Two Weeks to ‘Go Time’ on Sons of Earth!

I just approved the proof! Sons of Earth (the print version) is almost reality, and soon the Kindle edition will be too. I’m excited to share this story with you!

A manufactured person is no person at all. Designed to fight and die, Dominic escaped from the metallic womb of Caspian Genetics. He knows that if he is found out he’s as good as dead, but he cannot forget that his brothers are enslaved.

He matches his wits against Caspian’s might. But how can Dominic stand against an industry that denies his personhood when he doubts his own humanity? As his plans unravel, Dominic is forced to face the question: Was he lied to? Is he human after all?

A Looker and a Kiss-Ass (A ‘Sons of Earth’ Preview)

Today wasn’t a good day for Khalia’s new assistant to arrive, but… there he was, the boy-wonder.

The travel mug slipped from Khalia’s hand just as her swipe card passed the swipe-station and the door clicked.

Khalia kicked it through the door ahead of her and let the warm interior air wash over her before she stooped to pick it up. She was cold, damn cold, and wet, thanks to the damn bus that had been damn late for the third damn time, and then had the gall to splash water all over her as it pulled away.

And she felt sick. Her stomach was compressed into a hard ball in her center, empty because in her frantic effort to get out of the house, she’d forgotten. Her mind was on the medication stashed in her desk, where she’d forgotten it the day before. She’d barely slept, her chest was so tight with the panic of not having the pills in the house.

She shoved her way through the turnstiles, barely looking at the security desk, where two guards were laughing and talking, with guns hanging off their shoulders, and past the buzzing HR offices. The three ladies chatting by the front desk looked up with big eyes, and immediately bent their heads together.

Yeah, gossip about me, you dirt-bags.

Khalia barged through the lab door without even looking up. Her feet pointed toward her desk.

“Good of you to join us, Khalia.” Adam’s deadpan voice made her halt.

“The bus…” Khalia mumbled, then cut herself off as she glanced toward him.

Everyone stood in a semi-circle around Adam, lab-coats buttoned, hands clasped behind their backs. Barjinder met her gaze and his brown eyes softened. Adam peered at her over his clipboard. His hand was still poised, as if he’d been making some almighty point.

Khalia pushed past and dropped her bag on her desk with a solid clunk. She fumbled in the drawer for the pills.

“As I was saying,” Adam turned and squared his narrow shoulders. The fluorescent light reflected through his thinning hair. “This is…” his voice faded out as Khalia’s fingers closed around two small, green pills. She dropped them on her tongue and gulped them down with a wash of cold coffee. She set the cup down, squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. Her hand fumbled to stick the bottle into her purse, but it just scrabbled across the papers on her desk. Khalia opened her eyes yanked the bag toward herself and glanced around. Mina and Jennifer walked, heads together, toward their desks at the far side of the lab. Jennifer laughed, high and shrill. Adam’s drone continued. His gesturing hands poked and waved from behind a white, lab coated back. A dark head nodded.

“Oh…” Khalia froze in place with the bottle poised above the purse. It was Monday, and that was Vermeer, her new assistant-read-replacement. And she had just walked past him and dove for her medication.

Not fair, not today of all days.

She took a covert glance at his back. His erect figure towered over Adam—square shoulders, slender, sable hair in a short, fashionable style. He’d turned his head slightly to the side as if skeptical. He had just a bit of neat facial hair. Was it to make him look older?

Dominic Vermeer was young, twenty-six or seven, but the man had an impressive resume and she was determined to like him,

as unlikely as that seemed. Maybe he’d become an ally of sorts. She needed one. But now she just hoped the oxy kicked in before Vermeer put his fine ass in the seat next to her.

Khalia squared her shoulders and got up. She screwed the top off her coffee cup with hands that trembled and exited out the back toward the cafeteria. She’d be composed by the time she got back.

When she returned with a full coffee cup and a muffin, Vermeer already sat at the desk next to hers, speaking numbers quietly into the laptop. Images and input boxes flicked across the screen at tremendous speed, but as she slipped through the door he looked up. He jerked back his chair and stood.

“Doctor Kassis.” He held her gaze with intent brown eyes that glittered from behind a dark fringe of lashes. She had to tip her head back to look him in the face as she walked forward to accept his extended hand.

She squared her shoulders and smiled. “Khalia, please.”

“I’ve read all of your published papers,” he said as she released his hand.

Khalia pressed her lips together for a moment so her mouth wouldn’t drop open. “Oh, uh, thank you. I perused your doctoral thesis as well. It was… interesting.”

So you’re a looker and a kiss-ass. Great. You’ll go far here, one way or another.

“This didn’t faze the management at Caspian, apparently,” Vermeer’s lip curled.

“Indeed.” The man had written about ‘post production death rates among manufactured persons’. Postulating that the number one cause of death among Empties was suicide hadn’t been a popular conclusion. She’d doubted his reasoning, but she couldn’t deny that he had moxie.

Khalia took a step back and glanced around the room. “Barjinder got you situated? I’m sorry I didn’t greet you properly earlier. I had some unforeseen circumstances this morning.”

“No trouble,” he said.

“I will give you a tour of the production floor this morning, but first I have some policies for you to read and sign. Have a seat, I’ll just go get them.”

“Of course.”

As she turned to her desk for the sheaf of policies, Khalia caught sight of Adam marching toward her desk. She sighed.

“Vermeer’s bracelet.” The slim metal bracelet, sealed in a plastic bag, dropped in front of her. Adam leaned in and said in a low voice, “You know, if you’re unhappy with my choice of assistant for me, just say it to my face, Khalia.”

What, was that what being late made him think? Khalia looked up into Adam’s fat face. He had a smudge of something purple in the corner of his mouth, probably grape jelly. Of course, she wouldn’t tell him. Let him figure out that he’d oriented the boy-wonder with breakfast on his face. “No, I’m not unhappy with your choice, Adam,” she said coolly, “And if you’re here to lecture me on being late, you tell me to my face.” Adam knew she’d worked late last night, finishing work he was supposed to do.

“No, I’m not…” Adam mumbled, glancing at his scuffed dockers, “Just give Vermeer the policies and the tour, okay?”

“I have the policies right here,” She tapped the folder, “I’ll give him the tour after break. Good enough?”

“Yeah.” Adam walked away.

Khalia blew out her breath and glanced over her shoulder at Vermeer, who had returned to his computer. No, she wasn’t unhappy with Adam’s choice, though she’d been miffed when he’d made it clear she had no real input in the matter. If Vermeer would just work hard and not be a pain in the neck, everything would be fine. If she could trust him, maybe even call him a friend, well… that might be too much to hope for.

Sons of Earth is a sci-fi novel, slated to be released this spring. I’m excited to share it with you! If you enjoyed this preview, you may enjoy my post-apocalyptic love story, We are the Living (may include zombies). 

First Look Inside ‘Sons of Earth’: Reject

The opening scene of Sons of Earth, the Sci-Fi novel I will release this spring!

He was watching her. Though he never made eye contact, from under his long, dark lashes he watched. His perfect lips curled, almost too minute to perceive. It made a full body exam decidedly awkward.

But she was done. Khalia pointed to his clothes, folded neatly on the table, and with the same obedience she expected, he picked them up and began pull them on. Even with her eyes on her clipboard, she could still feel his gaze. She glanced up. The bluish fluorescent light sent glints off his eyes as he dropped them.

MFP25A12 was her third and last examination of the morning. The other two had been in perfect condition. She’d recorded every parameter, all within limits, almost exactly on target. Not A12. Vitals, in limits. Height, 183 cm—in limits. Weight, 80.73 kg—drastically out of limits. At his age, he should be not less than 90kg. Khalia scanned the parameter sheets for the last two months. His weight-gain had leveled off two weeks ago, even after adjustments to his diet.

Thud. Khalia glanced up. The MFP was, for once, not looking at her. He’d dropped his shoe onto the concrete floor. She shook her head, and flipped through his records.

He was reject—garbage.

Khalia sighed and took one last glance across the pages. As she flipped to the first page, her eyes lit on a section titled “Intelligence Quotient. Limits 100-120” and below it, the number 183.

Her head snapped up. A12, now dressed in his black garments, didn’t bother to lower his gaze. He stared at her, full on.

“Hey.” She pointed with two fingers toward the floor. His chin tilted downward in obedience but his lip curled again.

Khalia shivered. What rogue gene had slipped through, and graced this specimen with genius IQ? She should test him. Maybe it was a mistake, a transcription error. Who had tested him? The signature was Adam’s. She needed to ask, even if by all physical signs MFP25A12 was destined to be rejected. Barjinder would want to know how this happened.

Khalia grabbed a blue tag from one of the many hooks beside the light switches. It read “Further Testing Required”, the one right beside the red “Reject” tag, stark crimson against the snow-white wall. She stuck it to the Velcro patch on A12’s sleeve.

“Come.”

She opened the door and led him into the wide, fluorescent lit hall, past the rows of exam-room doors, and into the airlock. She shed her shoe covers and lab coat, and pushed him ahead of her into the warm yellow light of the corridor. “I’m taking this one for further testing,” she said to the forms clerk. She signed the sheet that was handed to her, and led her charge two doors over to the genetics lab.

Barjinder’s desk was empty. She’d get the MFP situated, then go find him.

Khalia opened the door of the holding room, an eight by eight room with a cot and a toilet, and let her charge pass by her. She turned and set the clipboard in the folder by the door, and grabbed the log book to fill it out. Her pen had just formed the letters “M F P” when she heard a slight rustle.

Her head turned, and she was nose to nose with the MFP. She squeaked, and then his hands were on her throat. She thrashed, he pushed her against the wall, pinning her. Her lungs burned empty, her head swam. She made one last effort to jerk free. He was a brick wall.

Black spots grew larger and larger.

The last thing Khalia saw before she lost consciousness was his dark eyes, gazing deep into hers. His lip was still curled.

My Best Books of 2014

Which books changed my life in 2014?

I read thirty-six books this year, as of today. I hope to make it 37 before midnight tomorrow, if I can pound out the last of Plato’s Republic. Many of these volumes were forgotten the instant I put it back on the bookshelf, or shut off my Kindle.

Others changed me. I quoted new phrases. I modified my philosophy. I gained courage. I ate differently. Which were my most memorable books of 2014?

The Life-Changer: Trim Healthy Mama

This book, by Serene Allison and Pearl Barrett, set the tone for the entire year.  It was a year filled with fitness victories, as I lost nearly forty pounds, and gained a passion for running.

I have already written extensively on the diet and lifestyle espoused in the book Trim Healthy Mama.  You can read a summary of what it is and why I chose it here, some of my favourite benefits here, and more about my weight-loss and food addiction journey here.

Most-Quoted: Slaughterhouse 5

Though it wasn’t quite the page-turner that Divergent, the Maze Runner, and other popular novels I read this year, Slaughterhouse 5 lingers much longer.

After watching the Crash Course with John Green video discussing Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse 5, I was intrigued by the Tralfamadorian aliens, Billy Pilgrim’s complete unhinging from reality (and time and space), the fire-bombing of Dresden, and the ideas of time and free will.  It is also a strangely comedic book, considering the traumatic subject matter.

There was a lot of death this year, as there always is in this evil world. My method of dealing with this involved denial, impotent rage, helpless tears, prayer, and bouts of jaded weariness.  In those times, it was tempting to say ‘so it goes’ every time I’d heard someone died. I also gave thought to what time actually is, and how free we are to choose our destiny. I tend to oppose the Tralfamadorian idea of complete fatalism.

It is also no accident that the ‘Society of Immortals’ in the series I am writing makes their headquarters in Dresden.

Best Business Book: Rise of the Machines

How do you make yourself stand out in social media? How do you make your blog a success? Frankly, I was lost.

Rise of the Machines, by Kristen Lamb brought me from the dark ages of promo-tweeting, into the adventure of making friends through Twitter, Facebook and other social media platforms. I’m no social media wiz, but at least I have some idea of how to make the most of these resources and not bore everyone to death in the process. Particularly helpful was her blogging advice, which promotes a highly relatable style based on your personal interests, stories and experiences and not on your actual profession (because apparently only writers want to hear writers rant about writing).

The One That Haunts Me: Thank You for Your Service

I stumbled across Thank You for Your Service, by David Finkel in McLeans magazine while I was revising We are the Living for publication. It’s the story of several American soldiers and their families, who live with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, traumatic brain injuries, or physical injuries. It was probably intended as an expose of the inadequate care these men and women receive, but for me it was about seeing life through their eyes.

I was in the midst of writing Liam, the male lead of We are the Living, who has battled through the compound effects of a brain injury and PTSD and cannot quite break free of their stigma. This book sharpened my image of Liam, but it also showed my what a no-win situation his might be.  This, combined with some events in my family, shaped the conclusion of the story. I realized that a straight-up happy ending wasn’t in the cards for him, just like their was no quick fix for the families in Thank You for Your Service. But there was great opportunity for love, courage and redemption.

The Book from Left-field: The Way of the Fight

I found this autobiography of UFC champion Georges St. Pierre crammed into the teetering ‘Religion’ shelf of a an overcrowded used bookstore. I pulled it out and hee-hawed with my friends. They didn’t know who St. Pierre was, but were amused/embarrassed at the cover, which featured the fighter bare-chested and geared for the fight. I’d developed an interest in St. Pierre and the UFC after watching some pre-fight coverage on a TV at the local McDonalds. I was puzzled by what would motivate a man to make a career of beating people up on national television.  Here was my chance to find out.  It turned out, MMA fighting is much more complicated than that.

It’s less of a life-story and more an explanation of his ideology. St. Pierre comes across as a philosopher, a learner, and a man dedicated to a craft. In fact, much of what he said on conquering fear, managing risk, submitting to mentorship, and constant learning could be applied directly to writing.  I was in the thick of publishing We are the Living at the time, and choking on the fear of exposing my novel (and thus the inner workings of my mind) to an audience. The Way of the Fight turned out to be the medicine I needed.

The One I Wrote: We are the Living

How do you find peace and hope when you have no control over your life?

Kayla’s plans are as finely tuned as her cello, so when Liam joins her friends on their tour of Europe, she resents him.  The ex-soldier with a fragile psyche seems like a liability.  But when political turmoil in France explodes into a zombie apocalypse, their lives may depend on this warrior’s skills.

Their flight takes them to a tiny Italian community where a mysterious priest is curing zombies. There, Kayla and Liam’s shared horror draws them together.  But they aren’t the only ones who want the cure.

As the threat of the living eclipses the danger of the undead, they must decide whether to run, or to fight for those they love.

“Zombies Geralyn?” a friend said to me. “It’s not a zombie novel,” I always said, “It’s a love story that has zombies in it.” I relished writing scenes of gritty hand-to-hand combat between undead, the living and rebel/terrorist fighters. Snappy dialogue and off-beat humour was my joy. But it’s the relationship that develops between Liam and Kayla that I’m most proud of. You can pick it up here.

Other excellent books I read included: The Forgotten Trinity (White), Wheat Belly (Davis), The Amazing Connection Between Food and Love (Smalley), A Whole New Mind (Pink), The Lord of the Rings (my third read-through of the giant classic), Divergent (Roth), The Republic (Plato), and City of Bones (Clare).

What Did You Read?

I’m curious. What were the best books you read this year? I’m always searching for a great new read. Right now I’m in the market for a great novel. Was there a book that changed you this year?

Well, That was Traumatic! NaNoWriMo 2014 Review.

Last night I won NaNoWriMo 2014 with less than two hours to spare.  Today I am doing the same things as every other winner.

Laundry.

No, it’s not a rule that your whole life must go to the dogs while you work feverishly on your manuscript. Strictly speaking, my house was no less slovenly that it usually is–complete with the snowdrift of clothes across the bedroom floor.  Though I don’t remember cleaning the toilet this month.  Usually I’d do that once or twice.

Did that now.

The Youngest of Immortals has been birthed.  I’ve spent the month with a brand new cast of characters that were actually trapped in my head for a number of years.  I outlined some of the themes of this story in “Going AWOL and Writing a Book,” but essentially, this is first book in a series of stories about Jack, the youngest member of a secret society of Immortal people.  Jack has never come to grips with the curse of being Immortal, and now his wife, his last link to his former mortal life, is about to die of cancer.

Jack is a death addict.  He cannot die, but he can come very, very close before he ‘rebounds’ and death spits him back out.  He gets a drug-like rush from that near-fatal experience, and a few hours of peace before he wakes up to reality.

This is where Alannah and Alexander, both members of the Society of Immortals, find him.  The question is, now that Jack knows he isn’t alone in his immortality, will he have the courage to make a new life for himself or will he chase death to the end?

Jack is a bit of a loser and I enjoyed writing him.  He says the stupidest things, and constantly pokes at and offends Alannah, despite the fact that she’s one of the only people left who cares whether he lives or dies.  It is clearly a defence mechanism, but if you take what he says at face value, it’s hilarious.  I hope I’m not the only one who will think so.

People showed up who weren’t supposed to show up.  A woman who was supposed to be an incidental character wound up being this femme fatal… that’s about all I can say about that.  I was writing from an outline, but you can never plan for everything.  Stories take on lives of their own.

In the last four days of NaNoWriMo, I raced to the finish by writing about 15,000 words.  Thank God I’d booked time off of work, because in the two weeks prior, life got a bit crazy.  Heck, I got a bit crazy (a subject for another post.  Suffice to say, there was a meltdown).  I went for days without writing.

To make matters worse, my outline was too short.  I had to go back and drum up scenes to extend the novel past the 50,000 word mark.  50,000 words is still too short, in my mind, but as I finish the series I expect to find material to add in.

And I still had time to go Christmas shopping–Black Friday and all.

There was also time to learn something new.  Last year I learned about the UFC.  This year I leaned how to run on a treadmill.  At the beginning I was all scared, but I did NOT fall off the treadmill.  I successfully learned to run on a treadmill, and have now completed two 10K’s as well as a number of shorter workouts.

Running full tilt while watching Criminal Minds is an experience, I’ll tell you.

I have successfully joined the ranks of the gym rats, and the NaNoWriMo 2014 winners.  Cheers!

 

 

 

Going AWOL and Writing a Book

Hey Friends,

It’s November, and here in Manitoba, the weather has caught up.  There is snow, and thus we are launched into our 4-6 months of winter.  But I don’t mind, because I probably won’t see daylight until December.

It’s NaNoWriMo–National Novel Writing Month.  Writers all over challenge themselves to write a novel of not less than 50,000 words in length.  This has been in progress for a week now, so blogging has not been a priority.  It won’t be until NaNo is done.

What am I Writing?

I am very excited to begin a trilogy, which falls roughly into the genre of urban fantasy, but with immortal humans instead of demon-slayers, vampires and werewolves.  The protagonists are Jack, the youngest of the Immortals who in this first book has yet to come to grip with the burden of living on while everyone else dies.  He compulsively tries to die, if only to get as close to death as possible before rebounding back to life.  The other protagonist is Alannah, an immortal Holocaust survivor who teaches history and hides from society as much as possible.  Another key figure is Alexander, a seven-hundred and some year old former knight.

Meanwhile, Alannah fights the fear that someone is stalking her–perhaps someone from her past?  Jack resists Alannah and Alexander’s attempts to assimilate him into the secret Immortal society, meanwhile battling increasing self-hatred as he cannot keep his promise to his late wife that he would stop harming himself.

Once again, I find myself writing on dark themes.  In We are the Living I wrote on themes such as PTSD, loss of hope and loss of loved ones, and finding reasons to live when the life you knew has been destroyed–all against the backdrop of a post zombie apocalyptic Italy.

This story deals with self-harm and addiction, and finding the courage to chase after a life-purpose.  As the series unfolds, their will be a thread about the consequences one bad choice can have.  And there will be romance, because I can’t seem to go without it.

This book won’t be released until well into 2015, as there is a SciFi novel in the queue before it.

Coffee and Lots of It

I’ve written about 20,000 words now–more before I go to bed at 1:00 am tonight.  🙂  This is all fuelled by copious amounts of coffee.

How do you know you are drinking too much coffee, exactly?  One clue: I became wide awake this morning when I heard my sister pouring the beans into the grinder.  No lying in bed for me, oh no.

I also have decaf, so if need be I can drink it right to the end!  The other day all the caffeinated coffee was gone, and I had nothing but decaf all day.  I was concerned I might be going into withdrawal.

And while I drink coffee and write, I have Spotify on a continuous stream of contemplative (read: depressing) indie and folk music.

Oh yes, and tomorrow I’m going to run on a treadmill for the first time.  I am not excited.  But maybe I can take my coffee and my laptop with me and write, drink and listen to Spotify while running.  Worth a shot, no?

So if I don’t post for a few weeks, it’s because I’m off writing like a madwoman… or I flew off the treadmill and am confined to a body cast.

The Breaking of Liam

“We’ve got to go.” The first intelligible words I heard. Liam. His voice was low, but deadly calm. He grabbed my shoulders and raised me up, but I recoiled from him. He didn’t seem to notice. “Simone,” he said. “We’ve got to go. We can’t stay here.”

“I still have my gun,” Simone said.

I turned, saw the gun still locked in Liam’s hand and stifled a scream. Morgan’s body lay behind me. I couldn’t turn around, so I had to look at Liam’s face, blank as blank could be.

“The map is gone,” he said, “But I remember the way. Come.”

Simone started after him, and so did I. And then I glanced back. Morgan’s body lay crumpled, just off the road. Blood pooled around his head.

I vomited onto my shoes.

Liam turned around, dead eyed. “Keep up.”

Keep up? Rage welled up inside me. “Keep up? You just shot your brother and you’re telling me to keep up? You… you psychopath!”

Liam’s face twitched. His mouth opened and clenched shut. He turned around and kept walking.

“Hey!” I followed after him. “Hey!”

Liam spun around. His face was almost purple, so contorted he could hardly be recognized. “What do you want me to say?” he ground out. I could hardly hear him over my own pounding heart. Again, a little louder, “What do you want me to say?”

Simone grabbed me from behind. “Stop it!”

I didn’t care. I wasn’t even in my right mind. “I could kill you!”

Simone clamped her dirty hand over my mouth and restrained me. Liam turned around. His shoulders formed a hard line, a wall between us, and he marched on. Simone pushed me forward, after him.

“Stop,” she whispered in my ear. “Just leave him alone. You don’t understand.”

Something about her words clicked in my mind. My anger dissipated to a low burn, and I followed after Liam.

My legs pumped in an effort to keep up with Simone. My mind reeled in unintelligible patterns. My stomach ached from vomiting. I would keep up. I would.

The sun began to set. Liam pointed to a house in the distance, and we made it just as the sun slipped behind the hills. We had the last few twilight minutes to make sure the house was empty. It was.

But for safety, Liam packed us into a tiny, windowless room. Simone, then me, then him against the door. The air was stifling, reeking of my own sweat and that of my companions.

We were silent. There was nothing to say. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. Beside me Liam was rigid as full rigor. His breath rasped in and out.

I huddled close to Simone so I didn’t have to touch him.

Then, like a rupture, I heard a tearing groan come from within him. He slumped against the door. His cries hissed through his teeth, until even that could not contain them, and he sobbed like a baby.

Strong Liam, so broken, terrified me but I could not comfort him. I would not. Instead I grabbed Simone’s hand as if she could reassure me. She did not. She pushed my hand away and climbed over me to Liam. She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her lips.

“Liam,” she whispered, “Liam.”

He stirred. She grabbed his head and cradled it in her arms, stroking his face. He clutched at her hands, weeping. She cried too.
And I just lay against the wall. Every part of me hurt, but I would not cry.

And then, as quickly as it came, the storm passed. Liam jerked away from Simone. She held out her hand to him, but he ignored it and pressed himself against the wall.

“Kayla.” His voice came, low and rough, out of the darkness. “Kayla, if this should happen to me or Simone…”
“No!” I sat up. “No!”

He reached across and grabbed me by the arm. His fingers dug in to my soft flesh. “I’m serious. You can’t let that happen to Simone and you can’t let that happen to me, just like I won’t let it happen to you. Understand?”

Admit it. You wouldn’t mind having the chance.

Like I could say that to him. I was afraid of him. He was a monster. “Understood,” I squeaked. I burrowed down against my pack. My shirt was damp, sticking to me with sweat. My stomach turned with… with what? Fear? Grief?

His hand was still on my arm, but his fingers loosened and gentled before dropping away. Simone crawled back and lay down between us. She whispered in my ear. “Don’t worry, Kayla. I can do it.”

Her words, tinged with resignation, chilled me right through.

I didn’t really sleep that night. I dozed. The house made too much noise, though it may have been my imagination. There were creaks, moans like that of the undead, groans from Liam. Once I thought I heard footsteps. Liam lifted his head and listened for a long time, but the footsteps never came closer.

Thunder crackled, louder and louder. Then rain rattled on the terra cotta tiles of the roof. The tiny stream of air under the door turned moist, carrying the scent of trees and fields. Out there, things were still living.

This is an excerpt from my recent novel, We are the Living.  I have to admit that, of all the characters, I loved Liam the most.  I said to him (because authors talk to their characters sometimes), “I’m sorry, but you are going to be wrecked by the time I’m done with you.”  But will he redeem himself?  Well, I can’t tell you that, can I?
Buy Now
 

An Exceptionally Good Summer

Summer is over.  Manitoba’s autumn is the equivalent of winter in the coastal and southern areas–brain-freezing winds, thick frost, and gun-metal grey skies.

But it was a good summer.  I’ve been reflecting on this past summer and I’ve been so grateful for the great things that have happened this summer.  Here are the highlights.

Losing 30+ Pounds

This began in March, when I was introduced to the book Trim Healthy Mama.  The book advocates a low-glycemic, superfood approach to eating, which I have embraced.  This led to…

Running my First 5K

And my second, third and fourth.  I began the Couch to 5K program in mid-June, and ran my first race on August 17th, about nine weeks later.  Since the completion of the program, I have slowly been increasing my distance and speed.

Road Trip with Jess

In the first week of July, my sister and I packed up my little car and booted off to Minneapolis for a week of shopping, touring, and sister-time.  Neither of us had shopped at the Mall of America.  So we spent two eight-hour days shopping!  After that we were sick of the place, and toured a historic mansion, attended a Independence Day celebration at Fort Snelling, and drank a LOT of coffee.

 Publishing my First Novel

After a marathon of editing, and formatting, We are the Living was released as an E-book in August, and a print edition was released in September.  My friends and family, who didn’t have to format and edit it, were much more excited than I. 🙂

It’s a post-zombie-apocalypse-lovestory mishmash, and a beautiful story of hope in bleak places.  I hope it will be a stepping stone to greater things.  I sure learned a lot from it.

A New Church

Leaving the church of my childhood was like leaving home and family.  Now I am safely ensconced in a new church in town.  It is slowly becoming home.  I became a member of the choir two weeks ago, and now I feel like I have a family within the church family at large.

What Next?

So what will the winter hold?  For starters, I’m going to learn how to run on a treadmill.  I have no interest in running in -40 weather, so the treadmill will need to be my best friend.  I’ve never used one, so this might be funny for everyone else.

I have plans to complete National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) by writing the first book in a series, which I plan to debut late next year.  In the meantime, I am editing a sci-fi novel, for release in the spring.

And you know, I’m kind of looking forward to Christmas.  Too soon?

How was your summer?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Don’t Write Christian Books

The Misunderstood Power of Christian Art: Part 3

I’m the person who skips through the ‘preachy’ sections, searching for the part where the romance and adventure begins again.  I’m the person who sighs heavily when the beleaguered protagonist falls to his knees.  I’m the one who rants on demand about how I can’t stand God’s Not Dead.  But why?

In Separating the Pulpit from the Novelist’s Pen, I talked about the notion that novels and movies must contain sermons and ‘lessons’.  I’ve often felt guilty for not relating to these parts.  I DO believe those sermons, right?  I do believe that God isn’t dead, and that faith is rational.  Heck, I’m a homeschooled, choir singing, Sunday School teaching Christian nice girl.

Meanwhile, I’ve been writing stories with curses, clones, clandestine romance, gladiator-like fighters and zombies.  I toy with profanity, and dance in the grey areas between darkness and light.  True, wisdom often dictates that I go back and censor myself, but eventually I had to decide that there isn’t something wrong with me.  I was just called to something different.

I am convinced that each artist must fulfill the role that only they can fill–be it in the genre of Christian fiction, or in the mainstream genres.  And mainstream is where I belong.

The Box Opened and I Jumped Out

I expect that Christian fiction, as an industry, was developed to provide a clean alternative to mainstream book genres.  This is certainly needed, because what passes as a ‘romance’ novel these days is more like soft-core pornography in written form.  Even genres that are not pegged as romantic contain a lot of this material.  Furthermore, the cynicism and nihilism present there might be useful to provoke thought, but as a regular diet it is not beneficial.  Essentially, the mainstream lacks truth.

However, in our efforts to provide an acceptable alternative, I feel we have created a sanitary little ghetto that we dare not poke our heads out of.  We keep to the basic basic plot of mission, failure, wise sermon, repentance, miraculous victory and positive resolution.  We recoil at the mention of sex, wash the blood out of our violence, and skirt wide around vulgar language.

That’s not wrong, but I don’t like it.

In the genre of speculative fiction, writing becomes even more tricky.  Draw in clones, immortal characters, or magic and theology is no longer straightforward.  Christian authors begin day-long debates over if clones can have souls, if magic can be attributed to the Holy Spirit, or if granting characters immortality is unbiblical.

“But immortal people don’t even exist!” I say, “Suspend the theology for a second.”

So I guess you could say I left the genre to get out of the box.  I want to honour God, make no mistake, but I need the artistic freedom to tell a story without having to check off the boxes or screen it through a certain size of filter.  As I said in the first part of The Misunderstood Power of Christian Art, censorship should come from wisdom or conviction–not out of fear of what people will say.  To tell a story I have to go places that are uncomfortable.  I make no apologies for that.  Sometimes one must look past the surface actions and words, and look at the ideas and feelings being imparted, and the questions that may be raised.

The Mainstream Isn’t in the Christian Aisle

The clean offerings of the Christian genre are an excellent alternative for Christians, but are they effective in outreach?  Are mainstream readers buying Christian books?  Some are, perhaps, but for the most part ‘religious stuff’ is unintelligible to them, and ‘Christian’ isn’t a keyword they are searching for.

Christians have their books, their truth.  Who will tell the truth to unbelievers?  I want to.

So many blogs are spreading gossip, spewing vitriol and cynicism.  I want mine to be positive, speaking hope about personal change and good relationships.  The shelves are full of books that glorify violence, sex, self-indulgence and manipulation.  I want mine to be about purpose, integrity in adversity, hope and sacrificial love.

I want to tell the truth in a world of lies.

The First Seed

I see my role as preparatory.  My generation neither knows, nor respects the Bible.  Their gospel is tolerance, and ‘awareness’ is their salvation.  If I quote chapter and verse, I might as well be quoting Dickens.

But do they have a purpose to life?  Are they fulfilled?  Does their life have a foundation?  I once asked a coworker, about my age and an atheist, what he based his life on.  He had no idea.  I don’t think he’d considered this.

That is precisely the kind of question I’d like to raise.  I want to be the salter of the oats, so to speak.  Or at very least, provide a good story that is full of good principles, not lies.

Missional Media

In the past, authors reached the world through a publishing company.  But in this age of the independent author (indie), the writer engages and markets through social media.  The reader might stumble across my book, but just as likely they will meet me first.  I may start a conversation with them on Twitter.  They may read my blog.  I may have met them on Facebook and connected over a shared interest.  Writing is increasingly ‘missional’ that way.  I go to them.

Therefore, what I DO is just as important as what I say.  Make no mistake.  I cannot sit in my basement (as if a third floor apartment could have a basement… but I digress) and write.  I have to genuinely care about people, wade into the stream of social media, notice, encourage, speak out.  I can’t claim to be good at this, but the potential in it is breathtaking.

To Conclude the Series

Christian art is a nebulous thing, if my wobbly definition can be trusted.  But though it’s hard to pin down, we cannot fear it.  It is the primary medium by which my generation absorbs information.  Who better than Christian artists to reach them–especially the young artists.  They understand the technology, the language, the cultural references.  They are the ‘indigenous missionaries’ of North America.  They shouldn’t be minimized, or forced to conform.  Rather, empower them to produce the best music, film and literature they can–full of grace and truth.  And encourage them to take it to as many people as they can.

 

The Misunderstood Power of Christian Art: Part 1

The Misunderstood Power of Christian Art: Part 2

Recommended Reading:

Tim Downs, Finding Common Ground

Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water

Dorothy Sayers, “Why Work?”  The whole essay is available in PDF form here.

 

 

 

 

Separating the Pulpit from the Novelist’s Pen

The Misunderstood Power of Christian Art, Part 2.

Christians are obsessed with truth, and rightfully so.  We bear our statements of faith with pride.  We have the knowledge.  We have the proof.  But do we have the medium?

Tim Downs said:

“In the last forty years both the quantity and quality of conservative Christian scholarship have exploded.  Evangelicals today are able to marshal more impressive, scholarly information on behalf of our position than ever before.  We now have, by anyone’s standards, world-class philosophers, theologians, and scientists on our side.  It’s no exaggeration to say that evangelical Christians have experienced a literal renaissance in our science.

Unfortunately, there has been no corresponding renaissance in our art.  We have more to say to our culture than ever before, and less ability to say it in a persuasive and compelling way.  We are enamoured with our content and cannot understand why the world isn’t fascinated with our latest proofs and evidences.”

In a generation brainwashed by film, television and music, carried along by the jet stream of social media, the Christian art industry has yet to catch up.  Music and film has increased in quantity and quality, yet the mainstream hears about it only if it is controversial.

We shove our artists to the front, put the Bible in their hands, and say “Preach!”  But what if a sermon isn’t what we need?

Preaching: The Only Messenger?

There is a point in many Christian novels where the main character reaches his lowest point.  They have expended their resources.  Their mission or relationship has failed.

Cue the entry of a wise friend who opens the Bible, quotes verses, and shows them what they need is a Saviour.  And you just know that when the protagonist falls to his knees in prayer, victory is around the corner.

Or say a movie is made about a farmer.  He’s not a Christian, and this is readily demonstrated by his workaholicism and regular drinking binges.  One summer, the corn crop he is counting on is ravaged by a hail storm.  The farmer throws everything into replanting while there is still time.  But this is thwarted by persistent rain.  His financial future is bleak, but worse, his wife leaves him because of his drunkenness.

If you have seen three or four Christian movies, you can predict the end.  The farmer will hit bottom, and while wandering in a hammered state, ready to end his life, a Christian will rescue him and clean him up.  The Christian will tell him that he needs Jesus, and the farmer will fall to his knees.

His crop will be saved, and his wife will return.  He may, in fact, become an evangelist.

Rarely does a movie or novel break this mould.

The Power of the Covert

Every novelist knows the adage “show, don’t tell.”  Telling, or explaining, is considered weak writing and rather insulting to the intelligence of the reader.  Sermonizing is precisely this: telling.

I saw a powerful example of ‘showing’ recently.

In the movie Dallas Buyers Club, Matthew McConaughey plays Ron, a low-brow cowboy with HIV who begins smuggling illegal medication to treat AIDs.  His foil is Rayon a transgender man, now woman, who is dying of aids.  Rayon is played by Jared Leto, who is by all accounts, a heterosexual man.

The empathy and passion Leto put into the role is evident, even from the short clips I watched.  Rayon is no cardboard cut-out.  She is a feisty dreamer, but also a deeply hurting person who just wants love.  You can see it in her eyes.  Though I am uncomfortable with her lifestyle, I cannot look away.  I have to say, “this is a person, and I kind of like them.” (I cannot recommend that movie, by the way.  I decided against watching it because of graphic content).

At no point does an actor turn to the screen and say, “Accept this person!  You are a bigot if you do not accept this person!”  Neither do they say, “This is a good lifestyle!”  I accept Rayon because I cannot deny her personhood anymore.  I empathize.

Create empathy within the heart of the viewer, and you have won the greatest part of the battle.

Catch and Release

I also see that if the art is not used as a carrier for preaching, it is often used as bait.  For example, a prominent evangelist often uses free concerts with Christian rock bands to draw people to their crusades.  Likewise, Christian movies are often marketed as ‘witnessing tools’.  Does this work?  I don’t know.

But there is a level of dishonesty about it.  It says, “We are like you.  We like what you like.  Come, try our music,” and then slams the audience with an altar call.

In fact,  sermonizing such as the ‘basic movie and novel plot’, can also be inherently dishonest.  It wants the reader to believe so badly, that it makes ‘pie-crust’ promises, easily broken.  Will the farmer’s wife come back the day after he believes?  Probably not.  He may win her back after months of trying, with the wisdom and strength of God.  But faith isn’t the magic bullet we sell it as.

Let the Artists Be!

I feel like our preachers and theologians have convinced artists that their work is useless if not didactic.  Sort of a ‘why can’t you be like us?’  But if we believe in the priesthood of all believers, we must value the artist as much as the preacher and not force one to conform to the mould of the other.

Dorothy Sayers said:

When you find a man who is a Christian praising God by the excellence of his work – do not distract him and take him away from his proper vocation to address religious meetings and open church bazaars. Let him serve God in the way to which God has called him. If you take him away from that, he will exhaust himself in an alien technique and lose his capacity to do his dedicated work.

It is time to let artists be.  Let them do what only they can truly understand.  And when they have served in obedience to the work, and to God, the message within their art may be greater than any sermon you could insert.

Read Part 1: Defining Christian art, and the artist’s mandate, here.