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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have to admit that I’m not a speed-reader like my wife Sharon. It’s downright scary how fast she can zip through a book. Me, I read just like I write–the way I speak. I can read faster if I have to, but it’s like recording a dramatic reading and playing it back at high speed. The words are there, but it loses something. SO, when I read a book, particularly with the schedule I’ve been keeping lately, it can be a long-term commitment.

Then along came a copy of Lightning and Laceby DiAnn Mills.

I started to read this book just like I’ve read many books before. A chapter over lunch. A chapter when I’m too tired to write but too wound up to sleep. Then yesterday at lunch, something almost magical happened. I had been reading for almost an hour when I realized that they had never brought my sandwich. In fact, I think there was a shift change somewhere around chapter ten. After a polite but firm inquiry they made me another Thai Chicken Wrap and delivered it apologetically. I hope that whoever ate the first one enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed the chapters I had for an appetizer.

When I got home from work, I headed straight for my favorite chair with book in hand, pausing only long enough to answer the door and eat. I’m not sure what was on TV last night. It was on, and Sharon watched something, but I wasn’t there. I was in Kahlerville, Texas, wishing I could reach out and choke the daylights out of Lester Hillman . . . in Christian love, of course. I went to bed sometime after midnight, and then only because I could no longer keep my tired eyes open.

One of the things I’ve had hammered into my head as a fiction writer is the importance of “hooking” your reader, drawing them into the story so thoroughly that they can’t stop flipping pages and can’t wait to see what happens next. DiAnn Mills knows how to do it. I just finished reading Lightning and Lace a few minutes before starting to write this review. I read most of the book within 24 hours. It may be a new personal record.

Did I enjoy this book? You betcha. I laughed, I cried, and on several occasions I did both in the same breath. DiAnn’s characters came to life in my mind, almost as though I were watching the story rather than reading it. Not every author has that ability. I can tell you from my own experience that it can be a lot of hard work. DiAnn Mills did it masterfully.

If I have any criticism, it is that it took me a little while to figure out that the story takes place in the past. There’s nothing on page one that smacked me in the face and screamed “Hey, Dan! This is historical!” Of course, that may be because I wasn’t bright enough to notice that this is the third installment in the “Texas Legacy” series. Duh. Legacy = “from the past.” Apparently, the publisher expects readers to pay attention to such things. Between the train, horses, one-room schoolhouse and the lack of cellular service, I did eventually figure it out.

Perhaps the best thing about Lightning and Lace is that it is a story of restoration, healing, and renewal. The themes of grace and forgiveness are skillfully woven throughout the story without being “preachy” (except for the parts where the preacher is . . . well, doing what preachers do). It’s a warm, wonderful romance that explores not only the love of man and woman, but also of the perfect love of our perfect God and His imperfect people.

Even if you don’t think you like romance novels, you ought to read Lightning and Lace. Click here to buy your copy!

It was a simple enough assignment. Read a newly released book and write a review on my blog.  I’m a guy, and the book is “Women’s fiction.” No problem. Although there may be some men who aren’t secure enough in their manhood to swim in the estrogen pool, I can handle it. After all, I’m writing a romance novel, and the primary target for that genre is women.

There’s just one thing I didn’t consider. I never expected “Mom Lit” like Renovating Becky Miller to actually “speak to me.” I didn’t anticipate the possibility that God could use Women’s Fiction to minister to man–but He most certainly did.

You see, I know Becky Miller. I understand her. If I were a woman, I could be Becky Miller. She’s a “fixer.” If you met her in a supermarket checkout line and told her that you were an alien from another galaxy looking for parts to fix your spaceship, Becky Miller would feel obligated to find the needed parts, fix your spaceship, and send you on your way with a couple of sandwiches for the road. Becky Miller is a dreamer. She’s convinced that once she gets past her crisis of the moment everything in her life will be storybook perfect. Becky also doesn’t know how to say “no” without feeling guilty. She raises living in overload to an art form–and I know “living in overload.” She’s also highly skilled in the art of denial, an important life skill for someone who wants to take an already overcrowded, over committed life and add on doing major renovations to an old, run-down farm house.  

In other words, If I lived in Minnesota, Becky Miller and I could be in the same twelve-step group.

One of the greatest challenges for a novelist is creating characters that are not just believable, but are so believable that they come alive and stay with the reader after the book has been closed. Sharon Hinck has done a masterful job of creating living, breathing characters in the pages of Renovating Becky Miller. I found myself wanting to fix Becky and all of her equally (but differently) flawed friends and family.  I heard God speaking to me about my overcommitted life at the same time that he spoke to Becky about hers. God even pointed out to me ever-so-gently that He really doesn’t need me (or Becky Miller) to accomplish His work, and the earth will not fall out of its orbit if I slow down once in a while and say “no” when I need to say it. I even set a few tears free during the last chapter–but then again, I also have been known to weep during Hallmark commercials.

Whether you are male or female, Renovating Becky Miller is a great read, and if you’re a compulsive “fixer” who can’t say no, Renovating Becky Miller  is an absolute must read book. I highly recommend that you click here and pick up a copy today.

D.

I finished reading Taps: a Novel by Willie Morris last night. Actually, to be more accurate, it was early this morning. I had been working on it for a while now, sneaking in a partial chapter at lunch (Morris seems to prefer long chapters), or while waiting at the doctor’s office, or while Sharon perused clothing in a store while I waited in the car and read. Life has been busy lately, and I don’t get as much reading time as I’d like. Somewhere around the midpoint of this 338 page novel (a point I reached Saturday while sitting in the car waiting outside the dress shop), Willie Morris managed to get his characters so thoroughly embedded in my imagination that it was hard to put the book down to drive (though Sharon insisted). Last night, I probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep if I hadn’t finished, and finish I did, around one o’clock in the morning, in tears.

Taps is a powerful yet tender story of a young man coming of age during the Korean war in the small Mississippi delta town of Fisk’s Landing. Sixteen-year old Swayze Barksdale is pressed into the solemn duty of playing “Taps” at the funerals of the young men who perished on the Korean battlefields. Swayze’s father had died some years before, leaving him with a neurotic mother who taught tap dancing and occasionally drank too much. At a time in his life when young Swayze most needed the counsel and guidance of a wise man, Swayze was fatherless, sickly and surrounded by tap dancing women.

His unexpected call to duty thrust Swayze into new situations and new relationships, at times hilarious and at others tragic, always thought provoking and real. Willie Morris did a masterful job of opening Swayze’s heart to the reader, accurately depicting the inner thought life and sometimes gut-wrenching emotions of this boy on the cusp of manhood. Gradually, Swayze learns about some of the stark realities of life, some taught by his experience with the WWII vets and funeral workers with whom he serves, some by young men who came home from the war maimed and scarred, and some by the young men who returned to Fisk’s Landing in steel gray boxes with official documents attached. In the course of the year, Swayze learns what it means to be a true patriot, to serve selflessly even to the point of death. He learns about being a son, a friend, and a lover. Swayze learns what it means to be a man.

Taps  is a unique product of Willie Morris’ passion for writing. He conceived the idea very early in his writing life, even before he published his first book, North Toward Home,  in 1967. Willie spent over thirty years working on Taps, literally the rest of his life. When Willie Morris died in August, 1999 at the age of sixty-four, one of his last requests made of his wife was that she “get Taps  together.” Those who knew him personally have said that Taps  speaks powerfully to Willie’s core beliefs and values, that it contains his heart and soul. I, of course, never knew Willie Morris personally, though after reading My Cat Spit McGee and Taps I can honestly say that I wish I had. I can somehow see myself sitting on his porch in Mississippi and drinking sweet tea while talking about writing and ideas and life. I feel as though I would be a welcomed guest there, as long as Spit McGee approved.

If you love novels with powerful word pictures that can “suck you in” and be hard to put down, I heartily recommend Taps: a Novel by Willie Morris. Click here to order Taps from Amazon.com.

CAUTIONS:

To the vocabulary-challenged reader, Willie Morris’ writing style can be either educational or difficult. Morris was a complex man, a “good old boy” with an impressive literary pedigree. Every time I read his writing, I add a few words to my vocabulary and gain experience with my favorite on-line dictionary. If you don’t like learning new words, you won’t like this book. Than again, you probably wouldn’t have read this far, either.

Taps is not a CBA book. If you are easily offended by coarse language or the things high-school age jocks brag about in locker rooms, you might find this book offensive. There were no words used in the book that I hadn’t heard many times over by the time I was Swayze’s age, with the possible exception of the word Yankee as a derogative. The language didn’t offend me in the least, in fact without it the situations would have seemed inauthentic. Your mileage may vary, so if you’re easily offended you’ll want to read something else instead.

D.