Travis Thrasher's Blog, page 19

Top 10 Things I’ve Heard As A Writer (and what I'd LOVE to say back)

If you read this blog regularly, you’ve noticed my last, oh, a dozen or so posts have been rambling and melancholy bits about life. So I decided to do a fun top ten list to change things up a bit.
Last week I was at an event helping to sell books (the Celebrate Recovery summit at Saddleback Church in California). I was fortunate to meet a lot of people and hear comments about the books Never Let Go and Home Run. This made me think of the top things I’ve been told/asked since having my first book published in 2000. I made a list of ten of those things and replies I’d love to give (expect sarcasm). 
#1: Is that your real name or a pen name? 
No, my real name is Butch Longbow Heartblood. We just all thought it might be a little too much on the cover of a book. 
#2: You're so young to be a writer!
Thanks. Do they let you read novels at the old folks home?
#3. I can't believe you've written all those books! 
Actually, I haven't. I have a twin brother named Traverse. He writes the really crappy stuff. 
#4. Where do get your ideas from?
There’s a cute little shop in downtown Batavia where I work. It’s called Creative Ideas Inc. I try to buy them by the dozen.
#5. Is this a true story?
Yes, it actually happens to be 100% true. Don’t mind that word NOVEL on the cover. Or the whole description on the back cover about some made up character. This totally happened.
#6. Oh, wait . .  you wrote this?
Yes. I know I might seem quite dense after talking with you for ten minutes, but rest assured, I’m taking notes, and the next character I kill off in my story will be based on YOU.
#7. I have so many books that I just can’t buy another.
So wait. . . you’re saying my baby is ugly?
#8.  Is this your first book?
Yep. Those 25 others don’t count. Just this one.
#9. Oh, so you're a Christian author?
Yes, and I'd really like for you to read my stuff since you're a sinner and I’m desperately trying to help save your soul.
#10. I just LOVED this book and couldn’t stop until I finished it!
Tell that to the moron who gave me one freaking star on Amazon. Let’s go hunt him down. Now. 

The Fading Summer

            I try to outline the shadows stuck with me this summer, but my fading spirit makes me draw outside the lines. I want to fill in every single color I’ve seen but I can’t help it that I was born colorblind. I want to connect all these pieces but they all look broken as they surround me.             Will these be footnotes? Will they be distant echoes? Will they be like the beautiful contrail in the sky on a summer evening? Drifting until it’s gone?             I’ve taken notes and made memories and tried to carve these things on my soul and my skin. But it’s too easy. It’s too easy because I know me. It’s too easy to find the next fascinating thing.             There are the bells and the strings and the keys. There are the voices of angels to accompany them. There are the smiles and the hands held to the sky. There are all the ingredients to a wonderful concert. These are the things I’ve seen. Over and over and over.             So time please stand still cause I want to relish the joy. I don’t want to do the thing I do all the time and become a cuckoo and slip outside the clock and shout out loud. I want to stay in this moment for just a little longer. For just a little while longer.             I would like to stop thinking ahead and to stop looking behind. But I’m paid to do both in different ways. I have to. There’s no way I can’t. I make a living stirring my thick cauldron full of emotion and memories and feelings. I know every ingredient inside and I constantly pick and choose.             They certainly are overflowing this summer.             The fall will soon follow, however, and then the winter will be there.             I’ve written blogs I haven’t posted. I’ve taken snapshots nobody else has seen. I’ve made promises only God has heard. To make myself remember.             But the familiar hands of time tend to make you forget. Those daily doldrums. The buzzing stress. The strokes of pink everywhere. The flatness of this place. The fast forward nature of time and how it slips away from you, day after day after day.             Will August meet September and find a new memory to make only to forget June and July?             Will the scars on the soul only be replaced by new ones?             Will the hope held in these hands slowly drip away and dry up like salt water?             The night questions the joy just like shadows covering the light. I know the answers but man do I still find myself followed by a hundred familiar questions.             This summer has been a backpack of answers. I’m still wearing it and I’m still climbing that mountain.             I don’t plan on coming back down. 

Bloodflood

            The laughter is necessary. It lifts you to places you couldn’t catapult yourself to. But for now, you need some noisy silence where the music speaks to your soul.                                    The light of the afternoon sun pushes through the shoulders of clouds. A breeze brushes your burnt forehead. You stare ahead lost and let the music soak in.
            The lyrics linger even if you don’t understand half of them. You find these bits of inspiration and take what you can from them. Hope. Freedom. Joy. Strength.
             The long weekend nears its end with this solitary moment. Few would get it if you even tried to explain. But this place is full of mysteries and surprises.
            The little boy inside you stands dreaming, remembering, wondering, longing. So old in a sea of youth while you still try to find your way.
            The love you imagine is something within reach, this mysterious and glorious thing hovering all around you. Like the sounds and the soft breeze and three sun-drenched days, it’s real and it’s there.
            Yet the luster will fade like the song and the sunset and the sweet memories. And then life resumes, lifting you off your feet and taking it with you. Away from this scene and this story. Reality turns a page when you barely had the chance to document all the things you wanted to remember about yesterday. Life doesn’t wait.
            The life is blessed and full of love. Yet every now and then, life can surprise you with moments like this. When the words stick and the song speaks to you like some kind of friend you feel you’ve known all your life. 

July, 2013

           July smiled and approached and smothered all while she laughed.             I blink and August is sitting right next to me. I have so much to tell her but I’m wondering where July went to. I want to say so many things. I spend all day and night drenched in words yet I can’t seem to sum up any for her. I’m a writer with some kind of strange block and I’m not sure why.             I see the scars of the month. And feel the light it’s left behind.             Someday, maybe, possibly, I’ll have one of those moments. One of those AHA brilliant sort of bursts when I finally can see it in its proper place and light. But right now, I’m sitting on a hurling train racing toward tomorrow while forgetting about yesterday.             I just want to linger in yesterday. Just for a moment.             I just want to sum up what it means.             I want to take the laughter and the tears and the words and the activity and bottle them into something special. Something that I can open on a late night many years from now. Vintage 2013. Named July.             I seriously could feel and taste the dread before July arrived. But so often, life surprises me. God turns the head on my expectations and fears. He brings me safe souls that somehow like me. That linger around long enough to give me a little more life. Long enough to inspire long after the embers of the fire are out.             So August, what do you have planned? What do you have in mind?             Maybe I shouldn’t ask.             Maybe I should let it be. Let it lie.                         Maybe I should awake and see the morning sun and thank God for another day.             For the breath and the lives around me and the home and the family and the love.             Somewhere, somehow, in some way, I picked it up again. I found it amidst some kind of poison ivy. The compass. The call. This beautiful little thing called craft.             I found it and gave it away.             August, don’t let me let you down. Don’t let me take it back. Don’t let the waves start to waver all over my face and soul. Don’t make July regret meeting me. Don’t make September roll its eyes watching me from afar. Let these past thirty-one days count. Let this 42nd July count in the ways the others haven’t counted.             Be the bell that reminds me whenever the door opens.             Be the drum to announce your arrival whenever the memory comes.             The tick tock tick tock that pounds in my skull silenced for a bit. And in its place, I found something glorious.             God spoke through a bull frog. Of course He did.             But the days go on and the nights are still there and it’ll be easy to go on and be so unaware. So July, remind me.             Remind me in the gloomy October.             Remind me in the busy December.             Remind me in the cold February.             Remind me in the colorful April.             Remind me and keep reminding me.             Remind me for my own sake and my own soul.             Remind me of your far off sunsets and your fire tunnels.             Keep reminding me whenever I need those reminders.             Keep shining, July, and don’t ever stop. 

The Shoes Around My Soul

I was your age yesterdayLiving in another time another placeWhere the trivial felt so painfully realWhere I couldn’t feel the weight on my soul just yetWhere the words couldn’t quite sum up how I feltWhere the future felt so far offI was there in your shoesBreathless and in painI’ve worn every single pairForty sets spun around my soul like a nooseCovering the same old groundCovering the same old painThe skies can open and grace can come inBut the shadows still remainIn a tranquil settingThe heart begins to shineSurrounded by those who get it Surprised by kindred soulsThe door to Narnia has closed for nowBut the key remains in my hand
And the music lingers in my heart

All These Books

            These pieces of prose are parts of your soul, put down on paper for all to see. The world doesn’t wait for them. An audience of indifferent, yawning spectators watch as you step onto stage every single time, squinting into the spotlight and trying to get their attention.             Yet each act belongs. Each monologue deserves to be heard.             They’re journal entries, to be honest. Messy, distorted, blurry diary pages. Made up characters in made up worlds with real emotions and real meaning. The passion and confusion of the day goes into these stories that get read late into the night.             Some work better than others. But all have their place.             The naïve love story. The guilt-ridden redemption story. The confused longing. The angry pointing. The darkness and the light.             These are pieces of me, for better and often for much worse. But they’re true.             They don’t follow formulas. Call me whatever you like, but don’t say I’m predictable.             I’m still learning, still figuring this out, still trying to weave a wonderful tale.             I once dreamt of seeing one of these put into book form. Then I dreamt of several side-by-side. Then I longed for the day when I did this fulltime.             Now I long for something simple. I long for one of this little stories to blow all the rest away.             The right time and the right place and the right voice and the right theme.             I want to take that indifferent audience and turn them on their side. To make them wonder where that came from. To make them suddenly question everything before it.             I don’t want praise because it makes me uncomfortable. But I do want these stories to mean something. They are like my children. Each one is special to me and always will be.             Maybe one day the whole thing will make sense to others like it makes sense to me. This dark, creepy little tale sitting right next to this bright, corny little story. I want to show that those make sense side-by-side. They make sense coming from the same dark, corny soul.              Throughout, hopefully I will show someone growing up, changing, believing, sharing. Always trying. Always hoping.             Always believing. 

This Sunrise You've Been Given

Whisper. I don’t want to hear the words. Not now. Maybe tomorrow. Smile. I don’t want to get down again. Not now. I hate all the sorrow. Laugh. Every contagious laugh is like a kiss from Heaven. Wonder. The world has enough answers. Why not ask why? Study. The little specks on the tiniest face can be one of the most beautiful things ever. Worry. Every now and then it’s good to just FREAK OUT. Breathe. Somehow you’re still alive and the blood pumping in your heart is there. Hope. ‘Cause “hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”Live. Live like tomorrow isn’t promised and yesterday washed away. Grasp. Those around you. The truths you’ve seen. This sunrise you’ve been given. Bow. Before your maker. Your savior. Your yesterday and your tomorrow. Thank. And then thank again. Because today is full. And tomorrow might be, too. Sleep. Cause God knows you need to. 

My Next Teen Series

            I’m finding my anchors. My theme songs. My stolen smiles.             I don’t know how the others do it. I know in theory. They type. Yes, I understand that. They follow formulas or they don’t. They follow a story map or they go by their gut. But I still don’t know how they create. How the ideas formulate in their head. What drives them. What inspires and breaks their soul. What means something in the end.             All I know is what drives and inspires and breaks and means something to me. That’s all I know.             It’s a beautifully complicated thing diving into a four-book series. I should know a little more having finished The Solitary Tales, but I know better. Every creation is its own entity. I can believe and hope and strive and do my best, but I know. I know there’s no way to predict the end result.             I can tell you this. It’s another teen series. It has nothing to do with Chris Buckley and Solitary. But, then again, it might have everything to do with that. But Chris doesn’t make a cameo. This is a totally different story. Every book is mapped out. Each character has been named and is starting to form.             Tonight I spent an hour just trying to figure out the main character. I know him but I need some actor to latch on to. Someone who will help bring life to him. I finally figured it out. Yes, this is what I do in my spare time. I joke because I don’t have spare time. But this is what I do for fun. Just like creating stories and writing. I still love it and still love the process. Deadline or no.             So what can I tell you? Well, I’ll share this. There’s a bit of Stevie Nicks. There’s a Hispanic world. There’s an 80’s love of The Cure. There’s a soccer and maybe-possibly football player. There is a town death. Then another. There is a love for another that’s isn’t requited (but is it ever?). There’s the town of Hidden Cove. There’s the summer and then the senior year. There is a shadow spreading over this town and this growing love. But there is a marvelous, awe-inspiring, wonderful, and glorious trajectory that is taking place.             Soon you’ll hear more. Next year the first book will come out. We’ll see where this takes us. I think you’ll be delighted and surprised and hopefully moved. Moved at being at the edge of seventeen.             “I went today, maybe I will go again tomorrow            And the music there it was hauntingly familiar            And I see you doing what I try to do for me            With the words from a poet and the voice from a choir            And a melody, nothing else mattered”—Stevie Nicks

Never Let Go

I've had beloved books that took me six years to write (Sky Blue). 

I've had collaborations with people I've loved working with (Paper Angels & Home Run). 
I've had books that were odd little experiments (The Second Thief, Blinded). 
I've tried to sum up young love (The Promise Remains). 
I've had the start of series that never went anywhere (Out of the Devil's Mouth). 
I've had failures turn into successes (Isolation). 
I've swung at the fences with everything I've got (40). 
I've dialed it way back (Broken). 
I've been a bit too ambitious (Gun Lake). 
I've carved out chunks of myself and my history (The Solitary Tales). 
I've celebrated new love and marriage (Three Roads Home). 
I've celebrated the dark side (Ghostwriter). 
I've dealt with my own failures (The Watermark, Admission ). 
I've worked with famous people (Letters From War, Are You Gonna Kiss Me Or Not, Time For Me To Come Home). 
I've published books too good to not be published (Every Breath You Take). 
But I've never, ever worked on a book like Never Let Go. Perhaps because it's not fiction. Perhaps because it's not my story. Perhaps because Mac and Mary Owen are awesome, and because God has done so many amazing things in their lives. 
If you've enjoyed any of the above books, please buy Never Let Go. It's worth it. As a parent of many children, I can see this child as being truly exceptional. 

Maybe

            I love the idea of someone picking up a book I helped write without even seeing my name on the cover. I love the thought that maybe they’ll love it so much they’ll re-examine the cover and the story and the co-author.            Maybe they’ll Google my name.            Maybe they’ll go on my website.            Maybe they’ll wonder if I’ve written anything else and discover I’ve written a few more. Quite a few more.            Maybe they’ll order one that sounds the most interesting.            Maybe it’ll be a story about a wounded baseball player that was made into a movie.            Maybe it’ll be about a teenager at a new school where lots of creepy things happen.            Maybe it’ll be a memoir about a couple who almost loses everything but finally finds hope.            Maybe they’ll order another book and hate it. But maybe they’ll be so intrigued by all the variety of stories they’ll check out one more.            Maybe they’ll love it even more than the first one they read.            Maybe they’ll keep reading.            Maybe they’ll get to know Ethan and Sheridan and Dennis and Chris and Colin and Scott and so many others.            Maybe they’ll congratulate themselves on finding another favorite author that fills their bookshelves.            Or maybe, just maybe, they’ll read that first book based on a musical act they like and then set it aside. A nice story but nothing more. Something fun and entertaining and oh well.            Yeah, maybe.            I love maybes. I work in a world of maybes.            Maybes are all part of my life. I’m grateful for maybes.            Maybes keep me writing.            Maybes are fun.            Maybes are still very much me.            Maybe they’ll all make sense in some great big picture.            Yeah, maybe.