Suspense Technique #4

I don't know what kind of person you are. Maybe you're easy going. Things just roll off your back. Something doesn't go your way…no sweat. There's always the next time. Not me. Now in general, I am pretty easy going. I am a good listener. I'm calm. I rarely get so upset that I yell and scream or any of that. But when I set my expectations on something and it doesn't pan out…awwwwww shucks. I'm as mad as a hatter. I rant. I rave. I tell you if there's something I'm after I put "missile lock" on it and anything that gets in my way gets vaporized. I'm like a bull dog clamping down on a bone.

So why do I bring this up? Cheap therapy, you say? Well, maybe. But I really was just trying to preface the next Suspense Technique:

FRUSTRATION

The whole expectations thing is pretty universal thing (maybe not to the degree I experience), but by and large when people set their hopes on something and it doesn't happen, we hurt or we get angry or in some cases, we try to get even. Heh, heh, heh.

When things don't meet our expectations, we get FRUSTRATED. Folks, this is the heart and soul of suspense. And not just at the beginning to hook the reader, but throughout the story to keep them hooked.

Here's what you do. You make it clear that your main character has some kind of goal he/she wants to achieve. Then you put every obstacle you can think of in the path of sed character to frustrate his/her efforts. You get to play God with the "smite" button as in the famed Far Side cartoon. Remember the golden rule of fiction: Just when you think it couldn't possibly get any worse for the main character, you make it worse.

But be careful. You can overdo this one. Every so often you throw your main character (and the reader) a bone. You let them have just a taste of fulfillment. And then…you yank the rug our from under them, and make them turn the page.

Here's an example:

There she was: Alison Wingate. She always walked home from school with the same group of her girlfriends. But at the corner of Maple St. and Elvis Lane, she always bid her friends a fond adieu. Six months, Bryce had planned it--since the beginning of summer. He'd had a crush on Alison since the 7th grade. Now they were seniors. And she'd finally dumped that meathead football player, Jake Thunder--butt or whatever his name was. Now was Bryce's chance. Every aspect of his plan had been meticulously mapped out. Nothing could go wrong.

Except that it could. Alison turned the corner, and Bryce stepped out into the sidewalk with the dozen exotic purple roses he'd ordered. But when Alison turned the corner, she wasn't alone. One of her girlfriends was still with her. Oh, no! Not Becky Snodgrass! Bryce looked at the roses and up the sidewalk to Alison and Becky. What if Becky thought they were for her? She would think that too. Becky had slipped him a most disturbing note during newspaper class. Bryce freaked. But what could he do? He saw Alison look up. Did she see him? He wasn't sure.

Roses and all, he dove into the bushes…and put his elbow right into a hornets nest. The black and white bees streamed out in an angry flood. He felt their stings even as he tore himself free from the bushes. Screaming, he came through the other side of the hedge, saw sparkling water and leaped for it.

He plunged deep into the swimming pool. The bees drowned but they stung him a few more times for good measure before they died. Bryce finally came up from the water and found himself face-to-face with a pit bull.

This is the 4th Contest in the Suspense Techniques Series. Come on, you know you want to make your characters miserable. Have at it. Winner gets either a signed copy of Isle of Swords or Door Within extended dance remix. ;-) Btw, I have not judged the previous entries. I'd still like to see a few more authors get involved first. And I use author correctly. Published or not yet published, you are authors.

Grand Slam Homerun--I can't believe how good this movie was.

I taught Language Arts in Anne Arundel County for eight years. My first year, someone handed me Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson. I read the book and just about fell out of my bed. I wondered, how did Katherine Paterson spy on me when I was ten without me ever knowing?! I was Jess Aarons. The crazy little kid who drew all the time; the one who made up adventures and imaginary worlds (shocked aren't you?).

So I was ecstatic to finally see a REAL movie made of such a wonderful book. My wife and I took all of our kids. I cannot possibly tell you how wonderful this movie was. Walden Media in cooperation with Disney stayed so true to the book (though the trailer would lead you to believe otherwise) that I found myself tearing up at parts that weren't sad, just accurate. That's so rare when a book goes to the sceen.

And afterward, my children and I spoke about things, things of God and heaven, and how we Christians never have to say goodbye, but only…until later. I'm telling you, RUN do not walk to see this movie! Tell all your friends and their friends. Introduce your friends to total strangers, and then tell them to see the movie also!

The Christian Community often decries the lack of quality family movies coming out of Hollywood, but we need to shell out the $$$ and support good stuff when it comes out. This is such a film. Katherine Paterson must be deliriously happy with the result. I know I was.

Author Talk with Christopher Hopper and Wayne Thomas Batson

You may remember a coupla weeks back I posted a few times about the tremendous opportunity I had to work with another fantasy author in what we termed, "Writer's Bootcamp." It was anything but a military drudgery. We had a creative field day, brainstorming and helping each other break through writer's block.

You may also remember that we spent quite a bit of time at a pub called The Banshee, crafting ideas in the spirit of (if not the genius of) Tolkien and Lewis. During that time, we set up a video camera and answered a few Frequently Asked Questions. Check out the video…if you're really bored. LOL

Oh, and if you're expecting "author clothes" and stuffy stilted "writer chat," you might not want to watch. ;-)

The video is above. Enjoy it if you have 10 minutes to kill. HA!!

Isle of Swords Final Cover!

Hey, Tommy Nelson Publishing just sent me the final artwork for the Isle of Swords cover! I'm getting SO stoked! Let me know what you think. If you were browsing the aisles at a bookstore, would you notice this?

In the meantime...

I'll be posting Suspense Technique #4 very soon!

But in the meantime, I have a quandary I'd like to run by readers and retailers. I'm a Christian, and I'm a writer, and my publisher is a Christian Publisher. My mission as a Christian Author is twofold: write good quality fiction and hopefully get my nonChristian readers to start thinking about the big questions of life--question for which IMHO Jesus is the only answer. I wrote The Door Within books so that someone familiar with the Bible would pick up on the allegories, the parallels, and the symbolism. But I wrote it with the intent that ANYONE could simply enjoy the thrilling adventure. Truth is there, but I don't want to be preachy.

So here's the issue: my books go to Christian Bookstores and Secular Bookstores. In a Christian bookstore, The Door Within Series (and presumably Isle of Swords) can be placed in a number of sections and still be found by readers shopping for new books.

BUT, in the secular chains: Borders, Barnes & Noble, Books-A-Million, etc. my books are being shelved and displayed very differently. Borders shelves the books in with regular fiction, but the others put my books in "Religious Fiction" or worse, "Religion." The problem with the latter is that in these giant mainstream stores, the "Religious Fiction" sections tend to be squirreled away into tiny, very non-visible parts of the store. Guess how much traffic these little sections get? Yep. Not much--not compared to the regular fiction sections.

I've spoken to several store managers, and they agreed that it's the publisher who decides how a books should be labeled. The bookstores then shelve the stock according to the publisher prescribed label. So there's the rub: my publisher says where the books go, but I'm concerned that my books will miss half (or more than half) of my mission field.

Any thoughts? Where do you shop? And where do you look first? Or is this much ado about nothing?

Suspense Technique #3

The term "cliffhanger" embodies the concept of the 3rd Suspense Technique. It brings to mind visions of a main character (Sylvester Stallone, maybe?), dangling by one hand from the edge of a precipice. One wrong move, even a breath of wind, and your hero will plummet to a most unsavory death. And unlike the Coyote in the Roadrunner cartoons, this death will be pretty final. ;-) And on TV, the words "To be continued..." usually pop up at the worst possible moment leaving the main character in his/predicament (and you the viewer as well) until the next episode. Putting a character in peril is a great way to hook your readers. The 3rd Suspense Technique:

PERIL

Certain genres are more conducive to this technique. Fantasy is certainly wide open for it. There are a couple of ways to pull off peril. One is obvious physical peril--an unsuspecting lass walking beneath a falling piano, a young guy racing his motorbike towards a gaping chasm, or as in The Door Within, a young hero being chased by a bad guy with two pointy swords.

There are also subtle ways to create peril. What you do is create implied danger. A menacing shadow, a stranger following the hero but staying just out of sight, the doctor looking at the hero's test results and shaking his head. I like this kind of danger because it allows the reader's imagination to go crazy. Lovecraft, the father of modern horror was a master of this. The villain you don't see is often scarier than the one you do see.

Here's an example:

1. Rachael stared at the gray expanse before her. Now that the bridge was destroyed, the web was the only way to cross the gorge and rescue her baby sister from the Varlocks. Rachel knew the web was strong enough to bear her weight. But, if it came to it, Rachael would gladly accept a quick fall and a painless death, smashed upon the rocks below. It was the alternative that concerned her more. The spider rumored to cling inverted beneath the web, waiting for the vibrations of something edible prancing upon her web--that was the fear. For death in the webs of this creature would mean long and slow, endless pain, as the creatures digestive fluids, cell by cell, consumed Rachael's flesh. Rachael clenched her fists and stepped out onto the web.

The contest and reward are the same for this technique. Good luck.

Suspense Technique #2

Tonight's suspense technique is in one aspect related to Mystery. In fact, when you think about it, all suspense techniques begin with a kind of mystery.

Tonight, we take a look at the suspenseful power of:

INTENSE EMOTION

Suppose you're walking through a park and come across a little girl sitting on the curb and sobbing uncontrollably. What's the first thing you'll ask her? "What's wrong, sweetie?"

Okay, maybe "sweetie" isn't your style, but I bet you'd still ask her what's wrong. It's only natural when we see someone experiencing some intense emotion to wonder why? For this technique to work, you begin your tale with a main character exhibiting an intense emotion. It doesn't have to be sadness. It can be any emotion at all. Just make it intense. Intense anger, intense fear, intense anxiety, intense joy--Intense! And, as always, remember to show not tell.

This type of hook works because the reader wonders WHY the character is so happy, sad, angry, etc. The reader reads on to find out.

Here's an example:

1. Detective Black glanced back over his shoulder. His partner--for once--had been true to his word and driven away after dropping Black off. A cool wind whispered through the pines and pulled at the last brown, shriveled leaves that fall had not claimed from the oaks. Black navigated the stones with detached familiarity. He'd been there enough, but he was not at home there…never would be.

Black's knees buckled as he walked around the hill. He saw the stone. He saw the dates. He saw the name. He swallowed back his guts and approached the site. He pulled a small brown mass from his coat. It was a little stuffed bear wearing a football helmet. He gently laid it by the stone. I very like that, Daddy, he would have said. No strength could hold back the torrent. He fell to his knees and embraced the stone. His body wracked with sobs. He choked, trying in vain to say his name.

Feel like you've got the hang of the Intense Emotion Suspense Technique?

Now, it's your turn. Write an opening line, paragraph or two that
will really hook us using Intense Emotion. Post it here.

Once I have twenty or thirty of them, I'll have my veteran Quality Fiction Team {ie: my lovely wife and me} select a winner who will receive a signed copy of Isle of Swords OR
The Door Within Paperback with "Lost Chapters!"

Only two entries per person, so get crafting and submit them when they are ready!

Suspense Technique #1

Suspense Technique #1 of 7

I begin with a golden oldie, tried-and-true, and probably already familiar to you:

MYSTERY

This type of hook has been around since the dawn of fiction, but if anything, it has only become a more potent force with age. Mystery simply means to show the reader a glimpse of something enticing, but not tell them what it is…yet.

Mystery fiction and thriller fiction often begin with a crime: a theft, a kidnapping, a murder. There are interesting clues left at the scene (or no clues), but the case is as of yet unsolved by the detective/ protagonist--and especially not by the reader!

But to employ this technique, you don't need to be writing a traditional detective story within the mystery genre. You can hook the reader with mystery in any genre you write. Just begin the story with something that is unknown to the reader and make it as alluring as possible. And try to do this right at the beginning of your tale. Here are some examples of how mystery might be employed in the opening lines:

1. The voice on the other end of the phone was frantic, breathless…urgent. "Go! Go now!" he said. "It's locker 44 in the basement of the train station."
"I don't understand," Margaret said. "How does this involve me--?"
"Shut up!" said the voice. "There's no time. Go now. If the others find out you have the key, they'll do anything to stop you."
"I'm calling the police," Margaret said, wiping tears away. "I'll give them the key."
"I wouldn't blame you," said the voice. "But if the police go to that locker, they won't find what you can find if you go RIGHT NOW. Margaret, I'm begging you. Go to the locker now. If you don't, you'll miss the one chance to change the way you are. You know what I'm talking about…don't you, Margaret?"

Okay, so here we have mystery on several levels: a) what in the world is in the locker? b) who is this person on the other end of the line? c) Who else is after the key? d) What is it about herself that Margaret wants desperately to change? e) And finally, how will whatever is in the locker help Margaret change?

Here's another:

2. Zach knew better than to upset his grandfather. The guy was pushing seventy, but he still had broad shoulders and those ridiculously swollen forearms from thirty some-odd years working as a blacksmith. His temper, like the hot coals in his forge, was not to be trifled with. Still Zach wanted to know, and for the first time in a hundred visits to Grandpa's house, the old man had left the storm doors unlocked.

A little more subtle here. a) Zach knew better--how? b) What did Zach want to know? c) Why had Zach's grandfather kept the storm doors locked? d) And what is down in the storm cellar?

Last one:

3. "Get him out of here!" commanded Nazlund, pointing through the window at the approaching shadow of Lysander on the front walk. For a moment, Isabelle thought Nazlund might conjure a lightning bolt, but thankfully, the guards ran to the door and intercepted Lysander.
"Troublemaker," Nazlund muttered.
Isabelle nodded. That's exactly what Lysander was. The nerve of that old wizard scaring me like that. "Beware of the child you carry," he says. How dare he--"Oh, OH!! It's happening. Ah, the pain! Help me!"
Nursemaids flew into action, and Nazlund stepped aside to let them work. "Bear down, m'lady," said one of the maids.
"Here it comes," said the other.
Isabelle grunted and pushed with all her might. She could feel the pressure, and then…a sudden release. The room went silent. The nursemaids stared. Even Nazlund backed away.
"What?" Isabelle cried. "What's wrong with my child?"

Yike, every mother's nightmare. The mystery here includes: 1) What does Lysander the wizard know about Isabelle's child? 2) Is Nazlund the one Isabelle should be listening to? 3) And of course, what is wrong with Isabelle's child?

Feel like you've got the hang of the Mystery Suspense Technique?

Now, it's your turn. Write an opening line, paragraph or two that
will really hook us using mystery. Post it here.

Once I have twenty or thirty of them, I'll have my veteran Quality Fiction Team {ie: my lovely wife and me} select a winner who will receive a signed copy of Isle of Swords OR
The Door Within Paperback with "Lost Chapters!"

Only two entries per person, so get crafting and submit them when they are ready!

Suspense Continued...

Yesterday, I talked about how important it is to build suspense early in your story--the first sentence or paragraph if possible. Here are some of my favorite "first sentence" or "first paragraph" hooks:

1. “Like silent, hungry sharks that swim in the darkness of the sea, the German submarines arrived in the middle of the night.”

2. “Judd Thompson and Vicki Byrne were the only ones left. Their parents and older siblings had disappeared right out of their clothes a few days before.”

3. “I am Miguel. For most people it does not make so much difference that I am Miguel. But for me, often, it is a very great trouble.”

4. “No one ever opened the door at the bottom of the basement stairs. No one ever talked about it either. It was simply understood: leave that door alone.”

5. “These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after.”

6. “Adventures are funny things. They may fall out of a tree, appear down a seldom trodden path, or even arrive in an envelope, but they always begin the same way. Adventures always begin with the unexpected.”

7. “Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.”


8. “When I was a kid, my parents always told me there was no such thing as monsters. With all my heart, I wish that were true.”


Two tasks for you, if you are interested:

A. Post one of your favorite "first sentence" or "first paragraph" hooks. Tell what you like about it.

B. I will sign and ship a copy of Isle of Swords for the first person who can name all of the book titles these hooks come from, and identify the hooks that I wrote. {Here's a hint: My hooks probably aren't as good as the others!} ;-)

Suspense...

Suspense is the key to getting published. Agree?

Consider that the average editor is inundated with hundreds--maybe thousands--of manuscripts every month. How much of each manuscript do you think editors have time to read? I've heard from several editors* that they'll read the first paragraph, first page, or maybe as much as the first chapter. That's all.

Unless…you hook them.

To hook the big fish, you need bait. The universal bait for fiction is SUSPENSE. Suspense taps into the 2nd most powerful human force: curiosity. Remember around Christmastime when you were little. If your parents told you not to look under their bed or in the hall closet, what's the first thing you want to do? Hmmm...

You need to do the same thing to the reader. Make the reader yearn to turn (the page, that is.) You must make your story stand out from the rest, and a suspenseful first paragraph, first page, first chapter…will do just that.

Consider the following two openings. Which would you continue reading?

#1 Adrienne was a very friendly twelve-year-old girl. She lived in suburban Maine with her mother and father and three brothers. She had wavy, strawberry-blond hair, a flurry of freckles, and a girl-next-door smile. She was left-handed and considered smart for her age. Her room was a bit of a mess but nothing like her brothers'. There were times when she liked to draw or play games. But mostly, she liked to sleep.

#2 Adrienne sat bolt upright in bed. It was the dream again…each one more real than the last. And this night topped them all. She'd felt it--his hand on her shoulder. She could still feel the cold fingernails as they slid across her skin. She shivered in the silence…until CRACK! Adrienne jumped. It sounded like one of the tall oaks outside had lost a limb. Slowly, she peeled back the curtain and looked out into the night.

I'm guessing you'd probably keep reading number two. I know I would. Why? What's the difference. Author #1 began with character building--not a bad thing, but in a big lump, at the beginning? Deadly. Author #2 front loaded suspense, figuring if you keep turning pages, you'll eventually get to the character building anyway.

So, how do you build suspense? For each of the next several days, I'll post some of my favorite suspense techniques. Until then, {ahem} I'll keep you waiting. ;-)

*And, of course, that's jumping the gun a bit because before your manuscript actually gets read by a publisher, it will have to be read and accepted by an agent. Agents will often read a little more.

A Visit from a Loremaster...

After a long day--and night of writing--Christopher and I retired to our new favorite haunt, The Banshee. Christopher has the brilliant idea of bringing books with us to give away to the manager if we can find her. So we do. We meet Bobbi the manager, talk to her about how edifying we felt the place was--a balm to a fantasy writer's soul. She brings us Banshee hats, buys us a round, and later…brings by this incredible gentlemen. He looked to me as if he walked off the cobblestone streets of old Dublin. Thinning gray curls waving on top, mischievous arched brows, and a stark white stache and beard. Bobbi introduces him as the owner's father and a member of the Irish Republican _ _ _ _ _ _ _? Neither Christopher nor I could remember that 3rd word, but it wasn't Army. This gentleman gestured for us to sit and said, "Let's have a conversation." He began to unfold the lore of the Banshee: how the place is haunted, full of magic, built with love. He told us of a forehead-tapping spectre and of the furniture and panneling, all made/crafted from the wood of the original building. Upon this gentleman's leaving, he told us that, it was his honor to meet us. US. He was kind, but wrong. The honor was all ours. What a cool night.

Tales from the Banshee...

So far, Christopher Hopper and I have dined the Banshee thrice, and in a few moments, I think we will visit once more to revel in the live Irish band…and alas, to bid our new favorite pub a fond adieu.

So far, Writers Bootcamp mission accomplished. Christopher has furiously pounded the keys on his 3rd book (This guy types like 3-4 pages an HOUR--so torches my ponderous keystroking), and I finished a skeleton outline of my next fantasy book. I am SO stoked about this story, and Christopher really helped open the floodgates. I spent most of last night and four hours this morning stewing over some vexing chronology issues with the book (which will be one of 5 books, I think), and I couldn't conjure a way to get to harmonize these major plotlines. Then, Christopher said, "What if..." And BAMM, that fast, I was off and flying. Finished the outline before dinner. God is good. And fellowship rocks.

Here are a few more pics from the Banshee:

At the Sign of the Banshee...

Arrived in Scranton, PA yesterday afternoon. Author Christopher Hopper and I found the most amazing Irish pub just a few blocks from our hotel. Walking inside, we were suddenly overcome with a sense of history…and a desire to tell stories over a pint. Dark wood, black wrought iron, and stonework--not to mention paintings and photos of Irish landscapes. And the coolest feature was that they have these small anterooms (large enough to seat maybe 7-8 folks, more if some of them are hobbits) with coffee tables and antique leather easy chairs. You could almost see Tolkien and Lewis...

Story Time: want to come?

I had a Door Within speaking engagement today with an elementary school near Columbia. About a hundred fourth and fifth graders came and sat on the rug before me like a gigantic "Story Time" session. It was wonderful, I did my silly English Accent Shtick and prowled around the library with my broadsword. {Uh, Wayne, should you be waving a broadsword around children?} Well, uh...I've almost never hurt anyone with it.

Back to the story. I got to read one of my favorite passages, "Falon's Stair," from The Door Within. Those wonderful children stared up, and I could just see the mental movie churning in their imagination. And how freely those children gave away their smiles. Just an aside, what if treasure were measured in smiles rather than gold? If it was such a different economy, I struck it rich today. And I am thankful. At one point, I was so completely filled with love and joy for these kids. We shared an experience…a story. What a wonderful thing.

I have four little ones of my own…though not so little anymore. But I sat and read with each one of them {except for my oldest daughter who decided I was 2nd place to American Idol--insert dagger and twist.}. Let's see, I read: Dora's Bedtime Tales, Stink Moody, and Tom Swift. Hmmm...

But it was the time with my children, sharing the story that mattered. Wherever you are, and whatever you do, don't forget to make time…for storytime.

Writers Bootcamp

I am SO looking forward to this weekend. I'm loading all my writing gear into the Batmobile and venturing out to Scranton, Pennsylvania for what I am dubbing "Writer's Bootcamp." The idea developed after last summer at a convention in Denver, where I met another fantasy writer named Christopher Hopper.*(See Below) We made an instant connection of fellowship and have kept in touch since then. We made some plans to meet halfway between his hometown and mine to hang out for a weekend and write. He's working on his 3rd book and I'll be working on the outline for a new epic fantasy series.

What we are hoping to achieve is kind of what Tolkien and Lewis had with the Inklings group that met at the Eagle and Child pub in Oxford. (Mannnn...how'd you like to have been a fly on the wall at those meetings?) Those two giants of fantasy and their writer friends would get together at this pub and discuss story ideas (among other things) over a pint. Not that Christopher and I are anywhere near Tolkien and Lewis' league--ha! Hardly.

But still, I cannot wait to just sit down and CREATE--you know that mad scientist phase at the beginning of a book?! That is probably my favorite part of the process: just conjuring cool stuff. And to have someone else there who shares my love of fantasy, someone who can say, Wayne that rocks, or Wayne, that's stupid, or Wayne, what if Sir Lunchalot did this instead? Can you tell I'm stoked?

So, say a prayer that the snowstorm that is predicted will be blown off the coast. I really need this weekend.

I leave you with a question: I already mentioned that my favorite part of the writing process is the concepting stage. What is your favorite part of the process? Why?



*More about Christopher Hopper and his Fantasy titles.

If you don't know his work, I highly recommend it. His first book is Rise of the Dibor is terrific stuff, and what an original hook: what if Adam and Eve had never sinned…how might evil have entered the world, and would we be able to resist? His second book, The Lion of Vrie is due out this June.

Amazing world-building, great sense of God alive in the prose, entertaining plot. What's not to like?

A Day of Mourning...

You might be thinking of Barbaro the horse. Sad as that is, I'm not mourning about that.

See last night, I completed a gigantic set of edits for Isle of Swords. I had to cut a lot. Like 40 pages a lot. That hurts. Goodbye 1/6 of the book. I understand why we're cutting. In some cases I totally agree that it's necessary. But no mater what. It hurts.

Every person feels a sting when something they've done is criticized. Creative types feel it worse, IMHO. Maybe it's because we are CREATIVE people, and that is how we define ourselves. We get our self image completely entangled with the products we create. When someone wants to change it, BANG, hit to our self image. When someone wants to cut it, OUCH, it's a part of ourselves being sheered away.

For the Christian writer, maybe this is one of His many tools to help us to intertwine ourself image in the correct place--with Him. How does God see us? What do you think God thinks of you? If we take Him at His word, he sees us as His children, loved, worth dying for. Y'know, somehow, in light of Him, the cuts don't hurt so much anymore.

What are you afraid of?

I know this is going to sound crazy with a capital INSANE, but over the years that I struggled to write and publish The Door Within, I was seriously afraid. But the fear I experienced might surprise you. Certainly, there was the expected fear of rejection, and the fear that I might never get published. But there was another fear…a fear so odd I'm almost embarrassed to admit it. I do so only because there might be another author out there fettered by the same fear.

I was afraid to succeed.

You read that correctly. For a long time (13 years to be precise), while writing The Door Within I actually was afraid of getting published. I'm not totally sure why, but I have suspicions. You see, I grew pretty comfortable always telling people, "Yeah, I'm working on a book. I hope it'll get published some day." That was good for conversation. It said to people that I was creative and interesting, but it always left me an out. It allowed me to be lazy and not give my writing the all that I could possibly give it. Because I could always say, "Yeah, I'm working on a book."

I also knew that if I succeeded in being published, I'd have to bear a lot more responsibility. I'd have much more work to do, deadlines, less leisure time (I sure was right about that!). But being "almost an author" allowed some of the fringe benefits with not nearly as much effort.

And of course, if I didn't really give my book the all I could give if I REALLY focused on my craft and worked at that story, then I also had a convenient excuse when my manuscript was rejected. I could always say, sure it was rejected. But it wasn't my best work. To really spill blood and guts into the manuscript and send it out there…that would be to invite the ultimate rejection with no safety net.

But, you know what? God doesn't tell us to bring safety nets. Yeah, I know, when Abraham took little Isaac on that little walk up the mountain, God provided the ram in the thicket. But He didn't tell Abraham that. Still Abraham trusted God to provide the lamb.

If you feel a love for writing, a passion for it, I can't help but believe it is because God placed that passion there. Say you've been called, say it's God's plan for you, phrase it any way you want. But do it. And not only that, do it well. Whatever it takes--creative writing courses, joining writer's groups, paying for professional critique, etc. DO it. Give it your best--your VERY best effort. Flush the fear down the commode. Yeah, you might fail. Yes, you will probably get rejected--maybe dozens of times. And yes, you just might succeed, and it will be more work than you can possibly imagine. But if God called you to do it, do it.

Oh, and…get an agent.

Ever been to a cutting party?

A Cutting Party is what happens when your book is WAY over word count and the author needs to cut about 40 pages worth. For some reason that painting by Edward Munch--the Scream--comes to my mind. LOL

I've got to have these pages cut by Tuesday, so if there aren't many posts in that time…please understand.

And if you think of it, I could use a prayer or two.

And now for the surprise, mystery announcement!

All three books of The Door Within Trilogy will be released this year in Mass Market Paperback! The Door Within will be first, released in April, followed two months apart by Rise of the Wyrm Lord and The Final Storm.

But the coolest element of this softcover edition will be that each of the trilogy books will be "Extended Author's Cuts" of the books. They will include "The Lost Chapters" (cut chapters) of each book, complete with author/editor commentary. There will even be some all new material written just for the softcover editions.

I'm thrilled to see the cut chapters sewn back in. While some of the chapters really did need to go, others were cut or trimmed because of word/page count issues.

Wonderful tour everyone! Looking forward to the next one.

Never Alone!

Isle of Swords Sneak Preview!

My next book, Isle of Swords, is a high seas pirate adventure due to be released early this summer. Here for the first time online are two sneak preview chapters. Post in and let me know what you think.

Chapter 1 A Black Bird in the Storm
“Papa, I’m scared!” the little girl cried out as she slid awkwardly across the deck. Before she could regain her balance, she crashed into her father’s arms.
“Oh, Dolphin!” he said, shielding her from sheets of rain and sea spray. “What are you doing up here?”
She looked up at him, “I heard a monster out in the sea!”
“A monster? My darling daughter, you heard the thunder and the wind, that’s all,” he snuggled her in close beneath his coat. “There are no monsters in the sea. It’s a storm.”
“But it’s a big storm!” she whimpered.
“No, not big. Just noisy.” But this voice was not her father’s.
Dolphin peaked out from her father’s coat and grinned. It was Brand, the young ship’s mate she’d teased most afternoons since they left port. You’re my blond monkey, she’d said to Brand. And most times, he’d laugh, make chimp noises, and scurry up the nearest rope ladder or rigging. Now, the wind whipped his long hair about his face, but Dolphin saw him wink and felt her heart flutter.
“I’m still scared,” she said.
“It’s just a squall,” Brand said confidently. “Captain Halifax will see us through. And The Trafalgar is the pride of His Majesty’s fleet! Now you mind your father and go back to your quarters ’til it blows over.” And just like that, he was gone across the deck.
“There, you see?” said Dolphin’s father. “No monsters. Just a storm.” He looked down at his precious little girl. Her bright coppery locks were matted against her pale cheeks.
Dolphin stared back, but up beyond her father, following the main mast through shrouds of rigging, past the crow’s-nest, and into the turbulent gray sky. The churning dark clouds seemed to scowl back. Lightning slashed overhead, and Dolphin ducked again into her father’s coat. Thunder crashed, and the entire ship trembled.
“Papa!” she cried. He gave her a brave smile and cradled her head against his chest. He hoped she couldn’t hear his heart hammering away. No, she couldn’t. Not through the overcoat and not with the storm raging.
“There, there, my Dolphin. Remember what Brand said. It will all be over soon. Now, let’s get you back to our quarters and snug in bed.”
“But, Papa, I want to stay here with you!”
“No, you will be much safer below,” he replied, a slight edge to his voice. “I have work to do. I’m helping the quartermaster. He’s waiting for me . . . see?” He pointed to the grizzled graybeard near the mast. He alone of all the sailors on deck wore no coat. He nodded and grinned at Dolphin.
Suddenly, Dolphin clutched her father’s leg. She stared, pointing past the quartermaster, past the main mast, out into the rolling sea. “What’s that?” she shrieked.
Dolphin’s father turned and squinted into the murk. A huge sea swell rose and further obscured his view. “What, I don’t see anyth—” His mouth shut with an audible snap. The swell subsided. Lightning crackled and streaked. In the flickering light and through the spray and chop, an enormous ship appeared in the distance. It was tall, at least three masts, and narrowed sharply at the bow. It knifed through the waves, driving toward them.
Dolphin’s father bent low and held his little girl by the shoulders. “Stay here,” he whispered urgently. He ran to the quartermaster and pointed out into the sea.
“Pirates,” hissed the quartermaster.
“Pirates? In the middle of the storm?”
The quartermaster did not reply immediately. He stared out into the sea. Abruptly, he took in a sharp breath and went very rigid. He grabbed Dolphin’s father by the shoulder of his coat and practically dragged him back across the deck. “Get your daughter down below,” he said as they drew near the ship.
“Come, my child,” Dolphin’s father said, his voice taut. “We must go to our quarters.”
“But, Papa, the ship . . . who are they?”
“No one to worry about, Dolphin. Off the deck, now. Here we go—”
“You best not lie to your daughter.” The quartermaster’s voice was flat, terrifyingly void of emotion. “That ship . . . it’s The Raven. Bartholomew Thorne.”
Dolphin’s father felt the blood in his veins turn to ice at the uttering of that dark name. He whisked his daughter off the deck and raced for the cabins. He banged awkwardly through a door, and his daughter screamed.
“I’m so sorry, Dolphin,” he managed to say. He could feel her trembling against him. He held her close and continued running. A hundred thoughts raced through his mind: memories, hopes, regrets.
“Papa!” she pleaded as they plunged into their cabin.
He sat down with her on the bed and snuffed the candle in the lantern. As darkness enveloped them, he said, “Don’t worry, my precious daughter. It will all be over soon.”
And he began to pray.

Chapter 2 Echoes of Cannon Fire
A cannon shot, deep and sudden, trailed off like a peal of thunder. Something cold touched his fingertips. Another shot. Run them all out, boys!
Water trickled over his hand. She’s taking on something awful! Bosun, pitch that leak! Another shot, nearer still. Water surged into his mouth and nose. A wave partially submerged his head and sprayed his back.
He woke, jerked his head up from the surf, and flailed onto his side. His face, his arms, his back—throbbed and burned. “What happened?” he moaned, coughing up seawater and grinding sand between his teeth. He could not see. Has someone cut out my eyes? Hands trembling, he reached up. His eyes were swollen and caked shut . . . but at least they were there.
After several painful attempts, he managed to pry them open. Brilliant white light knifed in, he clutched at his face. His head throbbed, sun blazed mercilessly off the white sand, but slowly his eyes adjusted. He squinted under a cloudless blue sky and saw water. As another wave raced toward him, he rose to one knee. That little bit of movement brought tremendous pain. It felt as if there were shards of glass embedded in his skin.
With another groan, he stood. He reached over his shoulder and, between the tatters of his shirt, he felt ripped flesh, sticky and wet. His fingertips came back glistening with blood, and he became lightheaded. He swayed for a moment, then steadied himself and looked around. Across a slope of white sand, there stood a deep copse of trees—mostly tall palms, surrounded by sea grape and divi-divi trees. He stared at the leaning, gnarled trunks. Divi-divi trees always leaned to the southwest. That meant something . . . he felt sure it did, but he could not grasp what. He looked along the tree line, up and down the shore, and again, out to sea. “I don’t know this place,” he whispered.
He grabbed fistfuls of his matted blond hair. His welted face felt foreign . . . like someone else’s. A sharp ringing came to his ears. The world seemed to spin. “My God,” he mouthed, “I . . . I don’t even know who I am.”
A flash of green racing across the sand drew his attention, and he turned. At his feet, a large iguana sat gnawing at the leather drawstring of a pouch that lay half-buried in the sand.
Brushing aside the lizard, he picked up the fist-sized pouch. It had some weight to it. “Is this mine?” he wondered aloud. He thought it had to be, but nothing about it seemed familiar. Still, when he loosened the drawstring and began to pour out its contents, he couldn’t help but feel a strange gravity weighing upon him.
A sparkling green stone fell into his hands first. It was shaped like an almond, but much larger. The brilliant sun flickered within it as if the stone was alive with fire at its core. Next, a lock of lustrous red hair dropped out and lay in his palm close to the jewel. The hair was a little damp but still very soft. He ran a finger lightly over it, wondering. . . .
The surf raced in and covered his feet, just as the last item—a rusty iron cross—fell into his palm. Ancient it looked—and not just from the tarnish. It bore strange markings and a script of some design, but he could not read it.
He dropped the three tokens into the pouch. He did not recognize any of these things. Nothing made any sense! His head ached. Weak and confused, he watched as an iguana scurried away and disappeared over the slope. Then he froze, for nearby the lizard’s trail was a trail of footprints. They wound away from the trees, down from the slope, almost directly to where he stood. A wave crashed with a sound like a cannon shot . . . or maybe, more like the crack of a whip, and he jumped.
The ringing came back to his ears, and he felt dizzy. As his vision blurred, he looked at the footprints leading up to where he stood. The thought, I am not alone, flashed into his mind before everything around him faded into darkness.