The Pruning Principle
2 years ago
Sunday, March 29, 2009
April 2009 Good Book Picks
Use your mouse and scroll over the titles to learn more about Christian Fiction Blog's April Book Picks.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Yesterday's Embers
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Howard Books (March 24, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Deborah Raney is the author of several novels, including Nest of Sparrows and the RITA Award-winning Beneath a Southern Sky. Her novel A Vow to Cherish was made into the highly acclaimed Worldwide Pictures film of the same name. She lives with her husband and four children in Kansas.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: Howard Books (March 24, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1416593098
ISBN-13: 978-1416593096
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The parade of taillights smoldered crimson through the patchy fog hovering over Old Highway 40. Mickey Valdez tapped the brakes with the toe of her black dress pumps, trying to stay a respectable distance from the car in front of her.
The procession had left the church almost twenty minutes ago, but they were still barely two miles outside Clayburn’s city limits. The line of cars snaked up the hill––if you could call the road’s rolling incline that––and ahead of her, the red glow of brake lights dotted the highway, flickering off and on like so many fireflies. Cresting the rise, Mickey could barely make out the rows of pewter-colored gravestones poking through the mist beyond the wrought-iron gates of the Clayburn Cemetery.
She smoothed the skirt of her black crepe dress and tried to focus her thoughts on maneuvering the car, working not to let them stray to the funeral service she’d come from. But when the first hearse turned onto the cemetery’s gravel drive in front of her, she lost it. Her sobs came like dry heaves, producing no tears, and for once, she was glad to be in the car alone.
The line of cars came almost to a standstill as the second hearse crept through the gates.
The twin black Lincolns pulled to the side of the gravel lane, parking one behind the other near the plots where two fresh graves scarred the prairie. The drivers emerged from the hearses, walked in unison to the rear of their cars, and opened the curtained back doors. Mickey looked away. She couldn’t view those two caskets again.
When it came her turn to drive over the culvert under the high arch of the iron gates, she wanted desperately to keep on driving. To head west and never turn back. But Pete Truesdell stood in her way, directing traffic into the fenced-in graveyard. Mickey almost didn’t recognize Pete. He sported a rumpled navy double-breasted suit instead of his usual coveralls. How he could see through the tears welling in his eyes, Mickey didn’t know.
Her heart broke for the old man. She wondered if he was related to the family somehow. Seemed like everybody in Clayburn was related to at least one other family in town. Everybody but the Valdezes.
Pete waved the car in front of her through the gates and halted her with his other hand.
Maybe if she stayed in the car until the procession left the cemetery. She didn’t want to walk across the uneven sod. Didn’t want to risk the DeVore kids seeing her…risk breaking down in front of them. What would she say? What could anybody say to make what had happened be all right?
She didn’t know much about carbon monoxide poisoning, but she’d heard that Kaye and Rachel had simply drifted off to sleep, never knowing they would wake up in heaven. She wondered if Doug DeVore found any solace in that knowledge. Maybe it was a small comfort that his wife and daughter had left this earth together.
But on Thanksgiving Day? What was God thinking?
She’d never really gotten to know Kaye DeVore that well. They’d exchanged pleasantries whenever Kaye dropped the kids off at the daycare on her way to her job at the high school, but usually Doug was the one who delivered the children and picked them up at night when he got off work at Trevor Ashlock’s print shop in town.
The DeVore kids were usually the last to get picked up, especially during harvest when Doug worked overtime to keep his farm going. But Mickey had never minded staying late. It wasn’t like she had a family of her own waiting for her at home. And she loved those kids.
Especially Rachel. Sweet, angel-faced Rachel, whose eyes always seemed to hold a wisdom beyond her years. Mickey had practically mourned when Rachel started kindergarten and was only at the daycare for an hour or two after school. Now she forced herself to look at the tiny white coffin the pallbearers lifted from the second hearse. She could not make it real that the sunny six-year-old was gone.
Through the gates, she watched Doug climb from a black towncar. One at a time, he helped his children out behind him. Carrying the baby in one arm, he tried to stretch his free arm around the other four kids, as if he could shelter them from what had happened. How he could even stand up under the weight of such tragedy was more than Mickey could imagine. And yet, for one shameful, irrational moment, she envied his grief, and would have traded places with him if it meant she’d known a love worth grieving over, or been entrusted with a child of her own flesh and blood. She shook away the thoughts, disturbed by how long she’d let herself entertain them.
She dreaded facing Doug the next time he brought the kids to the daycare center. Maybe they wouldn’t come back. She’d heard that Kaye’s mother had cancelled her plans to winter in Florida like she usually did. Harriet Thomas would remain in Kansas and help Doug out, at least for a while. Wren Johanssen had been helping with the kids and house, too, when she could take time away from running Wren’s Nest, the little bed-and-breakfast on Main Street. Wren was like a second grandma to the kids. Thank goodness for that. Six kids had to be—
Mickey shuddered and corrected herself. Only five now. That had to be a handful for anyone. The DeVores had gone on vacation in the middle of April last year, and with their kids out for a week, the workload was lighter, but the daycare center had been deathly quiet.
Deathly. Even though she was alone in the car, Mickey cringed at her choice of words.
She started at the tap on the hood of her car and looked up to see Pete motioning her through the gates. She put the car in gear and inched over the bumpy culvert. There was no turning back now. She followed the car in front of her and parked behind it next to the fence bordering the east side of the cemetery.
A tall white tombstone in the distance caught her eye and a startling thought nudged her. The last time she’d been here for a funeral had also been the funeral of a mother and child. Trevor Ashlock’s wife, Amy, and their little boy. It would be five years come summer.
As if conjured by her thoughts, Trevor’s green pickup pulled in beside her. Mickey watched in her side mirror as he parked, then helped his young wife climb out of the passenger side. Meg walked with the gait of an obviously pregnant woman, and Trevor put a hand at the small of her back, guiding her over the uneven sod toward the funeral tent.
Mickey looked away. Seeing Trevor still brought a wave of sadness. Because of his profound loss, yes. But more selfishly, for her own loss. She’d fallen hard for him after Amy’s death—and had entertained hopes that he might feel the same about her. That she might be able to ease his grief. But he was too deep in grief to even notice her.
Then Meg Anders had moved to town and almost before Mickey knew what happened, Trevor was married. He and Meg seemed very much in love, and Mickey didn’t begrudge either of them an ounce of that happiness. But it didn’t mean she was immune to a pang of envy whenever she saw them together.
This day had to be doubly difficult for Trevor. It must be a comfort to Doug having Trevor here––someone who’d walked in his shoes and still somehow managed to get up the next morning––and the next and the next.
Again, she had to wonder what God was thinking. Where was He when these tragedies struck? How could He stand by and let these terrible things happen to good men…the best men she knew, next to her brothers? None of it made sense. And the only One she knew to turn to for answers had stood by and let it all happen.
The procession had left the church almost twenty minutes ago, but they were still barely two miles outside Clayburn’s city limits. The line of cars snaked up the hill––if you could call the road’s rolling incline that––and ahead of her, the red glow of brake lights dotted the highway, flickering off and on like so many fireflies. Cresting the rise, Mickey could barely make out the rows of pewter-colored gravestones poking through the mist beyond the wrought-iron gates of the Clayburn Cemetery.
She smoothed the skirt of her black crepe dress and tried to focus her thoughts on maneuvering the car, working not to let them stray to the funeral service she’d come from. But when the first hearse turned onto the cemetery’s gravel drive in front of her, she lost it. Her sobs came like dry heaves, producing no tears, and for once, she was glad to be in the car alone.
The line of cars came almost to a standstill as the second hearse crept through the gates.
The twin black Lincolns pulled to the side of the gravel lane, parking one behind the other near the plots where two fresh graves scarred the prairie. The drivers emerged from the hearses, walked in unison to the rear of their cars, and opened the curtained back doors. Mickey looked away. She couldn’t view those two caskets again.
When it came her turn to drive over the culvert under the high arch of the iron gates, she wanted desperately to keep on driving. To head west and never turn back. But Pete Truesdell stood in her way, directing traffic into the fenced-in graveyard. Mickey almost didn’t recognize Pete. He sported a rumpled navy double-breasted suit instead of his usual coveralls. How he could see through the tears welling in his eyes, Mickey didn’t know.
Her heart broke for the old man. She wondered if he was related to the family somehow. Seemed like everybody in Clayburn was related to at least one other family in town. Everybody but the Valdezes.
Pete waved the car in front of her through the gates and halted her with his other hand.
Maybe if she stayed in the car until the procession left the cemetery. She didn’t want to walk across the uneven sod. Didn’t want to risk the DeVore kids seeing her…risk breaking down in front of them. What would she say? What could anybody say to make what had happened be all right?
She didn’t know much about carbon monoxide poisoning, but she’d heard that Kaye and Rachel had simply drifted off to sleep, never knowing they would wake up in heaven. She wondered if Doug DeVore found any solace in that knowledge. Maybe it was a small comfort that his wife and daughter had left this earth together.
But on Thanksgiving Day? What was God thinking?
She’d never really gotten to know Kaye DeVore that well. They’d exchanged pleasantries whenever Kaye dropped the kids off at the daycare on her way to her job at the high school, but usually Doug was the one who delivered the children and picked them up at night when he got off work at Trevor Ashlock’s print shop in town.
The DeVore kids were usually the last to get picked up, especially during harvest when Doug worked overtime to keep his farm going. But Mickey had never minded staying late. It wasn’t like she had a family of her own waiting for her at home. And she loved those kids.
Especially Rachel. Sweet, angel-faced Rachel, whose eyes always seemed to hold a wisdom beyond her years. Mickey had practically mourned when Rachel started kindergarten and was only at the daycare for an hour or two after school. Now she forced herself to look at the tiny white coffin the pallbearers lifted from the second hearse. She could not make it real that the sunny six-year-old was gone.
Through the gates, she watched Doug climb from a black towncar. One at a time, he helped his children out behind him. Carrying the baby in one arm, he tried to stretch his free arm around the other four kids, as if he could shelter them from what had happened. How he could even stand up under the weight of such tragedy was more than Mickey could imagine. And yet, for one shameful, irrational moment, she envied his grief, and would have traded places with him if it meant she’d known a love worth grieving over, or been entrusted with a child of her own flesh and blood. She shook away the thoughts, disturbed by how long she’d let herself entertain them.
She dreaded facing Doug the next time he brought the kids to the daycare center. Maybe they wouldn’t come back. She’d heard that Kaye’s mother had cancelled her plans to winter in Florida like she usually did. Harriet Thomas would remain in Kansas and help Doug out, at least for a while. Wren Johanssen had been helping with the kids and house, too, when she could take time away from running Wren’s Nest, the little bed-and-breakfast on Main Street. Wren was like a second grandma to the kids. Thank goodness for that. Six kids had to be—
Mickey shuddered and corrected herself. Only five now. That had to be a handful for anyone. The DeVores had gone on vacation in the middle of April last year, and with their kids out for a week, the workload was lighter, but the daycare center had been deathly quiet.
Deathly. Even though she was alone in the car, Mickey cringed at her choice of words.
She started at the tap on the hood of her car and looked up to see Pete motioning her through the gates. She put the car in gear and inched over the bumpy culvert. There was no turning back now. She followed the car in front of her and parked behind it next to the fence bordering the east side of the cemetery.
A tall white tombstone in the distance caught her eye and a startling thought nudged her. The last time she’d been here for a funeral had also been the funeral of a mother and child. Trevor Ashlock’s wife, Amy, and their little boy. It would be five years come summer.
As if conjured by her thoughts, Trevor’s green pickup pulled in beside her. Mickey watched in her side mirror as he parked, then helped his young wife climb out of the passenger side. Meg walked with the gait of an obviously pregnant woman, and Trevor put a hand at the small of her back, guiding her over the uneven sod toward the funeral tent.
Mickey looked away. Seeing Trevor still brought a wave of sadness. Because of his profound loss, yes. But more selfishly, for her own loss. She’d fallen hard for him after Amy’s death—and had entertained hopes that he might feel the same about her. That she might be able to ease his grief. But he was too deep in grief to even notice her.
Then Meg Anders had moved to town and almost before Mickey knew what happened, Trevor was married. He and Meg seemed very much in love, and Mickey didn’t begrudge either of them an ounce of that happiness. But it didn’t mean she was immune to a pang of envy whenever she saw them together.
This day had to be doubly difficult for Trevor. It must be a comfort to Doug having Trevor here––someone who’d walked in his shoes and still somehow managed to get up the next morning––and the next and the next.
Again, she had to wonder what God was thinking. Where was He when these tragedies struck? How could He stand by and let these terrible things happen to good men…the best men she knew, next to her brothers? None of it made sense. And the only One she knew to turn to for answers had stood by and let it all happen.
Weekend Chat: Why don't you(Author) have anything Going On?
Vida in black-lite by A Blythe A Day...
Every Friday I will be sharing a brutally honest book marketing tip. You will hear in the tone of my voice that I am very passionate about this topic. Leave your comments here or talk about them on Twitter I'll respond. Mobile post sent by deegospel using Utterli.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Christian Fiction Reviewed: The Literate Housewife Review
We have a new feature at CFB, well and old feature that I've forgotten to do--Christian Fiction Reviewed. I know you all get tired of my review snippets and I like to read and share what others are saying about my favorite books, particularly when these books are great.
Today I found a reviewer blog discussing Beth Patillo's Jane Austen Ruined My Life(Guideposts.) I'm a big Patillo and Jane Austen fan, so was giddy about reading and reviewing this book. But I haven't had the chance to do it...Girl Scout Cookies, my biz, life. you know...
So I found a great review of this book from Jennifer of The Literate Housewife Review Blog
The idea of blaming Jane Austen for ruining your life sounded fun and interesting. I didn’t research the book or the author any further because, quite honestly, they had me with the title. I don’t normally read Christian fiction, so when I opened the package and noticed that the book was published by Guideposts, it knocked the wind out of my sails. It’s not that I don’t think that Christian authors can write well or even tell a wonderful story. I know that’s not true at all. There are some many wonderful authors of all faiths throughout the ages. I just don’t like to be preached to in my fiction – be that about religion, politics, philosophy, etc, and I find that modern Christian authors are not subtle in their evangelization.
Ouch! I agree that many Christian fiction titles paint a heavy coat of Christian orthodoxy in the novels. However, from what I know by working on the back side/the dark side--lol-- is that sometimes the publishing house expects or/and demands that the author color Jesus on every page. I applaud Guideposts for treating readers as Christ would and let them think for themselves.
To use a biblical phrase, I gird my loins in preparation for reading a book that I believe will spend most of its energy beating me over the head with its message. With Jane Austen Ruined My Life, this was completely unnecessary. Had I not recognized the publisher, I wouldn’t have necessarily picked up on the author’s faith at all...She grew a lot and learned a lot about herself over the course of her trip, but she didn’t have the great religious epiphany I was dreading. If you havae similar views about Christian Fiction, I happily suggest that you give Jane Austen Ruined My Life a try.
Yeah, no required conversion scene at the end! Let me stop playing and speak a little truth here. Most contemporary Christian novelists do not write or desire to write conversion scenes in their novel. They have enough wherewithall to seek out an agent who will find them a publishing house, who doesn't want that kind of writing. For those of you "edgy" Christian Fiction writers I would take a look at Guideposts, as a possible publisher to work with.On the other hand, playing Angels Advocate for a minute here. Conversion scenes are still revelant to Christian literature. The execution of them is the sticking point. Of course, they aren't needed any every book, but when they are present in the book for whatever meaning they should fit the book's tone and all over vision for the book.
Quick question: Have you ever read a novel with a great conversion scene? If so, what was it?
My favorite has been for a long time, Shug Avery's conversion in The Color Purple. What's yours?
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Get noticed, get feedback, get an agent.
Here's a chance to have your project reviewed by one of the agents at The Knight Agency. Submit three compelling sentences (150 words max) about your completed, unpublished manuscript to submissions@ knightagency. net. Write BOOK IN A NUTSHELL in the subject line or it will not be deemed elligible. One submission per project, please. Twenty of the best submissions will be chosen and requested by various agents who will then give feedback on your work...and it may even lead to possible representation. Hurry, the deadline is April 20, 2009. Winners will be notified by May 1, 2009.
Why Authors Must Catch up to the Social Media Wave before the Fail Whale
The dreaded fail whale. lol.
This morning I received a group email from a writing buddy regarding the usage of a social media tool. Usually I skim through my email and only respond to questions are specifically addressed to me or I know that my answer will benefit the group conversation, so I answered it. Yet after a little thought I felt a little concerned.
Pam Perry, owner of Ministry Marketing Solutions is a friend/biz bud and book marketing coach. We have worked together through the years and last night had one of those we haven't talked or connected in far too long kind of conversations. We recorded it on Utterz-a micropodcasting social media service just for the kicks. And the gist of our conversation came down to we have to be proactive about connecting with people. We have to use all tools out there to facilitate that connection.
I have to admit I haven't spoken to Pam in a while. She'd shoot some email here; I'd shoot some tweet there and we veered away from the commonality between us. In short we fell off each other's wave. Pam talks in her book Synergy Energy about connection and using shared connection to expand and engage the marketplace. I agree.
A part of that expansion, however, doesn't just happen because you write a book, record a CD, set up a Facebook page, become a Twitter user. Becoming a catalyst for expansion means having the discernment to catch the wave before it passes you by.
In a nutshell this morning my reply to my writer's group was a breakdown of some of the drawbacks of the service and a mention that the service has morphed into a Facebook appi. Most importantly, this change happened two years ago.
Two years ago.
If we are going to be enact change, build communities, engage with our fans we must not be on the tail end of the wave, else we may be kicked off of it.
For the past three weeks I have been meeting every Thursday with some of my author clients for a group coaching session on Social Media. I am honored that some of my clients have taken this free opportunity to learn from me. It is my mission to get them up to speed before the next wave comes in. And yes there is a new wave. I've had the opportunity to beta test some appis that will blow your mind.
March 30th Pam will be hosting a free seminar for those who have no clue what a blog is, but know they need one. I encourage you to please take this seminar.
Moreover, next month I will be hosting three events:
- April 16 I will be giving a seminar on The Business of Book Events at the Virtual Fiction Writer's Conference. For those of you who are still chatting about CBE or Book Expo or NBCC prep this is the seminar for you. I will be talking about how to Hack your next book event.
- I will be hosting a free teleseminar on How to Build a Better Birdhouse on Twitter: Tips on Using Twitter to Reach your Psychographic. Follow this Blog or subscribe to my Twitter Feed to stay posted on the date.
- My 90 day social media bootcamp for authors. It is free to my clients, but not free to the rest. However, the cost is very affordable. That bootcamp begins April 28-August 4(I'm taking a week off for the Faith and Fiction Retreat.)
Monday, March 23, 2009
Pam Perry's Candid Chat on Social MediaMarketing
Dee Stewart and PR Pr Pam Perry chat about eblast services for authors, Book marketing via twitter, author marketing swaps, Twitter, the Christian Book Expo, techniques, why sharing matters & much more
Mobile post sent by deegospel using Utterli.
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