looking for the perfect names for my characters, and as I'm sure you've found, there are names that are exactly right for the people we create. I seldom hit on the right name, right off the bat. Instead, I try out a name, maybe even begin the writing with the wrong name, which will nag me until I find the right one. When I find the right first name, I search for the surname that fits. Then I go searching for the face to fit the name. Almost always, that's the point when a character comes to life for me.

But in the case of my current protagonist, her name came to me first, late one night when I was unable to sleep because of illness. It was as if she were suddenly there with me on the couch, introducing herself. A 12-year-old girl with an unusual name. And I said in a whisper, "What's your story?" And she began to tell me. Which was a bit unusual, because she doesn't speak.

Oh yes, there's nothing like beginning to write a new novel, to begin acquainting yourself with the characters who populate your fictional world; to discover the secrets they keep -- or try to; or to follow blindly along, not sure in the beginning what you'll uncover. It's as stimulating for me to uncover the plot of the books I write as it is the books I read. In both cases, there's always such great anticipation.

What about you? What's your favorite thing about starting a novel, as a reader and/or an author? And how do you plan to seize the year in 2013?

Why Does the Novel Matter? A Year in Review Conversation with 10 writers.

Throughout 2012 we've been holding a conversation here at Novel Matters, a year-long exploration of the question, Why does the novel matter?

To help us poke around for some answers, we invited ten writers to weigh in with their thoughts. Those writers, Joy Jordan-Lake, Alice Kuipers, John Blase, Tracy Groot, Rosslyn Elliot, Sharon K. Souza, Athol Dickson, Claudia Mair Burney, Cynthia Ruchti, and Julie Cantrell, all offered their thoughts, impressions, and perhaps even more questions to why the novel matters.

Today, as a gift to our readers this Christmas 2012, we offer this “conversation” between 10 writers we love, to inspire you to read, write, create, and become who you were created to be. It is a conversation that never happened, but, of course, it did.

Novel Matters: Make room for Joy, everyone. She’s last to arrive. The room is a bit tight, but we’ll make do. Everyone smile for the group photo! Great. Uh, John? Rabbit ears? Really? Never mind, I’ll photo shop it out later. Sit, everyone, let’s talk about why the novel matters. What good does it do anyone anymore?

Alice Kuipers: Personally, the thrill of reading, of being consumed by a story so much so that the real world ceases to exist, is one of the great joys of my life.

Sharon K Souza (nodding emphatically): The novel matters for the sheer pleasure it provides. I often read two or three books at one time, a non-fiction of one type or another, a book on the craft of writing, and a novel. The novel is always what I conclude my evening with. I’ll read an hour or two before bed, and that hour or two is the dessert I look forward to all day.

Claudia Mair Burney (waving a hand): Novels take the edge off a brutal reality. Sometimes they distract me. Sometimes they make me laugh. Sometimes they remind me that I am not alone in my suffering, and often, they fuel the most reckless, glorious hope.

Tracy Groot (standing to address the group): Totally agree. Novels supply society with needed diversion, needed respite, and needed truth that may not come when it's served up cold.

Novel Matters: Oh, sorry Tracy, I thought you were standing so we could all hear you better. Could someone pass her the veggie dip? Thanks, Athol. Tracy, I love what you said about truth.

Julie Cantrell: There is no better way to deliver truth than through fiction. It’s as simple as that.

Tracy Groot (high fiving Julie): If we're really lucky, truth may come through a kid named Huckleberry, a ghost named Marley, a hobbit named Frodo, or a place due east of Eden.

Novel Matters: A ghost, a hobbit, and the Salinas Valley. How could this trio possibly have anything to do with truth? How do those stories manage to tell the truth about life while still telling a story?

Joy Jordan-Lake (looking professor-ly, but still very kind): As novelists, we have to figure out how to spin our stories for the modern, harried, distracted reader so that the old-fashioned words-on-page print form makes sense, is worth the time and trouble because the reader comes away changed—becomes a part of the Story, and the Story, a part of them.

Alice Kuipers: Novels allow me to live other lives, explore other realities, exist in places and in ways I never could otherwise. 

Athol Dickson (wiping veggie dip off his fingers with a napkin): The novel is uniquely qualified to weave the spiritual and physical realities of life together.

Rosslyn Elliot: Stories need to be told in a way that ignites our passion for us to imitate their sincere and courageous example.

Novel Matters: Great point, Rosslyn, but doesn’t non-fiction do that just as well?

Tracy Groot: the world is always looking for a good story.

Julie Cantrell: I believe that’s where sermons and non-fiction books can be useful. Novels should tell a good story that encourages the reader to close the book with questions. I’d much prefer to read a book that makes me think, than to read a book that tells me what/how to think.

Sharon K. Souza: The novel matters to me because a novel is a window into the soul of a society, an age, an era.

Alice Kuipers: The novel . . . is one of the best contemporary ways to encapsulate story without visual influence – letting our imaginations as readers do the work that other mediums may not allow.

Joy Jordan-Lake: . . . to allow ourselves to be transported to a different world, to see things from someone else’s perspective, to allow ourselves to be moved and frightened and inspired and entertained---and changed. It’s that chance to slow down and step away and look deep into what makes us tick as human beings, what really matters, what really doesn’t.

Cynthia Ruchti (jumping in): Every novel I've ever read has informed me, influenced me. Some have taught me what not to do or challenged me to write in a more compelling way. Some have edged me forward in my understanding of the human spirit and what it's capable of enduring, or strengthened my grasp of concepts like hope and grace.

Sharon K Souza (after the shouts of “amen” and “yep” and that’s it! Die down): You learn the things that make one age different from another, and that in more ways than not, we aren’t that different.

Claudia Mair Burney: And when the pages are all read, we put the book down with a sense that our lives matter; our troubles and our trifles. We matter, because we see ourselves right there in print. And we find ourselves in the work. Sometimes we say, "amen." Other times we say, "I'm sorry."

(there’s a little hush here, while we all absorb the wonder of this statement.)

Novel Matters: What we’re talking about is transformation. Or, maybe better, human formation. The novel matters because it helps us form as human beings?

Cynthia Ruchti: Every time a reader opens a novel of any significance ... [she doesn't] walk away the same.

Athol Dickson: Art is one of the objective proofs that human beings have a soul or spirit, and novels, of course, are art, so novels matter for that reason. Only in a novel can we become a kind of proxy for the work of art itself.

John Blase (raising two fingers to indicate he has something for us here): For example, a lower middle class poet (me) can read about a man dying of ALS (Jim Harrison’s Returning to Earth) or about two sisters being raised in Fingerbone, Idaho (Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping) or about the lifelong friendships of two married couples (Wallace Stegner’s Crossing To Safety) and to some extent I become a better person for it because I’ve entered into these lives that I have never lived and might not want to lead but nevertheless it stirs, I think, the sense of possibilities within life. . . You understand to some extent their lives, plus your own a little more, and to a greater degree this mystical incarnation we call life. It’s quite beautiful, really, this becoming more sympathetic or human. It entails becoming more compassionate and friendly and sensitive. I like that.

Novel Matters: Thanks, everyone. Can we try for another group picture, this time without the rabbit ears?

~

We writers at Novel Matters wish you an inspired Christmas season, and a New Years filled with vision, transformation, and most of all, great literature.

Peace on earth. Good will to all.

Going Indie

It was with much thought, prayer and a good dose of nerves that I decided to go independent in publishing my latest novel, Unraveled, which I released in August. My former agent had tried to find a home for it in CBA, with no success, so when I told her I wanted to publish it myself, she gave me her blessing. I made the decision because I believe in the story, and because I believe the quality of the writing is equal to my other published novels. But it was apparent that if it was to be published, it would be done independently. The reader comments I’ve received so far make me glad I was brave enough to give it a try.

There were a number of ways I could go once I made the decision, but I chose to go with Amazon CreateSpace because our own gifted Latayne had used CreateSpace for The Hinge of Your History: The Phases of Faith. She gave me pointers on how to get started, and once I began the process, Amazon made it very easy to navigate through. I’ve been very satisfied with CreateSpace, and would go that route again without hesitation.

Now I’m in the marketing phase, which is a daunting task. But I was pretty much on my own in promoting Every Good & Perfect Gift and Lying on Sunday, so this isn’t new territory. Fortunately, I’m a lot more knowledgeable than I was in ‘08 when those novels were published, and I have many more contacts. That said, I’m still only making a ripple with my efforts, when my goal is to make a splash. I’d really like to connect with book clubs, but I’m not sure how to find them. If you have any suggestions, I’d love to hear them. I'm marketing extensively to libraries, as I did with my earlier novels, which is already proving effective.

As you know if you follow this blog on a regular basis, Patti is also in the midst of going independent, and I’m happily benefitting from her research. She recommended Make a Killing on Kindle Without Blogging, Facebook and Twitter: The Guerilla Marketer’s Guide to Selling Your Ebooks on Amazon by Michael Alvear. I like his writing style, like his dry wit and humor, but after reading the first four chapters my assessment was: Just shoot me now. There was no way that I, a relatively unknown author, who is not remotely guerilla-ish, was going to succeed at selling books, whether traditionally or independently published. No. Way. I might as well hang it up. But then I got to Chapter 5, and began feeling less suicidal. Rather than telling me all the reasons why I should fail, Michael began to show me how I could succeed. I’m creating my strategy and will soon put his recommendations to the test.

James Scott Bell’s Self-Publishing Attack! The 5 Absolutely Unbreakable Laws for Creating Steady Income Publishing Your Own Books has also been helpful. The suggestions that overlap in both books are the ones I’m concentrating on first.

Is going independent the optimum course for me? That remains to be seen. What is certain is that there’s never been a better time to try. No longer does self-publishing require an outlay of thousands of dollars, or mean boxes of books in your garage. With a minimum investment you can have a quality product to put on the market, but that’s the key word here: “quality” is vital. From cover to content, don’t cut corners. Period. The old maxim holds true: If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.  With the enormous changes taking place in the publishing world, self-publishing is losing its stigma. Many A-list authors are going that route, particularly with ebooks, because for many, it makes the most sense.

What about you? Have you considered going independent? If so, why? If not, why? And again, if you have suggestions about reaching book clubs, I'd appreciate hearing from you.