As a responsible adult and ever-vigilant protector of all that is good and true, I feel it imperative that I issue a stern warning about The Restorer by Sharon Hinke.

This is a very dangerous book. Reading this book will upset your place in the time-space continuum. It will suck you into its pages like a portal into another reality, and then drop you back into our world hours later, potentially leaving entire days unaccounted for. And, if you are given to reading in the bathtub, be warned: it is nearly impossible to put this book down long enough to towel off, and you may find yourself trapped in a tub of room-temperature bathwater with more pruney wrinkles than a bulldog.

Established CBA Mom-Lit author Sharon Hinke has accomplished something incredible in The Restorer–a successful fusion of Mom-Lit and Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Allegory genres. Like any fusion of extremes, hard-core advocates of either genre will have to adjust a little. The hard-core Mom-Lit fans may find it challenging at first to get their heads around the alternate universe that burned-out soccer mom Susan Mitchell falls into; portals into alternate realities aren’t exactly the norm in Mom-Lit. Likewise, hard-core Fantasy readers may be challenged by the interpretation of that alternate reality through the eyes of a suburban soccer-mom. However, those who have the creative vision to see this fusion for what it is and approach without presumption will find The Restorer to be a wondrous journey with a truly unique twist or two and more than a few surprises as soccer-mom Susan grows into her calling in the alternate reality, and in the process rediscovers herself.

Be warned that once you open this book and start reading, you might slip through the portal right behind Susan. I did, and I want to go back. It’s a good thing this is the first of three (and who knows, maybe more) in the Sword of Lyric series. I’ll soon make the return trip with The Restorer’s Son.

A few minutes ago, I closed the cover of a book. Big deal, right?

Not such an unusual thing to do, I suppose. As I writer, I’m a reader; the two are so tightly intertwined that they’re inseparable. I’ve got a big pile of books here waiting for me, some that I paid for, and some that I received as review copies. I’m horribly behind on that reading pile, because of late I’ve been abiding in the land of obsessive writing, doing a rewrite on a novel that I’ve been working on for what sometimes seems like forever.

I wanted to enter that novel in a contest. The entry consisted of the first fifteen pages (or less, my choice) and a single-page synopsis. The first fifteen pages were easy; I’ve had them for a long time. However, since the story changed somewhat with the rewrite, I couldn’t do the synopsis until I saw where the rewrite went. I still haven’t finished the rewrite, but I got far enough along to produce a reasonable single-page synopsis–though I know the story will probably end up a little different.

With that project finished (more or less) on time, and a day and a half before the contest closed, I took off with a wild haired idea I’ve been kicking around, and wrote the first chapter and a rough but plausible synopsis for another novel. I surprised myself with this one; it flowed freely and the result may be even better than my first entry.

Yes, I entered it. A ten page first chapter with a rough but plausible synopsis. And at the risk of sounding prideful and self-impressed, the second entry might have a better shot at winning than the first. Yaneverknow.

With those entries complete, I accepted the reward I’d promised myself earlier in the week: A couple of days of no writing, when I could read a good book and not feel guilty for taking time away from my projects. But, I was a bad boy–I bypassed several books that had been waiting longer to read the one most recently added to the queue: Stephen King’s On Writing. It might just be the most profitable bit of non-writing I’ve done in a long, long time.

I’ll admit that this is the first Stephen King book I’ve ever read. I’m just not into blood and horror. However, it was one of the best books on the craft of writing that I’ve read, and I’ve read a bunch. I like King’s no-baloney approach to the craft of writing, even if he’s given to vulgarity–and make no mistake about it, the book contains a measure of vulgarity, perhaps even a measure and a half. If you’re the kind who is easily offended by vulgar language, don’t even pick this book up, and if you do, please don’t blame me, You’ve been warned. I can deal with it; I work in a place where vulgar language is sometimes uttered, and I’ve learned to look beyond. That, and I grew up with it–my father could have out-vulgared ol’ Stevie without breaking a sweat.

Once you look past the language and a situation or two, this is a very honest book, a very real viewport into what made one of the most prolific writers of our times the writer he is. King provides some wonderful insights into his own creative process, and in more than one place stands firmly against some highly-regarded instruction I’ve received that, to me, never seemed quite right. Steven King and I write in much the same way, starting with situations, creating characters, and transcribing what they do on our mental stages. We’re not alone, by the way; some mof my favorite writers do the same thing.

King is a passionate advocate of writing for the sheer love of the creative process. He’s been fortunate to have made a few bucks in the process, but I sincerely believe he’d still write even if he’d never sold a single novel, just to feed his creative passions. I understand that on a level that defies verbiage. He also comes down rather hard on some of the things we tend to do to learn the craft; one of my favorite quotes from this book is:

“It is, after all, the dab of grit that seeps into an oyster’s shell that makes the pearl, not pearl-making seminars with other pearls.”

I’ve invested a good deal of time and money on those seminars, and the best thing I learned at any of them is a sentiment expressed by Stephen King. The best way to learn writing is to write, write some more, and the write some more. Closely allied with that is a proven reality: great writers are great readers. I could almost feel the slap pf King’s hand when he said:

“If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”

Ouch. Makes me wish I’d spent less time obsessing over that rewrite and more time reading.

Bottom line: If you’re an aspiring writer and you can cope with some vulgar language, I’d recommend you read On Writing by Stephen King. If the vulgarity bothers you, I’d suggest developing a thicker skin. It’s one tool every writer needs to cope with criticism and rejection.

Now, speaking of tools, I’m going to go read a book.

It’s not every day that I’m complimented on my makeup, and that’s probably a good thing. Over the past couple of days, I’ve received several such compliments however, and accepted them graciously.

Our church presented its annual musical Christmas drama this past weekend, and in honor of the event I pulled and old friend from the closet shelf—my makeup case. Last night as I made my way toward a reasonably well-lighted mirror, Ryan (one of our crack sound guys) said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man with such a honkin’ big makeup case.” I chuckled, picked up my wireless microphone, and walked away with a smile. He’d obviously never been around a bunch of theater geeks.

I suppose it is more makeup than most middle managers carry around on a typical weekend, even the ones who wear makeup regularly. By theater geek standards, though, it’s rather average. Picture a typical old-fashioned blue-collar lunch bucket, the kind with a thermos inside the top half. If that’s a single-wide, my makeup case would be a double-wide. It’s well-stocked, though not gratuitously. The only thing in there that I haven’t used at least once is a one-ounce bottle of white liquid face paint (Ben Nye ML-01) given to me by a well-intentioned lady at a costume shop, who said I could use it in a pinch if I failed to find the silver-grey hair color I needed. Fortunately, I’ve never had to test her theory.

My makeup case has spent a lot of time on that closet shelf. We’ve lived in this house eleven years, and before last Thursday it hadn’t left the spot where it was stowed after we moved. I almost took it down before last year’s Christmas drama, then decided the role didn’t require makeup in such a close setting. In retrospect, I should have used it last year, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.

This year was different. The role was Paul the Apostle, in his old age while under house arrest in Rome (and yes, it did pertain to the Christmas story). My makeup case must have known that the role required its services, for it began calling my name ever so gently from the day I got the part. Last Thursday, I finally answered that call.

As I wrestled it from the high shelf, it seemed sad but anticipatory. The thick layer of dust made the black plastic look ugly and dirty, but gave way quickly to a dust rag, revealing what some would see as dirt but I saw as distinguished signs of experience—those perma-dirt makeup smudges on the top half. I snapped the latch, opened the top, and greeted my old co-conspirators in character creation. They responded by caressing my nose with that unique aroma that made me itch for the burn of stage lights on my retinas, wrapping around me like warm arms welcoming me home.

A quick inventory told me all was present and accounted for, though not everything had weathered the dormancy well. After the respectful interment of a rancid jar of Pond’s Cold Cream and an equally distasteful jar of curdled Eucerin, I retired a handful of disreputable sponges and a box of hyper-stale lemon drops, then took stock of what remained. The makeup had weathered the hiatus well, and in short order I had a brief shopping list in hand and set out to find a Ben Nye dealer in Little Rock.

It wasn’t until last night, after our third and final performance of A Night to Remember, a brand new Christmas drama written for us by Charlie Warren, that I fully grasped how much I missed my old friends in the makeup case. As I smeared cold cream on my head to dissolve my base of PC-17 “Light Egyptian” and inhaled that unique fragrance of Ben Nye Color Cake mixed with Pond’s Cold Cream, a little touch of sadness mixed in with the greasy sensation on my skin. I suddenly grasped how very much I missed the stage, bringing characters to life and connecting with an audience. It feeds me. It nourishes me in a way that only another artist can understand. It is a part of who God made me to be, a part that I have missed for far too long.

Now, I’m faced with a decision. Do I put the makeup case back on the closet shelf?

When I first moved to Little Rock eleven years ago, I was warned by a fellow theater junkie that I would find only three varieties of theater here: the “experimental, social-issues, slightly-left-of-Stalin” groups whose productions I would likely find offensive, the “in-bred, cliquish community theater” types who would welcome outsiders only when necessary, and the paid, professional, “send us your headshot and resume, and we’ll giggle because you aren’t really one of us” theaters. In retrospect, I can see that I made a serious mistake. I believed him.

Last night, as I removed my makeup and packed up my theatrical trappings, The Lord and I had a little chat about the theatrical world, and I came away with a new perspective. Perhaps the “slightly-left-of-Stalin” crowd needs a little balance. If they are true to their liberalism, they ought to respect my world view, and if I’m true to the teachings of Christ, I ought to love and respect them even if we disagree. And as for those “cliquish community theater groups,” I can look back and see that every community theater group I’ve been involved with has been cliquish. I proved myself as an actor, and was accepted into the clique. And those “professional” theaters may audition in New York, but they audition locally, too. If I really want to, I could get my foot in their door. I might not get the big, meaty roles, but they’ll respect my passion and talent. “You do not have because you do not ask.” (James 4:2)

SO, the makeup case sits across the room from me now, on a living room chair. No doubt, I’ll be made to move it before long. When that moment comes, I plan to put it somewhere obvious, a place where I’ll see it every day and hear it’s insistent call, reminding me to make connections and watch for auditions and be ready for our next joint adventure, wherever it may be.

Well, here I am again, writing another “farewell to Ridgecrest” entry from Rocking Chair Ridge. The first Blue Ridge Mountains Advanced Novel Retreat is officially history. The final time of worship (lunch ) is over, and I’m at that saddest of moments–having to say Goodbye to Ridgecrest until next time.

God is everywhere. We all know that. It’s not that there are certain places where there’s more of God, but that there are certain places where He’s more evident because He’s more welcome. Ridgecrest is one of those special places. Holy ground, anointed by generations of prayer mingled with generations of sweat and tears. Sitting in this old rocking chair, I can’t help thinking about those who’ve sat here before me. Decisions made. Broken hearts bandaged and healed. Lives changed. It’s certainly been an important place in my journey as a writer, as well as in my journey as a believer.

It’s time. I know that. I don’t want to leave here, but I know I can’t fulfill God’s calling and purpose for me without getting out of this chair and heading toward the airport. And, as much as I love this place, I’ll be miserable if I don’t go where He’s sent me.

So goodbye again, Ridgecrest. You’ve been a great blessing to me this week. Thank You, Lord, for all those whose dedicated work have made this tool the place that it is.

Oh, and lest I forget… I’m the featured guest blogger on Tiff Colter’s Writing Career Coach blog today.  Stop by for an interesting read!

It just occurred to me that I never posted a follow-up to the ACFW conference. It isn’t that there’s nothing to post. It’s that there aren’t enough hours in the day.

I came away from ACFW with a different perspective on my writing. It’s not that my writing suddenly changed, but that God used some people there to talk to me about my writing in terms that I’d never considered. It’s not that I’ve come away with a different direction for my writing. It’s not that I’ve experienced a great life change. It’s not that sudden and jarring a thing; more like subtle, inner “ah-hah!” moments that tie together things that the Lord’s been doing in me. And–scary though it may be–it’s starting to make sense.

One of the great things about the ACFW conference was putting faces to the names of those friends I’ve met online. People like Sharon Hinke, who read a few pages from my current work in progress and proclaimed me “a chick-lit writer trapped in a man’s body.”  And I finally got to meet some of the ladies in my online critique group. And… well, if I tried to list everyone, I’d run out of space on the web server.

I came away energized and encouraged, and almost overwhelmed by the positive feedback I got for my project. It’s hard for me to put words to, so you know it’s a big deal!

Today, I’m at one of my favorite places on the planet–Ridgecrest, North Carolina. I’m in a rocking chair on Rocking Chair Ridge at the Ridgecrest conference center, passing the time waiting for my room to be made ready. (I’m early, believe it or not!)

I’m here for the Advanced Novel Retreat that’s going on this week. I’m excited about this event, because it’s a smaller affair that’s totally focused on improving in the craft of writing. No pitching, no selling, just growing. And I expect to grow this week.

Expecting results is at least half of getting results.

That phrase brings to mind the thousands of baseball games I’ve heard on the radio over the years. I think that all the guys who do MLB play-by-play must have attended the same broadcasting school, because they all seem to say the exact same line the exact same way every time the pitcher launches the ball toward home plate. Or, maybe they’re all imitating the same guy. Or maybe they’re all imitating each other. I’d still like to hear one of them rock the boat and find a new and different way to tell listeners the pitcher’s let one fly.

I suppose that today’s crop of CBA novels have a lot in common with baseball play-by-play. There are a lot of people writing according to the same formulas and fitting nicely into the same little genre slots. Sometimes I’ll be reading a novel that seems familiar, and I realize that I’ve read pretty much the same book before but with different character names and settings, and maybe a twist or two, but the same general formula. I’ve been advised that the fastest road to getting my first novel published is to write one of those predictable formula books, Romance or Romantic Suspense or a nice Cozy Mystery. Safe stuff that proves I’m sane and able to capture complete (albeit boring) thoughts on paper and complete a manuscript (a remarkable number of first-time novelists can’t do either).

Well, I tried. It’s hard to stay “inside the box” when I was never inside the box in the first place. I tried with all my might to write a straightforward Romantic Suspense, but finally had to come to grips with the fact that it’s not. There’s romance, there’s suspense, but those are all sub-plots. At its core, it’s a character-driven story of a man who is put into situations that cause him to re-evaluate his life, his values, and his destiny. I like to think of it as a journey of grace.

The title of this fledgling of mine is Inheriting Air, and it’s about to be pitched.

No, not pitched as in “tossed into the abyss,” pitched as in “Do I have a book for you!”

I’m headed toward the annual American Christian Fiction Writers’ Conference in Dallas. ACFW is a wonderful organization full of (well, mostly) wonderful people who are passionate about writing great fiction. In the course of the conference, I’ll have the opportunity to sit under the teaching of some wonderfully talented writers and work toward taking my grasp of the craft of writing up a notch or two. I’ll have the joy of rubbing shoulders with a few hundred folks who love word-wrangling just as much as I do, and put faces with the names of those whom I’ve chatted with, shared with, and in some cases rejoiced (or wept) with online. And I’ll have the opportunity to “pitch” my novel to editors and agents, with the hope that one or more will catch the same sort of excitement about this story that is all over me.

Inheriting Air is the story of Jim Clarke, the protege of an aging, childless billionaire. Jim’s uncle dies and leaves him a little AM radio station in a little town in South Arkansas. It’s an annoyance that he can’t get rid of no matter how hard he tries. He is forced to travel to the little town to either “put some lipstick on the pig” and make it more salable, or put it to death and walk away from the distraction. Inheriting Air is the story of how God uses that little town and little radio station to change Jim’s life, and then uses Jim to change theirs.

Feel free to pray for me as I attend the conference and pursue this new venture. Whether the editors love it or hate it, what’s important is that it all happen according to God’s timetable. He sees this from a much better vantage point, and if He says “not yet” it’s for good cause (even if I can’t see it).

It’s my job to pitch. the Lord will take care of lining up the right catcher!

An incredibly encouraging sign appeared in my kitchen this morning. It was something I haven’t seen in a while, a phenomenon that spoke to me loud and clear about God’s grace and His passion for “healing the broken hearted and bandaging their wounds.” (Psalm 147:2)

As I doctored my coffee, Wookie asked for–in her usual demanding tone–a taste of half-and-half.

Well so what? Your cat asked for cream. Big deal!

Yes, it was a big deal. Wookie hasn’t asked for a drop in nine days. I gave her a little one morning a few days ago, and she didn’t waste it (she’s never met a dairy product that she doesn’t like), but she was rather half-hearted, as though drinking her cream out of obligation rather than desire. This morning’s demanding tone warmed my heart the way the bell on an ice cream truck warms the heart of a child.

You see, nine days ago, we lost a dear friend and family member. Blondie, one of Wookie’s feline cohabitants, was sick and went to the kitty doctor for help… and she didn’t come home. Reading what I’ve just written, it strikes me how we humans tend to soften the reality of death with quaint little phrases like “passed away” or “at rest” or the ever-spiritual “gone home to be with Jesus.” But this is one of the ways in which cats are smarter than humans: Wookie knew, the minute I walked in the door (if not before), that her sister Blondie was dead. So did Tingy and Marconi.

Just like the affected humans, each of our three remaining felines grieved in their own way. Tingy paced around the spare room, where Blondie was hiding out when I went to take her to the vet. Marconi, strong man that he is, withdrew to his office (under the bed) and mourned in solitude. Wookie lost her taste for cream. I came home and quietly put the empty cat carrier away, sat in my favorite recliner (where Blondie was fond of joining me for lap-time), and wept in temporary solitude. It wasn’t long before Wookie and Tingy joined me, Wookie in my lap and Tingy on my chest, nose-to-nose.

Blondie was a gentle soul. She was rescued as a kitten by Helping Hands for Little Paws, our favorite animal rescue organization. She was one of only two who survived from a diseased colony of feral cats. She was a beautiful and elegant feline, one that I couldn’t even begin to imagine in the wild, though her instincts were strong. Her personality was quiet; she would sit with us in the same room for hours and could come and go undetected. Every now and then she would crave a little lap time, and climb whatever obstacle stood in her way to have her place in my lap. And then, when she was finished, she was finished, and she moved on.

Blondie spoke infrequently, and of course only when it served her purpose. Most mornings, she would appear in the kitchen as I prepared our morning coffee, and request her morning portion of cream in a gentle and unassuming voice. Being who I am, the only reason she ever had to ask twice was her own impatience. But she was a generous and giving soul, as well. You see, there are times when we don’t give Wookie cream because she… well, let’s just say she seems to have her moments of lactose intolerance. If we set a bowl of cream out for Blondie and not for Wookie, Blondie would have just a taste and leave the rest for her elder sister. I’ve seen days when Blondie didn’t even sniff at the bowl–she just gave Wookie the high sign and walked away.

I miss Blondie tremendously. It took me these nine days to come to the place where I could write this. But when Wookie came to me this morning and asked for cream, I knew this would be the day. Just as Wookie is finding healing from her broken heart, I am finding healing for mine. And yes, writing critics, I used passive voice there on purpose–we are finding, not have found. Because healing isn’t an event, it’s a journey.