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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you’re curious, you can view my one-sheet promotional piece by clicking here.

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

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

D.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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