Back in 1990 or so, I lost the right to call myself “unpublished” (and disqualified myself from a remarkable number of writing contests) by selling the first article I ever wrote to Christian Single for a whopping $64. My pastor, and his drawer full of rejection letters, never forgave me. If I had realized that they paid by the word, I’d have written it longer. And if I had, they would have edited it and I’d have gotten $64.50 instead.

17 years later, after filing a Schedule C with my 2006 taxes showing thousands of dollars in writing-related business expenses and zero income, I can finally look the IRS in the eye and say, “Yes, writing IS a business for me.” Even though I’m still quite solidly in the net loss category, I finally have a PAID writing credit in this millennium. I even made the cover.

If you subscribe to Marriage Partnership magazine, pick up your Summer 2007 copy and look on page 30 for my article Ghosts of Marriages Past. If you don’t subscribe, go buy a copy or twelve.

Now, if I can just sell this novel, maybe I can come a little closer to break-even.

D.

Here I am, pretty much in the same chair and same spot I was in last time I made a blog entry. The weather is even the same. It’s even about the same time of day.

But things have changed.

I started out with a grand plan to blog my way through the week, posting pictures of the beautiful facilities here at Ridgecrest, and pictures of me with impressive writer-types and and such, and pictures of the goings on here at the conference for the benefit of a few folks who wished that they could be here. It was a wonderful plan.

Then it happened.

It was late Monday when I finally got back to my room and sat down at the ol’ laptop. I noticed that it was warm–an unusual thing, since it was supposed to be sleeping at the time. I opened the lid and saw a black screen with a little window in the middle that referenced some obscure internal Windows process that had failed, and the machine was hopelessly locked inside its own brain.

The only thing I could do was reboot. That yielded an ugly “blue screen of death.” The internal diagnostics told the story: “DST Short Test Failed.” Translation: Hard Disk failure. Ouch.

I called Dell Support Tuesday morning, and on Wednesday a shiny refurbished drive and a set of re-installation disks was dropped off at the front desk by DHL. Later on Wednesday, I had a functioning computer again, albeit without most of the software I use routinely, and without a buncha my files. Not to worry, though. Once I get home, I have the means to extract most of the files from this sickly drive before I return it to Dell. But, that will teach me to go off without doing a FULL backup.

So, my plans were scuttled, but that’s okay. Seriously, I don’t mind. True, I was cut off from the rest of the virtual world for a few days, but that left me with nothing to do but focus on the conference and getting the most out of my classes and pitches. I survived quite nicely, much to my surprise.

And, it’s been a fabulous week. I’ve gotten to meet a few folks I’ve met with online, I’ve had the opportunity to rub shoulders with the likes of James Scott Bell, McNair Wilson, and Dr. Ted Baehr. I’ve met with some great editors and agents, and I’ve been asked to send proposals for my current novel-in-birth. I’ve been educated, challenged, inspired and refreshed.

And frankly, I would rather not leave Ridgecrest and go back to the real world. . . but I know I must.

I was talking with a girl at the front desk the other day, commenting on how much I love Ridgecrest and wish I didn’t have to leave, when I came to a startling realization. If I were able to stay here on this mountaintop, sooner or later I would take it for granted and lose my deep and reverent respect for the place. You can’t know you’re on the mountain if you’ve never been in the valley, and you never know how special a place is if you’ve never been to places that aren’t special.

All that makes me wonder. Am I missing something wonderful and amazing right in my own neighborhood? Is there a place right where I spend most of my time that’s just as special as Ridgecrest? I’ve got a feeling that there is, and I pray that the Lord will give me the vision to see it and make the most of everything he’s gifted me with.

One thing I’m certain of–there’s a wonderful spot in Little Rock where I long to be, and my yearning to be there is stronger by many times than my desire to stay at Ridgecrest. And it’s because of that wonderful spot that I will soon say goodbye to this blessed mountaintop and head for the airport. I’ll be on my way to the best place in the world. Right next to my soul-mate, my lover, my best friend–My wife Sharon. Wherever she is, that’s where my heart longs to be.

Dorothy was right. There’s no place like home.

D.

I’m writing this from a splendid, weathered rocking chair in a place known affectionately as “Rocking Chair Ridge.” It’s a wonderful little strip of elevated concrete that spans the gulf between two buildings at the Ridgecrest Conference Center, nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. I’m here for the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference that starts late this afternoon, and believe it or not (and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t ) I’m early. I arrived a little past noon, and after dodging the busses, vans, and cars of departing youth groups and Salvation Army women, I found a parking space and got myself checked in. I didn’t even have to wait in line–there wasn’t another soul on my side of the check-in desk.

But the downside of my early arrival is that my room won’t be ready for a couple or three hours . . . so I’ve got to hang out here on Rocking Chair Ridge and endure the sunny, 71 degree weather and the feel the gentle breeze on the back of my head. Darn! What a hardship!

Ridgecrest is one of two big conference centers owned by Lifeway (The Southern Baptist Convention). This is the second time in my life that I’ve been to Ridgecrest. The first was last year at about this same time, and it was a much different experience. For 17 years I’d been listening to my SBC brethren speak about Ridgecrest in the same hushed tones that Catholics use to when they speak about the Vatican. I didn’t understand why they had such a special affection for the place. After all, it’s just a conference center. I’ve been to lots of conference centers. No big deal. But last year, as I drove through the gate, I could feel it. It felt different inside than it did out there. I felt as though I had passed through a filter and a lot of the “stuff” I had rattling around in my heart stayed outside. All the apprehension, all my carefully crafted strategies and slick, well, prepared pitches and other “me-focused” stuff stayed outside.

I registered, checked in to my room, settled into the chair and opened my conference folder. Then, I read the theme scripture and cried for about half an hour. When I got up from that special moment at Jesus’ feet, my whole perspective on the conference and in my writing in general was different. I had no idea what was next for me, only that whatever it was, if I was going to continue writing I was either going to do it God’s way or not at all.

It was a wonderful conference last year. I left with new opportunities, new ways of thinking, and a totally new level of commitment to what I was doing as a Christian writer. And, to my surprise, that junk that refused to follow me through the gate wasn’t out there waiting for me when I drove back out to head home. I guess that without me feeding it, it died of malnutrition while I was inside.

It’s different for me this year. I knew what to expect, and I didn’t bother packing stuff that wouldn’t make it through the gate. There was a point last week when I wasn’t sure I was going to make it here, but it seems that God wants me here this week, and he made a way. Some day I’ll realize that He’s bigger than me and my problems.

So, here I am on Rocking Chair Ridge. My room’s probably ready now, but I’m in no hurry. I’ll just sit here and rock a while, and listen for the still, small voice in the breeze as it welcomes me back to Ridgecrest. It’s funny . . . the other day I was telling someone about Ridgecrest and they said, “You talk about the place in the same hushed, reverent voice that Catholics use when they talk about the Vatican.”

And they were right.

D.

It’s a sad day for me, a day of mixed emotions and inner conflict. Today, the remains of one of my dearest friends in the world, Christopher Kota, will be laid to rest here in central Arkansas. I miss my friend, and that in itself is enough reason for sadness. My inner conflict stems from the fact that, as my family, friends, and church are celebrating Christopher’s life, I will be somewhere between Cincinatti and Ashville, North Carolina, my bountiful frame crammed into a far too small airplane seat, and my grieving heart still in Little Rock. I’ll be on my way to the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers’ Conference in Ridgecrest, North Carolina. The trip has been planned for nearly a year now, and it’s where I need to be . . . but still, I wish I could be with those who will be celebrating Christopher Kota’s life. His is a life worth celebrating.

I’ve known Christopher for around five years now. Ours has been a wonderfully indefinable relationship; we bonded almost immediately, and even when separated by great distance he’s been close to my heart since the day we met at Parkway Place Baptist Church.

Christopher loved a good debate, and at times, we were nearly polar opposites on the issue of the moment. But, we had the sort of rare and delightful brotherhood where we could disagree in love without harming our friendship. We saw the world through the filter of our own life experience, and the paths that our lives took prior to our meeting were much different. Yet there was always a sense of unity in our diversity. We shared a common passion—the “wonderful grace of Jesus, greater than all our sin,” to quote the old hymn.

And now, my friend Christopher, the dearest and best friend I have, is gone. The hole in my heart is so great that it defies description, and if you know me, you understand how very significant it must be to render me speechless.

The mourning of my heart today is overwhelming. Tears come easily, but my tears are not shed for Christopher. They are shed for nine year old David, who has lost his grandfather, his male role model, and his best buddy all at the same time. They are shed for Margaret, who has lost her husband, and for Manju, Sekhar (aka Bobby), and Jen, who have lost a father. Any my tears today are, selfishly, for me, and for all the rest of us who have no choice but to go on living in this world without Christopher Kota.

But I will not weep for Christopher Kota. Today, as we are learning to cope without him, he is dancing and rejoicing before God’s throne, free from all of the limitations of his earthly body, celebrating the one who gave him life, who sustained that life for 66 years, and who brought him safely home to live eternally in the presence of his Lord. How could I begrudge him that wondrous joy?

Proverbs 10:7 says that “The memory of the righteous will be a blessing,” and Christopher’s memory will certainly be a blessing to me. Even from the grave, his passion for the things of God challenges me to grow deeper in my spiritual walk. I will warmly remember his smile and his hearty laugh. But the most precious memory will be the delight of his hugs and his greeting whenever we would see each other. He would wrap his big arms around me in a warm embrace and say, “Oh, my God!” to thank God for our friendship. I will live the rest of my life in anticipation of the day when I will once again feel Christopher’s loving embrace, and hear him speak those words over my shoulder, “Oh, my God.” But on that day, Christopher Kota will be looking over my shoulder and speaking his thanks directly toward God’s throne.

I will not say goodbye, Christopher—I’ll see you later.

D.

 BTW, Christopher’s family has set up a website so that his family and friends both here in the US and in his native land of India can share their thoughts and remembrances. Check it out at http://www.christopherkota.com/ .

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!

I had an email from a friend the other day, chastising me for not updating my blog since October 23rd. There wasn’t much I could say in reply other than, “I haven’t been writing because I’ve been busy writing.” I know, it doesn’t seem very logical, but it’s the truth. With logic like that, I oughta run for President!

The truth that I havebeen too busy writing to blog. But, I have a confession to make, one that might be hard for some of you to accept.

I’ve crossed over to the ‘other side.’ I’ve actually been writing fiction. 

Yes, I know . . . it’s shocking. And not only am I writing fiction, but I’m admitting to it openly. I’ve even joined an organization called American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW). And when I say I’m writing fiction, I’m not kidding–I’m currently self-editing the second rewrite of my first novel, which I’ll be entering into a couple of contests shortly, and will be pitching at writers’ conferences this spring.

I haven’t completely quit writing non-fiction, of course, so if you’re a magazine editor and were hoping that this would mean no more queries from Dan . . . sorry, I’m not going away, just broadening my writing perspective. I’ve found that there are a number of advantages to writing fiction:

• No need to deal with that pesky “truth” thing.
• It’s okay if you make up people and situations (non-fiction editors seem to have a problem with fabricating examples)
• If you don’t like a character, you can always kill ‘em (another thing frowned upon by non-fiction editors)
• You get to manipulate reality.
• One word: control.
• People are nicer to you if they think they might end up in one of your books.
• Based on the current field of candidates, being a fiction writer can qualify one to run for President–some of the current candidates seem to be accomplished fictional storytellers.

So, watch this space, fiction lovers. One of these days you’ll have yet another reason to love me!

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.