Travis Thrasher's Blog, page 23

"Christmas Lights" Part Four

(Photo used by permision from the talented Tabitha Kingma at 723 Photography)
4. CLEAR            There are so many things I want to say yet I find myself speechless. It’s not the first time my wife has elicited this kind of reaction, but the reasons are entirely different. I open my mouth as if trying to force something out when Linda asks me a question.             “What is your fondest memory of our family?”             I expected something a lot different. Something about making the right or the wrong choice. Something about the focus needing to be on Jesus. I don’t expect this.             The funny thing is how fast I provide an answer.             “The toddler years, when they were all running around the house like little monkeys and we were losing our minds.”            Linda stares at me to see if I’m kidding. Then she smiles and shakes her head. “That’s surprising.”            “Really?”            “You used to say how much you loathed life back then.”            “Yeah.” I chuckle. “I did in a way. But I didn’t know how good we had it. That was before—before this. Before all this started getting out of hand. That was before they grew up and began talking back. Before hormones kicked in. Before they realized how much of a loser their father really was.”            “Arthur.”            It’s odd to hear her say my name. I like the sound of it.             “I’m just being honest,” I tell her.            “That’s good.”            We both know the drinking wasn’t the only thing. There were other things. Secrets and lies and cover-ups and big fat messes I constantly needed to try to clean up. Messes a lot bigger than the ones a one and a two and a four-year-old might make.             “Do you remember how Rick used to tuck Molly into bed?”            I nod. I haven’t thought of that in a long time. I’m sure they certainly haven’t either.             “I think for about five years there, life was one giant haze,” Linda says.             “The irony is it became that way for me a little while later.”            “So why are you here?”            “I don’t have to explain it to you. I think you know.”            She studies me for a moment. Nat King Cole is now singing.             “So what one thing made you leave Rick’s and come here?”            “This place has been on my mind for quite some time.”            “I’m sorry to hear you say that.”            I shake my head and clench the curse about to come out of my mouth. It comes from that dark place, the same place that brought me here, the same place my anger resides. I know Linda won’t appreciate it. Yet I still can’t believe her words.             “I’m the one who’s sorry.”            “There’s still a chance for you to make the right choice. You know that, too. Otherwise a beer that’s getting warmer by the second would be gone.”            I chuckle again. “There’s a lot I want to say.”            Linda brushes back her brown hair. I realize she really is beautiful. The age thing doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. She’s like one of those ornaments on a tree you’ve taken for granted for years and years. When you finally take it in your hand and examine it closely, you realize it’s truly something precious.             This thought only fills me with more regret.             “I’m just not sure where to start,” I continue.            “Save your words.”            “But you need to know--”            “No. The people who need to know are waiting back at that house. They don’t know you like I know you. They depend on you. They need you. They need to know their father hasn’t lost faith.”            I feel something deep in my gut. It burns and it’s bottomless and I know she’s right.             Their father’s faith is slipping and this holiday is only making it sink faster.             “Arthur, I will tell you this, and I will only say it once. Consider it my Christmas gift to you. Or consider it the words of a woman who’s spoken every single thing she could to you. Whatever you do, please—please—just consider this.”            I nod. I look at the bar and lamb-chops is smoking something. I think there’s a law about smoking in restaurants and bars in Illinois but you know—whatever. Judy Garland is singing—no, make that lamenting this season her with classic melancholy ballad.             “It’s been over four years since you became sober and started attending Celebrate Recovery. Are you willing to give up all that you’ve achieved in our family, in your personal life and church life over these years? Because that's exactly what you’re about to do. Is this drink—is this escape tonight--really going to be worth it?”            These were the words I figured would come. I expected them yet they still make me wince. Linda isn’t finished either.             “Today you make a choice to either take a stand for our family or wallow in self-pity or whatever it is you’ve convinced yourself is worth more than us.”            More than us.             “You’re right,” I say in a weak and soft voice. “I’m just—I’m just sad.”            “I know.”            For a moment, she looks at me, such grace and such love.             “The thing with this day—with the presents and the food and the bickering and the insanity—the whole reason is to remember. It’s to remember this beautiful, precious gift God gave us. A child. A little baby in a manger. A baby that would change everything. His name really was Christ, and he really did do all those things. There shouldn’t be any sadness. Not an ounce. I rejoice. I’m happy. I’m blessed.”            I let out a frustrated snort. “You’re happy and blessed. Meanwhile, I’m thirsty.”            Linda remains silent, and I wonder if this is all she’s going to say to me. I glance at my watch. By now the presents should have all been opened at Rick’s. Maybe they’re all watching Jimmy Stewart on television while continuing to bicker and complain with each other. I try to break the silence by sharing this thought with Linda.                        “Do you know the beauty of It’s A Wonderful Life?” she asks without missing a beat. “It’s not that an angel comes down to help George Bailey. It’s the fact that time after time, things don’t work out for him. He ends up a broken and distraught man. He needs to find faith. He needs to find hope. That’s the story of Christmas. That is what this whole thing—all of it—is about. We don’t need a holiday break and we don’t need our family. Those are blessings, don’t get me wrong. But in the end, we need Jesus. In the end, that baby in the manger is a gift that will be with us forever. It’s a gift that frees us from all those mistakes and brokenness.”            I don’t want to get emotional but I don’t think I can take anymore of this. It’s either drink up or take off. I feel her hold my hand again.             “I’m sorry I was a drunk even when I was sober,” I say.            I’ve wanted to tell her these exact words for some time.            “I love you, Arthur Duncan. I love you for the flawed, broken man you are. And for the portrait of grace you continue to be.”            “I never wanted to be a poster-child of anything.”            “Please,” Linda says, rolling her eyes. “Do not talk about regrets.”            I nod and smile. Suddenly I’m no longer thirsty. Suddenly, all I want is to get back to Rick’s house and keep the festivities going.             “I’m going to leave, and I hope and pray you do too.”            “Can I walk you out?” I ask her.             Linda shakes her head. “I don’t want to hold your hand and walk out this door. You’re stronger than that. Your God is way—way—stronger than that. You don’t need to lean on me anymore.”            “One more time would be nice.”            She stands and she’s so elegant and so easy to look at. Sixty-seven and yet still so reminiscent of the first time I saw her. This strong-willed, quiet but calculating, tall and attractive girl I met in high school. I wonder if she’s going to hug me or kiss me but she just stands and gives me that beaming glow of a smile. Then she nods and heads out the door.             Leaving me here.             Leaving me at this table with the double-barrel of drinks.             There’s no longer a choice for me. Not anymore.             I stand too and then wish the bartender a Merry Christmas. A song I don’t recognize starts playing and I’m beginning to think he’s making these song selections himself.             “So who’s this?”            “What are you talking about?” he asks with a slur. “The greatest band after the mighty Led Zeppelin. It’s Queen. Come on.”            The singer says the chorus over and over again.             “Thank God it’s Christmas.”            Lamb-chops is nodding his head, already two sheets to the wind. Already gone and already hoping for a happy tomorrow             My happy tomorrow awaits me back at Rick’s place. It’s the only place I should be.             (The fifth and final part to "Christmas Lights" will be posted tomorrow.)

"Christmas Lights" Part Three

(Photo used by permision from the talented Tabitha Kingma at 723 Photography)
3. BLUE            A hundred hands seem to wrap themselves around my ankles as I walk toward the pub. My heart—no, my gut—feels heavy. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I know and believe there’s a God above watching me and not liking what He’s seeing.             You don’t know what it’s like.             That’s the voice of the coward deep inside, the weak and worthless fool who thinks he can actually bargain with his maker. Who thinks he’s ready to fall back into this nightmare. Who thinks he can try to rationalize being a complete and utter moron.             For a second, I stand outside the door. But then it seems to open itself. I don’t believe The Prince of Darkness is opening it for me. I see my hand and know what I’m doing and know how dark my heart can be. I don’t need any demon guiding my way. I can do it for my misguided old self.             I love you Dad.             Molly’s words ring in my head.             Kill yourself if that’s what you want to do.             Rick’s words rack my heart.             I believe in you.             Danny’s words rip my soul.            I still remember everything they told me that one morning. Their words had finally awakened my quarantined heart. It had been the start of the change. I’ve been sober ever since.             Yet I still find myself sitting down on the barstool. I still find myself waiting to order, waiting to undo all I’ve built. Waiting to light that fuse and spread that fire that burns every inch of my woesome self.             I have to and nobody understands and when they find me at the end of this binge they’ll understand and they’ll get it because they’ll know why.             For a second I think I’m out of breath. Then I realize I’m not even breathing.             I don’t plan on sitting at the bar too long. No. That’s just too dangerous. Because the way I feel is too raw and too rabid. I fear I might jump behind the wood and start opening bottles and just sucking them dry. That’s how I feel. The anger is bubbling and I don’t want to make small talk and I don’t want to be too close to all that booze. I just want to get my drink and then find a table for two looking out at the window and front door and I want to drink and forget about this first drink and about the kids and about Linda and about Christmas and about God sending His only son to die for me. I especially want to forget that last fact because I just want to drink. Give me a Ho Ho Ho but don’t give me a Merry Christmas.             “Happy holidays,” the round bartender says as he stands before me.             I’m thankful it’s nobody I know. But of course I don’t know anybody. I haven’t been in here for years.             “My name is Clarence and I’m your guardian angel and you know something, Arthur, you really have had a wonderful life. If, of course, you subtract all those awful years of drinking.”            The guy blinks and smiles and waits.             “You need some time?” the bartender asks.             I shake my head. Of course he didn’t call himself Clarence and say all that. I’m just feeling loopy and nervous.             “Give me a pint of your best beer,” I say. “You pick. And give me a shot of Jameson.”            I know beer won’t be fast enough, so a little whisky will help.             “That sorta Christmas, huh?” The bartender laughs as he pours a dark stout. “Trouble with the missus?”            For a moment, I look at my wedding band. “There’d sure be trouble if she caught me in this place.”            The screen on the corner captures my eye. I think I’m so tense and focused that I didn’t hear the song playing in the pub when I first entered. Elvis is singing “Blue Christmas”. Of course.             “Snowing yet?”  the bartender asks, his sideburns thick enough to make Elvis proud.             “Might be by the time you close. Which is hopefully really late.”            “I got all night pal.”            I don’t need all night. Just a good chunk of it will do.            There’s nobody else in here. I take my beer and shot to a lonely table away from mutton-chops and Elvis singing above him. I put them on the table and then look at them as if they’re glowing hot steel, impossible to touch.             I blink.             Next thing I know I’m on a flight headed to Vegas.             I blink again.             Then I’m curled up in a muddy ditch unable to move.             I close my eyes, then carefully open them. The drinks are still there, waiting and wondering when I’m going to get to them. My imagination is overactive as always.             Elvis gets off the stage and he’s followed by Bing Crosby. I guess we have a selection of Christmas hits playing.             Just as I wrap my hand around the cold beer, the door I’m facing opens and in comes Linda. She’s not the fire-breathing dragon who showed up years ago when I missed Molly’s birthday. Instead, she looks sad and tired. She gives the bartender her friendly smile as she walks up to my table. I don’t take my eyes off her, even as she sits down in the chair across from me.             “What are you doing?” she asks.             I still have my hand around the beer.             “Preparing to get drunk.”            “I see you ordered for both of us.”            This is funny. This whole thing is just hilarious.             “The day I see you take a shot of whiskey is the day I know the Mayans were right.”            “We already made it past the end of the world.”            I laugh and shake my head. “Speak for yourself.”            For a moment I wonder if the bartender is going to come over and ask her if she wants something, but then I know better. Of course he won’t. He’s not crazy.             I’m already in enough trouble just being here. And I haven’t had one sip yet.             “Was Christmas Day that bad?” Linda asks in her quiet and calm way.             “You didn’t see Rick and Molly going after each other.”            “I saw plenty,” she says. “I saw you getting angry.”            “They don’t listen to a thing I tell them.”            “Do you really think they should? Look at you. You haven’t changed a bit.”            “Is this supposed to be a pep talk?”            Her eyes go down for a moment. For a second, I wonder if I’ve already been here for two hours. Maybe I’m bombed and maybe Elvis really isn’t singing and maybe Linda isn’t really here. It’s just me and mutton-chops and Mr. Jameson.             Then I feel her hand touch mine. Her hand shows her age—it shows our age—yet it still feels soft and warm. I miss that touch. It hasn’t come for a while.             “You’re still so angry. Don’t be.”            I shake my head and grit my teeth. She doesn’t understand—how could she? She’s not in my shoes. She just doesn’t get it and never has.             “I feel like I’m going to bust open in million different little holes.”            “And drinking is going to what? How is it going to help patch up those holes?”            “It’s not,” I admit, talking more with her than usual. Maybe it’s because I’m here and I’ve been caught.             I really want to drain that shot to give me more courage.            “You can go ahead and drink it,” Linda says to me, her blue eyes lit up by the sparkles of the Christmas lights around the window. “You don’t have to stop because I’m here.”            I feel like I suddenly can’t move. I glance back at the bar and the bartender seems to be drinking himself. Whitney Houston is on the television singing “Do You Hear What I Hear”.             “This has been a brutal year,” I tell Linda. “Capped by an awful December.”            “So this is how you what? Celebrate? Cope?”            “This is how I breathe, Linda. You will never understand.”            She shakes her head. “Don’t make this about me. Our three children and their families are all back at Rick’s, waiting and wondering.”            “Good.”            “No, it’s not good. It’s never been good.”            “I’ll let them all down again. They’re used to it. They’ll understand.”            “But you won’t,” Linda says. “They might understand but deep down inside, you won’t. This isn’t a rest stop. You can’t just drive back out and get on the highway that’s your life. You know what this means. You know how dangerous this is. This is a cliff you’re facing. You’re about to take your foot off the brake.”            I laugh and shake my head. “Why all this road and car analogy? It doesn’t sound a thing like you.”            “Because I know that’s your language. I know you sold cars for over three decades.”            “That’s what made me drink in the first place.”            “You’re broken like the rest of us,” Linda says. “You just tried to fill in those broken places in your own way.”            I shake my head and close my eyes.             I’ve had enough.             I don’t want to hear this and don’t want to see her and don’t want to keep up this whole game and charade.             “I can go if you really want me to,” she says in a barely audible voice.             I open my eyes and this time I reach over to touch her hand. “No. Don’t leave. Just—just stay. For a few more minutes.”            She smiles. “I guess they can wait.”

"Christmas Lights" Part Two

(Photo used by permission from the talented Tori Watson at Marvelousthingsphotoblog.com)
2. GREEN            The town sleeps, though I know better. I can hear the rumbling in the pretty homes I pass. I’ve lived in Hidden Cove so long I can write a book about all the families I know, some whose houses I’m passing as I head to the downtown area. There’s the Allen family, a couple I’ve known for a long time who just now are deciding to get a divorce in their fifties. Three grown kids won’t stop them from doing that, I guess. There’s the Weavers—Glenn and Patricia Weaver. A couple who adopted five children—yeah, that’s right, five—and now have something like seventy grandkids. Then there’s the Murphys, who are probably all so loaded none of them can make it up the stairs. I’m talking the entire family, parents and grown-up children alike. I know because I used be sitting in their house, bombed with the rest of them.               Yeah, I know this place and the people living here. They know me, too. The guy I used to be, and the one I’m trying to be now.             I don’t think that Pete’s is open. Not at nine p.m. on Christmas Day. But I haven’t visited Pete’s for a while.             Four years seven months and three days. But who’s counting.             I can still see the shadow of Linda in the doorway of Pete’s that one evening I forgot it was Molly’s birthday. My wife has always been a gentle, amiable soul, but this time she was a raging bull. She told me to finish my drink and follow her and get my tail home. The funny part of that whole thing was she told me to finish my drink. She’d already given up on the drinking part, yet she still believed back then I could be a halfway decent father.             There’s nothing funny about that whatsoever.             I don’t want to think of Linda nor do I want to think of Rick or Molly or all the rest back at the house celebrating. Or arguing. Or wondering where in the world I might be.             It’s hard finding Waldo but it’s sure not hard finding Arthur.             I turn on main street and notice the empty lanes. I pass the bank, the pizza place, the library. A voice tells me to keep going straight, to not turn on Oxford street. But I do.             I’m alone and I’m still angry at the ugly display back at that house.             I used to get to a point where I’d feel the anger rising. I’d start drinking and it’d be like putting out a fire. So I thought and felt. So I tried to believe, until I realized I was pouring gasoline onto the flames. The root of my anger could be buried, but it never went away.             I sigh. Other voices start to rise up inside me. The familiar language. The Celebrate Recovery rhetoric. My pastor’s encouragement. My sponsor’s judgment.              Stop thinking and stop listening and get out of the car.             Another voice comes to me asking what I’m doing but I refuse to answer it. I refuse to even acknowledge that I heard it.             I turn on the radio. Paul McCartney is singing “Wonderful Christmas Time”, reminding me why I loved John Lennon the most.             He never did something awful as this song.             It’s a bit like someone sticking a fork in my side. Or maybe my ears.             No, Paul, I’m still not having a wonderful Christmas time, and I don’t think you were either, not with those God-awful synth-sounds in the background.             The song continues but at least I don’t hear my sponsor talking. At least I can’t hear my pastor. I slow down and then pull into one of the empty parking slots on Oxford. I have lots to choose from. For a second, I leave the car running, looking across the intersection, noticing the lit up sign.             Pub             That’s all it says. That’s all it’s ever said. Pete never had any desire to change it to anything other than here’s a pub and it’s a place to get drunk so come on in.             Pete’s dead now, but his place and his ugly Pub sign live on.             My heart is racing. My mouth is watering.             What am I doing here?             I mean—yeah, I know. I know exactly why. But why now? Why of all nights?             You know the answer to that too.             The anger got chiseled away. But the crevices that were left were too easily filled when they suddenly found themselves empty. Empty and alone.             I turn off the car and climb out. The cold covers me like a strait jacket. I glance across the road at the river. I see the lit sign declaring PEACE ON EARTH. But whoever put that up hadn’t seen the Rick and Molly on Christmas Day.             I begin walking up the sidewalk. The etched stones look like prison blocks.             Peace on Earth is a great idea and a wonderful thing for this day. But peace is the furthest thing from my soul. I feel angry, alone, and betrayed.             2012 has been a brutal year. In so many ways.             I shiver but don’t see a speck of snow. They were calling for it, and frankly I’d feel a bit more in the holiday mood if snow started falling. It just doesn’t feel like Christmas, not the kind I remember having when I was a kid. Nor the kind Linda and I had when the kids were so tiny and so enamored by everything.             I stop and stand outside the pub, feeling the frigid breath of air. The holidays used to be different. Christmastime used to mean something until life got so busy. It’s not just the putrid commercialization that found Frosty the Snowman playing in the background at a Walmart before Thanksgiving. No, it’s something more. Something worse.             I can hear Rick talking about America in decline and Molly mocking him and telling him to be president while guzzling down more wine. These are two of our children. Then there’s Danny, the little people-pleasing baby brother, always trying to keep the peace by being goofy. They’re all adults, and they’ll never listen to me. They’re all mirrors of me, yet it seems they’ve inherited all the bad parts.            So get it over with buddy.             The only thing I want is that first drink. Just to get it over with.             It comes out of nowhere, as sure as the night breeze and its cold breath.            You are not God. You are powerless to control your tendencies to do the wrong things. Your life is completely and totally unmanageable.             Yeah, I’ve heard that before. I know it’s true. But this is what I say back.             “Who cares anymore?”            I might just think this or I might say this out loud. It doesn’t matter.             Yes, I’m powerless, and yes, I’m thirsty. That first drink is going to be tough, but the remaining drinks will come with ease. And there will be many of them. 

"Christmas Lights" Part One

(Photo used by permission from the talented Tori Watson at Marvelousthingsphotoblog.com)
CHRISTMAS LIGHTSA Short StoryBy Travis Thrasher
1. RED            It’s time and I don’t care what day it is or how long it’s been or what might happen or who might find out. I need some fresh air. I need to get away from all this Yuletide nonsense, all this angry bickering just like every Christmas. I need some sanity.             Mostly, I just need a really strong drink.            I almost leave the house without my coat, but my SUV keys are in its pocket. I find it hanging in the closet smashed against all the other ski jackets and overcoats. I see Carmen’s fur coat and a part of me wants to take it out and set it on fire. Not because I have anything against fur coats. I just have a big problem with my daughter-in-law.            I glance in the dining room and see the table we were all sitting around half an hour ago. It's already got its centerpiece and table settings perfectly organized all around it. I see a Nutcracker standing at attention giving me a critical gaze, as if he is standing in judgement of what I'm about to do.             Shave that white beard, buddy.             As I near the front doorway, I hear steps coming down the hallway.             “Dad, don’t do this.”            It’s Rick. Of course it’s Rick. This is his house and he likes being in control of things since he’s the firstborn and since he’s his father’s son. Rick was the one leading my intervention years ago. His tone sounds the same as it did that ugly Saturday morning years ago.             “I can say the same thing to you,” I tell him.             “I’m not leaving.”            “No. You’re arguing.”            “We’re just talking.” Rick sighs.             “That’s not talking. I know talking and that—that—is not the definition I have going in my mind.”            “Come on. You said yourself you can’t stand Obama.”            I shake my head.”Yes, but I think the election is over and he’s our President.”            “That’s my problem.”            “And my problem is you making it front and center at dinner. Especially this year.”            “Take off your coat,” Rick says. “Come on—we still have presents to open. Where are you going to go?”            He gives me a look. That look. The look I’ve seen about a thousand times. That shaming, detestable, smug look.             “I’m going out. I’m getting away from this.”            “I don’t think that’s such good idea.”            He still speaks to me like he used to, like the father to a son, like a sober person to a drunk. Except this time, I am the father again. This time, I’m sober. Way too sober.            “It’s Christmas and I don’t want to hear how much you hate the government and I don’t want to hear another debate about gun control and I really, truly don’t want to hear Carmen’s complaints about—about everything.”            Rick holds my arm for a moment, and I shoot him a look. He knows this look and he lets go.             “Look—Dad—it’s just—you know how things are. Just don’t leave. We’ll mellow out. We just started to open our stockings. I’m sure you got something really good in yours. Like the salami Mom got you last year. We’re still laughing about that.”            Rick’s trying to change topics and lighten the mood. But it’s not going to happen.             “I bet in ten minutes, Molly and you will start going after each other. She’s already had half a dozen glasses of wine. You know how she gets.”            “Yeah, well, she takes after her father.”            If I didn’t love this man standing right next to me, and if he wasn’t my eldest son, I’d plant my fist right in the middle of his big mouth. But instead, I force a smile and open the door and leave.            This is why I need to get out of here.                         This is why I need a drink.             It’s been a very long time coming.
            (Stay tune for the remaining four installments of "Christmas Lights" the next four days!)
            

Small Gift To My Readers

                I’ve always thought if I was a bestselling author who didn’t have to worry about time and money, I’d love to publish a book specifically for my devoted readers. Then one Christmas, give it to them. Free of charge. Not an eBook but a special signed and numbered book. To my biggest fans.            I still might get a chance to do that one day.             For this Christmas, I’m going to do a tiny version of that on this blog. For the next five days starting tonight, I’m going to post parts of a Christmas short story I'm writing. It’s a very small way of thanking all of you who read and enjoy my work.             Some backstory on “Christmas Lights.” Back in the blurry year of 2010, after having written four novels leading up to the birth of our twins, I got the idea for this story after hearing the Coldplay song “Christmas Lights.” I was still working on edits for Paper Angels with Jimmy Wayne and I was thinking of follow-up storylines. This song came out and I loved it (still do).             The idea stuck with me, though it’s not really an idea to fill a whole novel or even novella. I figured it would be fun to write it and share it on my blog.             Something else that’s cool: I asked some photographers I know and follow online to provide some pics for this. I got a couple of takers which I’m appreciative of.             So this rough little short story is an idea I got a couple of years ago, and it’s influenced by the past year of working on Home Run as well as my continued journey of writing novels based on songs.             Merry Christmas to all of you gracious readers. One day maybe, that exclusive signed novel for select readers might arrive in your mailbox. You just never know. 

An Invitation To Home Run

            Exactly a year ago today, I was trying to figure out what in the world I was going to do for 2012. I was talking to a variety of people and publishers about potential projects. I was in the usual boat of waiting to hear back from them. I was still working on my big series idea, yet wasn’t sure when I could publish it. I’d already said no to a publisher who wanted to put me in a cage and feed me bananas while working on it.           So a year ago, I was pretty nervous.           I had sent Don Pape, the publisher at David C. Cook, an email asking about something. His reply came quick.           Were your ears burning?             He certainly had my attention. When I asked why, he sent me a long email detailing some things related to The Solitary Tales, which Cook publishes. But also in this email he wrote the following comment:            I also can't tell you more but we may be acquiring a project where we need a writer and today we discussed your name several times over. It would be a novelization project of a film screenplay.             I emailed him to tell me more, but didn’t get a reply. On my way home that night, Don called me on my cell and gave me the scoop.             It turned out David C. Cook was one of several publishers bidding on a project called Home Run. It was a movie about a baseball player who goes back to his home town and goes into recovery while coaching a little league baseball team. It was affiliated with something called Celebrate Recovery, a ministry started by Saddleback Church (Rick Warren’s church).             Don asked me how my schedule looked.             "Uh, pretty clear."            And whether or not I was interested.             "Yeah, a little."            He wasn’t sure Cook would acquire the book, but he felt they might. There were other big publishers bidding for it, so they wouldn’t know until the following week.             Well, I started to pray. And I got my family praying too.             A year later, I can’t imagine not getting that project. Of course, it was an answer to prayer. It turns out a couple different publishers suggested my name to the producers. I was fortunate they listened to them and eventually chose me to put their movie into a novelization.             The best part of all of this wasn’t getting that contract. Yes, I needed it, but that wasn’t the best part. If the movie and book are both huge hits, that won’t be the best part, either.             The best part has been meeting the people involved with making Home Run. And seeing the impact Celebrate Recovery is having on so many lives across this country. I feel like the team behind Home Run and the leaders in Celebrate Recovery are part of my family. They adopted a poor orphan child named Travis Thrasher who likes to make up stories. It turns out I fit in well with all of them.            As I look to 2013 with similar uncertainty, I know God has a plan. It’s never my plan. Never. But usually His plan is far better than the one I’m thinking about.            I’m thankful David C. Cook thought of me, and Carol Mathews and Tom Newman chose me. I’m thankful for Home Run and the heart behind it. I’m thankful that I know about Celebrate Recovery.            Most of all, I’m thankful I’m still able to do the thing I dearly love. And as I do it, God continues to remind me that it should never be about me.             The novelization for Home Run releases March 1, giving you a taste of what’s to come when the movie releases April 19th. Please go see it. It really is a special film. 

A Little Leftover Gem From HURT

Know Who You Are At Every Age                          Maybe it doesn’t really matter. This teen thing, that is.            Maybe the age is just a number. Just like an address or a class number or a license plate.            Maybe it doesn’t define you. Not really.            Who is to say what you really feel?            Who is to say you can’t love and hate and heal and hurt?            Who is to say who exactly you are?            Maybe this is who you are. This person. This soul.            Maybe this is the person you’re going to be for another five and ten and fifty years.            Maybe the rest of the world has no clue exactly who you are.            But you know.                        You know pretty well.              You still have a long way to go and you have a lot to figure out. But this time and this place have helped define who you are deep inside.            Those songs deep inside your soul.            This place has carved it out and sealed it in hot, blistering fire.            Others will never know the full extent and never really care to know. At least most people.            And that’s okay.            Because you know.            Another year or ten or twenty might fall like autumn leaves.            And you will know.            This is where you found yourself.            This is where God saved you.            Over. And over again.            And this is where you will carry that saved self to another place for something else.            You don’t know what but you know it will be something.            Something sweet.            Something undefined by the age the number the date the box of teenage years.                                     You know who you are now and you feel pretty good about it. 

2 For 1 Sale

            From November 27-December 31, I will be having another BUY ONE GET ONE FREE book sale. Order them from my website. Really appreciate all of you who order books from me for either yourself or for gifts.             Here are things to know:             1. Sorry, but this sale only applies to the fifty states. I haven’t made that clear in the past and have actually lost money on shipping and handling. (This includes Canada too! Sorry—I still love all of my Canadian readers!!)             2. You can order any of my books, but you can only receive softcover books for your free book (which means no Paper Angels or Letters From War). Order a book and then in the comments section in PayPal tell me what free book you'd like.             3.  I’m not making Hurt available for this deal since it’s not officially published yet (that’s the final book in The Solitary Tales)            4. Some books might take a little longer due to my inventory.            5. I send these out media mail, so shipping takes a little longer than first class. So just remember when ordering.            Thanks!! 

My Personal Twilight

 In the summer of 2008, I wanted to write my version of Twilight. That’s what I set out to do with The Solitary Tales.            This wasn’t anything new. My first book (The Promise Remains) that finally got published after I wrote seven novels was my version of Nicholas Sparks’ bestseller The Notebook. The novel I was actually on a book tour for when I came up with the idea for The Solitary Tales was Isolation, my version of Stephen King’s classic The Shining.            Notice I picked bestsellers and classics.            Now one might say I have no new ideas, but my problem is having so many different ideas for doing different things. In the cases of The Promise Remains and Isolation, I put those stories in very definitive boxes. With The Solitary Tales, I put them into another definitive box: the YA box. I basically combined those two books and produced my “Pretty In Pink meets The Exorcist” as I pitched to the publisher.            Interesting sidenote: the publisher I pitched The Solitary Tales to was Hachette, the publisher of  . . . Twilight. Granted, I was going for the FaithWords imprint, but still. Who knows if they had said yes.            So will Twilight fans enjoy The Solitary Tales? Some. Goodness knows there are a lot of them out there. But it seems like there are plenty of haters, too.            I’m not going to debate whether I think the series is wonderful or woeful. I only read the first book, to be honest. I came to a point where I realized why it meant so much to both young girls and their mothers. It’s pure romance. But there’s an odd combination there. This suppressed desire. This naivety. This breaking of rules. This unabashed romance.            I wasn’t a big fan, but I tried to understand a little of why it became such a bestseller. Then I put that out of my mind and wrote the series I wanted to write—no, that I needed to write.            I figured my series wouldn’t be Hollywood gold, creating a series of box-office smashes with their own soundtracks. So what did I do? I created my own soundtracks and playlists. I tried to write these with music flowing through them. Not for any marketing gimmick but because I’m a child of the 80’s and music has been the backdrop of my life. It means something to me and I wanted it to mean something to Chris.            I wanted to have that sappy teen love going on, something I don’t seem to see much these days. I have nephews in high school and college but they never seem to have "girlfriends". Maybe times have changed. I wanted to reflect some of my experiences while trying to be current.            I also wanted to dive into the darkness. Yet I didn’t want to ride the wave of vampires. I don’t believe in vampires. I do believe in angels and demons. I wanted to explore that, but through the lens of someone who doesn’t believe in them. I didn’t want Jesus to show up on page five or chapter fourteen. I didn’t want God and faith to show up even when the first book ended. Yeah, that’s right. They show up but I wanted the darkness to win just like it seemingly “wins” every day and every night. Watch the news.            I did this because I know I had four books in this series.            I wanted to explore being a teenager and being in love and being dumb and stupid and trying to figure out things.  I wanted to come up with something spooky and creepy and beautiful and moving at the same time. And I wanted it to have a deep backstory with lots and lots of mysteries. Enough to make it bigger than any four books could ever be.            Yeah. So in the deep, dark shadow of the Twilight series, and then in the even darker shadow of the YA megahit The Hunger Games, I wrote The Solitary Tales.            If you’re a Twilight fan, check it out. You might love it or hate it. It’s very different. I laugh when I compare the two because, well, in my story, you don’t end up with Bella and Edward in all four books. Don’t want to spoil it but, well, yeah, check them out.            It’s easy to criticize a megahit like The Notebook or Twilight. I think King’s The Shining was probably criticized too. And no, I’m not comparing those except to say they were all huge hits.            I wrote four beautiful and moving stories and created my Twilight. For those of you missing this series and looking for something else, try it. That’s all I ask. Humbly. Knowing it’s as awesome as anything I can and will ever create. 

Strawberry Swing (Celebrating Kylie's 6th)

            Maybe it’s corny and clichéd and maybe it’s so far down in the future that I’ll be SUCH a different person but I don’t believe in any of that. I’d like to believe I’ll still remember. I want to believe I’m still going to feel the way I feel now.             Our little tiny breath of a life—our little miracle—is six years old. Her birthday was this past Monday. She’s got two little two-year-old sisters running around and following her every move. She’s the boss and the firstborn and the big girl.            To me, Kylie will still always be my little girl.            I will always remember holding her for the longest time in a silent and dark house. Feeling this miracle against my chest. Knowing it didn’t have to happen but that it did. Thinking she’d always be little. Our sweet, little girl.             I remember her when she was one and a half years old, then two. We played a lot of Coldplay. I worked at home and she was always allowed in my office. We danced and sang and she sat on my lap and we listened to music.             I will treasure those moments to my deathbed. I will forever be in debt to the soundtrack provided by Chris Martin and his wonderful band. Those songs aren’t just songs. They’re imprints. They’re tattoos on my heart and permanent markers of brilliant color on my soul.             I still took a lot of things for granted back then but I do believe I was truly thankful for this wild, vibrant little life God blessed us with.             I’d like to imagine her wedding day. I’d love to think I’m there walking her down the aisle. And I’d love to think she’d let me pick the music. The song.             I’d pick “Strawberry Swing” by Coldplay.             That song has always reminded me of Kylie. Dancing and singing and laughing and swinging.             As they sing, “Every moment was so precious.”            I’d love to think we could blast this song and I could walk down the aisle to people who watched us and had no idea. They might know the song or might realize it’s Coldplay, but they wouldn't have a clue.             Yet Kylie and I would know.             “It’s such, it’s such a perfect day. It’s such a perfect day.”            Music is the sound of memories. I’ve said that before, haven’t I?             “Wouldn’t want to change a thing.”            When it comes to Kylie, and those sweet memories when she was just a toddler and we danced away, Coldplay was right.             I wouldn’t want to change a thing. And there were so many perfect moments.             In a bleak world during a time full of lots of anxious wondering, Kylie has always been a joy and a sweet sunrise. I love that girl. She’s not so little anymore but she will always be my little girl.             I hope the songs that tie us together remain forever in her heart and soul. And I hope a tiny piece of her remembers. The dancing and the laughter. And the pure joy of a thankful, crazy, Coldplay-loving father.