Travis Thrasher's Blog, page 25

Some Solitary Stuff

In a little over four months from now, the final book in The Solitary Tales will release. It's called Hurt and it completes the story of Chris Buckley's time in Solitary, North Carolina. 

With twenty-plus books published and more coming, I can honestly say these are the books I'm the most proud of. I couldn't say that until I finished the final book. I'm the most proud of them simply because they have the most of me inside of them. I've also spent a lot of time--and I mean a lot of time--thinking through this story. 

I'm going to start sharing things on The Solitary Tales Facebook Page leading up to the January 1, 2013 release. Facts and tidbits and nuggets and giveaways. Lots of stuff for those who love these books and can't wait for Hurt to arrive. 

Spread the word on this series. It's special--I really believe that. I think it's going to continue to build word-of-mouth and surprise people. 

More to come very soon. 

Sometimes You Gotta Let It Go

Sometimes you just gotta let some of your writing go. One of the projects I worked on this past twelve months was my version of a Hunger Games trilogy. So yes, I know what some of you are thinking. Jumping on the bandwagon. Oh so derivative. Once again copying because he has no original ideas.
Here’s the thing—there are reasons why I came up with this idea and loved it. Maybe I’ll share them one day. But it’s the same reason I wrote and self-published my love story called Every Breath You Take. There was a story I kept thinking about and I wanted to tell it. So I put it in the box of The Hunger Games. Though this version would be Thrasherized, which meant an interesting version written by a Christian author who’s trying to be mainstream but can’t quite make it that way.
So I planned. I outlined. I story-mapped. I created characters. I came up with titles. I came up with a series title and subsequent novel names.
Then I began to write. I wrote. I wrote more. I rewrote. I scrapped some and wrote more.
I spoke to two significant publishers about this series idea. Both were interested.
I worked on a proposal and included pages. Meantime I ended up writing about 20,000 words.
Most novels are around 100,000 words. Most YA novels (which I was going for) are shorter.
So yeah, I was well on my way.
Like I said, I spoke to publishers about this. Thought long and hard. Reworked it. Worked on it more.
And then . . . .
Then I let it go.
Here’s the reason. My heart was just not in it.
Now some of you might think, with all the novels I’ve been publishing, I’ve been like this little James Patterson-wannabe churning out novels for the Christian market. But it’s not true.
Every one of the books I’ve ever worked on—every single one—has been told with my heart and soul at the forefront. I’ve never dialed it in. Sure, the writing might have been subpar and the storyline might have suffered but I’ve always given each story my all.
But with this Hunger Games-esque series, I didn’t feel it. It felt fine. Everything was . . . fine. But I don’t go for fine.
The Solitary Tales aren’t fine.
Sky Blue wasn’t fine.
Isolation wasn’t fine.
All of those are pieces of me. Flawed and broken but still beating with a racing heart.
So 20,000 words into this project and countless hours, I shelved it. It’s done.
I might use some of the characters. I really grew to like them. I might use some of the scenarios and ideas. But the story as I wanted to tell it is done.
My point in saying all of this is to encourage you to sometimes—if you absolutely have to—shelve your story.
Some people work on something and beat it up until it’s black and blue. They write and rewrite and rework and redo. But sometimes they’re just literally beating a dead horse.
It takes a lot of strength and willpower to get back up on a horse. But to get back up on a different horse, knowing the last one has gone on to meet its maker.
They’re just words. I’ve said that before. So what if you’ve invested countless hours? It’s just practice. They’re just words and it’s okay if the world never sees them. Don’t let that stop you. Don’t let that hold you back.
There are stories I don’t want to give up. No way I’ll give them up. There are a few that I’m going to let the public see, one way or the other. No doubt. But I’ve been doing this thing for a while. I’ve seen over 20-something novels see light of day.
Still, I can look at a project and let it go.
Sometimes, you simply gotta say enough. Sometimes, you simply have to let go and start over. It’s okay. I do that over and over and over again.
God knows I’m trying to earn money at this writing thing. God knows I need money. But there’s no way I’m going to throw something out there simply to publish a book.
These collaborations—my heart and soul are in them. Look at Paper Angels with Jimmy Wayne. Remember the idiot character in the story about to have twins and freaking out? Hmmmmm. I don’t know but he sure sounds familiar.
Every one has had my heart and soul. Warts and all. None of them are perfect, but they all have me. They all that chunk of my life that I want them to.
I have more coming. Lots more, God willing. Don’t think I’m just writing to please contracts. I’m trying to push myself. I’m trying to plunge to the depths. I’m still an amateur trying to perfect a master’s craft. I’m still just learning. But I’m giving it my all. I’m bleeding and struggling and suffering. Okay, that’s a bit dramatic, but somedays it sure feels that way.
So far, I’ve never done a book where my heart hasn’t been in it. Never. Not even that God-awful ghostwriting project I got. I put everything in it I could and I even did it on my own terms. I grit my teeth and shut my mouth and do my work and give it my all.
So yeah, publishing takes a long time. Yeah, I’ve heard it all before and I know because I worked 13.5 years in it and realize that sometimes, publishing is all about hedging your bets. It’s all about bluffing and buying time. It’s all about hesitating and getting lucky. It’s Las Vegas baby and what happens in publishing stays in publishing. I know all that and I still gotta do the work I do because I have this little family to support.
But at no time have I dialed it in and at no time have I done it for the money. Look at my lotsa-everything brand. Think that’s all about trying to sign a contract and make some money? Yeah, right. At least I would’ve stuck in one genre.
I’ve typed a storm away tonight. Sorry about that. Sometimes, you gotta let things go. That’s my point. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. Regardless of what happens and regardless of what point I’m at in my career.
I’m lucky to be a full-time writer. But I also work my butt off. I also think I’m an average writer trying and hoping and striving to get better. But I can type like the wind and I got my heart and soul in the middle of my fingertips and I’d rather be a comma than a full stop.
I end on that note. Both with a wink to Coldplay and a nod to my Hunger Games trilogy I called The Paradise Trilogy. It’s gone. But I’m not. I’ll never be as long as I’m breathing and have half a mind in my dense skull. And oh yeah—it’s dense. Just like Rocky baby.
Gonna fly now. Just wait and see. 

An Anxious Sunrise

 

           This morning I woke up like many mornings full of anxiety. This coming from a guy who used to brag about not worrying about anything. I was thinking about my vocation, my various writing endeavors. I worried about X and wondered about Y and then felt a bit weary thinking about Z. This was nothing unusual. This happens more often than I’d like to admit.             I prayed. Prayer helps. But prayer doesn’t cover me with some Zen-like Band-aid and send me back to sleep. I’d love to say I give all my weary worries over to God, but I don’t. I keep some for myself. I keep some to stroke and caress and treat like Gollum’s Preccciiiousss.             Yet not long after the whole family had woken up, I recalled another time in my life when I carried burdens around me in my wonderful soul-shaped backpack. There was a time I felt anger at God for not giving me what I felt I deserved. Yes, I was a jackass and a lot more than that. But I felt high and mighty and felt I deserved to have my dreams met. I deserved to be a fulltime writer. I especially deserved a family. Yet these things were nowhere on the horizon. Bitterness covered me like sweat on a blistering hot summer day.             The maker of this universe and every creature in it—and I’m not just saying that to sound nice because I really believe God did exactly that—could have flicked me away like a useless fly irritating Him. But instead, He did the opposite. He said Okay. He said Here you go.             The writing thing—all of it pales in comparison to our little girls. Those three precious souls I see on a daily basis humble me and make me thankful God has mercy on foolish sinners.             Who am I to doubt Him? I mean, seriously.             I held all three girls at some point today, and I remembered that armful of worry I held inside.             So what if X doesn’t happen?             So who cares if Y doesn’t materialize?             And so why does Z matter so much to me anyway?             God and His timing. A phrase I grew to know so well.             God and His mercy. A phrase I’m growing to know daily.             So blessed and yet I still sometimes don’t get it. I still worry and wonder and wait for some kind of miraculous, gigantic parting of the Red Sea.             Sometimes I find myself on dry land and see the sea behind me and wonder when and how it got parted in the first place.             Tonight I find myself thankful, knowing tomorrow is not promised, and knowing I’m not defined by my mistakes of the past. Tonight I’m the hero God somehow picked me to be, and I’m trying to continue on the journey He wants me to be on.             Lord help me remain strong. Or at least as strong as I’m able to be. 

25 Years of SUBSTANCE

            August 16, 1987. It’s summertime and you can’t remember when you didn’t smell like a McDonalds fry. Working breakfast to lunch behind the grill at the good ole McDonalds on Tunnel Road in Asheville can do that to you. That fifty-minute commute from the mountain top cabin to this job where you make eggs for McMuffins and patties for Big Macs sure doesn’t seem worth it, but it’s a job and it’s something. It’s one of the only things going for you at this point in life.            Last year, sophomore year, seems like a decade ago. Ben Lippen High School seems like some feverish dream, one you woke up from after you got expelled sneaking in the girl’s dorm with a buddy. You weren’t the only one expelled—there were several others—but now you feel like the only one in the entire state of North Carolina who ever got in trouble.             Last summer was spent working in the kitchen at the school and bonding with guys and dating girls. It was like a summer vacation. This is like a summer hell. Occasionally, you can look out from behind the grill and past the counter to the hotel across the road where kids and families wade around in the pool. That pool looks like the life you could have had before getting the boot from your old school and ending up at Madison High where you stick out like a sickly sore thumb.             You have four friends that you can think of. There are the three girls who came up to you the first day of school, the only friendly faces at Madison it seems. You fell for one until she had to move away. Then you fell for her closest friend. You can’t help it. You’re a guy, right? But it’s created some interesting drama.             The other friend you have is a guy named Scott who knows all about music you’ve never heard of. In the past year, you’ve been introduced to The Smiths, The Cure, Kate Bush, Cocteau Twins, and New Order. Depeche Mode is already one of your favorites, but at Scott’s place, you’ve been able to watch MTV and see videos like the black-and-white version for “Strange Love” (which to a teenage boy looks absolutely mesmerizing).             You have no idea that in less than a year, all of this will be a distant memory. You have no idea that you’ll soon be telling this place and these people goodbye as you head up to the Windy City of Chicago. You don’t know anything except your life is going nowhere and you find solace in the music. The sweet sounds of something different, something that sounds a little more appealing than Bon Jovi or AC DC.             Twenty-five years later, you find yourself on a Friday night thinking about those days. The Cure’s Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me was played often that summer. On this particular day way back then, a rather influential New Order album was released: Substance. You know some of the songs from John Hughes films but this album and band prove to be one of the primary soundtracks to your youth.             You don’t feel that old. The music still means something to you. Those albums still are special. Coincidentally, one of your closest friends is a guy named Scott. It’s not the same Scott, but you still sometimes head down to his place in Chicago and sit on his rooftop to listen to music. To that same music. Twenty-five years later, you still love doing simple things like that.             In some strange way, you’ve managed to take some of those times long ago and put them into a story. A series, actually. But this isn’t an advertisement for them (THE SOLITARY TALES—BUY THEM NOW—JOIN THE BANDWAGON—THEY’RE AWESOME). Okay, it wasn’t going to be an ad, but you have almost as much money in your bank account as that kid twenty-five years ago.             Twenty-five years passing, and you still tend to exaggerate a bit. The melancholy & dramatic bones in you can’t help themselves.             The summer of 1987. So much changed in the coming year.             So much has changed, yet the music remains the same.             Cheers to Substance turning 25 today. 

Dream Big

Dream. Go ahead. Dream big and don’t bother letting the world know. If they’re meant to find out, they will find out. Keep the dream close and never let it go. Don’t expect anything from it. Don’t expect it to feed you. Feed the dream. Feed this crazy, foolish, private, insane notion. And keep feeding it. Get used to those who don’t dream. To those who look at everything in black and white. To those who don’t have anything pinned to their hearts and souls. To those who let others like you dream for them. Expect the worst and hope for the best. Drive yourself. Keep driving. Take one step after another after another. A day doesn’t define you. A loss won’t beat you. A closed door won’t stop you. A misstep won’t hurt you. The dream is too big to go away. Remember all those others. It doesn’t matter who they are—athletes, artists, adventurers, activists. All of them have the same desire, the same daily task, the same dream. All of them strive for more. All of them see the end of the rainbow in this black and white world. Strap your dream over your shoulder. Clip it onto your belt. Wrap it around your waist. Grip on tight to it. Grip on tight and then let go of everything else. The world watches foolish dreamers every day. Those who have to abandon so much to focus on one thing. One simple, solitary thing. The masses marvel and wonder how it can be done and wonder why it doesn't happen to them and shake their heads in awesome wonder. Yet you know. You will see them and hear them and know. You will smile and remember your dream. You will know it’s not about finally finding it. It will be about all those uncertain years of trying and failing and trying and searching and trying and dreaming. If you’re a dreamer, don’t let anybody take them away from you. Dream big, then see where the dream takes you.

What I'm Working On

Here are some of the projects that keep me busy morning, noon, and night . . . I’m writing a love story that is a collaboration and involves lots of kissing. First draft scheduled to be finished next month. I’m also working on chapters for my Lost meets The Stand series before sending out the proposal for this one. I’ve had some good talks with publishers but who knows. There are a couple of collaborations I’ve written proposals for (wonderful ideas and beautiful stories) and am waiting to hear something back on them. Who knows if they will happen.A really cool nonfiction project has come to me out of the blue, something that’s really exciting that I hope will see light of day. It’s a story that must be told and I hope and pray I am the writer to tell it. I haven’t done a book like this, but I feel confident I can help tell this in an authentic and unique way.             There are the books which have yet to come out which still require some work: Hurt, the fourth in The Solitary Tales, was just handed in to the publisher recently. Copyedits and typeset galleys will need to be read over. Home Run is basically finished—I have to finish the back matter for the book. (There will be 4,000 advance readers of Home Run printed for the Celebrate Recovery Summit in August. Wow!) Then there’s the ghostwritten novelization I did which has pages needing to be read.             I’m hoping, wanting, and trying to do another Solitary Tales B-side that can be published as an eBook this fall. The story is called A Chain of Flowers. I’ve written bits and pieces of it here and there. I also hoping, wanting, and trying to do an eBook to be released on a very specific day next year. It’s tied to music and a band. I might do it under a pen name. Who knows.             Let’s see . . . is that all?             Oh, no, wait. I was trying to write my version of The Hunger Games. I wrote out the three-book-series storyline, then rewrote it, then wrote about 100 pages until I realized it wasn’t working. That’s put on hold. We’ll see if I decide to rework it but for now it’s on hold.             There’s something related to The Solitary Tales that I have planned. Something I’m working on and trying to pitch. Four more books. No more Solitary Tales—that story has been told. But . . . there’s a bigger story that can perhaps be written.             There’s another love story I just need to write some sample chapters for and give to an interested publisher. There’s the novelization of something which could be the biggest thing in my writing career since Home Run. But who knows.             That’s a lot of projects, huh? Somedays I run around like a madman carrying a heavy backpack full of wonderful stories and amazing potential. These stories all mean something to me. I’m not going through the motions. It’s just a question of whether some or all will see light of day.             God knows. And I have to be content to trust that all this hard work and all these crazy ideas might one day pay off.            I’m fortunate and I’m having fun. 

July Sale!

For the month of July, I'm putting four of my books on sale for $5.99. No, this isn't the e-book but the actual book (imagine that, huh). Order them from my website here and I'll sign them as always. 


The books for $5.99 are the following: 


The Promise Remains/The Watermark combined book. This is a great book for those new to my writing. These two novels are the first ones I wrote and very much in the vein of Nicholas Sparks. 


Sky Blue is one of my favorite novels I've written. If you're a fan of mine, you need to read this one. 


Every Breath You Take is a love letter I wrote to our eldest daughter, Kylie, when she was only two years old. It's a love story with a supernatural twist. 


Broken is a different sort of ghost story, one with a redemptive twist to it. Like all my stories, this one is a bit different than the rest. I love the main character in it. 


Would love for you to get these books! Spread the word. Happy July. Stay cool! 

Three Little Birds

So I’m trusting. Trusting in tonight. Believing in tomorrow, even if we’re not promised it.
In just three months I’ll celebrate five years writing fulltime. Five freaking years. I use the word freak not as a substitution of a curse word but literally as five years of freaking out. That’s what I’ve been doing living my dream.
I recently attempted to jump off this little boat I’ve been paddling. But today I learned I’d be staying in these dark, silent waters for a little while longer. And I feel fine. I feel a bit relieved, to be honest.
The dream remains. The dream that’s been there since third grade. The dream that will always be a part of who I am.
But here’s something else I’ve learned.
I’ve been living the dream since November 12, 2006. It’s called parenthood.
Each day, I see three dreams-come-true look me in the eyes. There is the feisty one who demands attention. There is the tender one who always seems to shy away. Then there is the passionate one who will always be the first princess to land on my shores and kiss the sleeping prince.
I slept a long time before being awakened to a whole new world. A world that’s not my own. A world where I am truly a better and blessed man.
I’ve spoken a lot about dreams on this blog. About desires. To be honest, I’ve only shared a quarter of the things I’ve felt. But I’ve been sprinting down this road, trying to make it big. Trying to breakout.
Meanwhile, I have won the lottery of the heart. I have had my soul filled three times over.
When our eldest daughter, Kylie, was younger, she would be watching one of those children’s channels and a commercial would play the Bob Marley song “Three Little Birds.” We’d watch it over and over and over again.
Today, I heard this song during breakfast. The lyrics spoke to me. Like many song lyrics over my forty-one years.
Sure, who can resist Bob Marley telling you "Don't worry 'bout a thing, 'Cause every little thing gonna be all right."
But the reason the song spoke to me this time was because of these lyrics. Ones I’d heard so many times but didn’t pay much attention to:
"Rise up this mornin', Smiled with the risin' sun, Three little birds Pitch by my doorstep Singin' sweet songs Of melodies pure and true, Sayin', (‘This is my message to you-ou-ou:’)”
Three little birds singing sweet songs saying ultimately to not worry about a thing.
That’s my life, folks. Three little birds greet me every morning and tell me that everything’s going to be all right. Whether or not I continue to “live the dream” as a writer. Whether or not whatever. Their smiles and their sounds tell me to relax and trust their maker.
It’s impossible not to be thankful when I see those little precious souls pitched by my doorstep every day.
What do you want out of me, Lord?
That’s what I ask. I’ve told enough stories. If I need to sell insurance to provide for this family, okay. But everyday I’m told in one way or another that I’m not supposed to sell insurance or Arby’s roast beef sandwiches. No. I’m supposed to keep doing what I’m doing now. Writing.
But . . . I’m also reminded that it’s not about me. That it’s never been about me. It should never be about me.
A long time ago in another life, I thought I’d never see the day when one little bird visited my doorstep. I grew resentful and even angry at God for depriving me of this beautiful and amazing gift.
Now . . . well, I’m humbled that he blessed my wife and I three times. Despite all the reasons we don’t deserve those blessings.
I’m trying to keep that same attitude when it comes to my writing. A career and a dream that I’m blessed by.
Three little birds tell me to not worry. They tell me things will work out. They tell me that God will take care of it. They tell me everything will be all right.
Tonight, I think of those three little birds and tell myself I’m a blessed man. 

Anticipation

 "I find I’m so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it’s the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope." --Red from The Shawshank Redemption 

Field of Dreams

            I used to walk around feeling entitled. As if the world—no, not the world but ultimately God—owed me something. That fame and fortune were there for the taking because—because I was me and I deserved it.             Of course, I didn’t know I carried this rock of entitlement in a backpack. But this heavy, hard load brought on a lot of discontent and frustration and envy and comparision on a daily basis.             In almost five years, I’ve managed to chip away at that bugger, day after day.                         Yeah, I have moments. I have pity parties. I have doubts and moments of distress. But for the most part, that backpack is full of tiny shards of the giant stone.             Sometimes voices whisper in my ear, wondering why this didn’t happen, or why some book wasn’t more successful, or why this opportunity didn’t pan out. I step away and try to drown the voices out with the reality I see daily. These blessings I’ve had along the journey.             The people I’ve come across. People who have inspired and motivated and ministered to me. People who I would have never gotten to know if it hadn’t been for the work we were doing.             The readers who have shared stories and comments with me. Stories and encouraging words I’ve often quickly buried simply due to insecurities. They’ve kept me going through some rough times.             Ultimately the blessings of scenes in stories that were written more for me than anybody else. The man taking one last canoe ride with his father. A teenager on a train in Chicago crying out for help. A father in a hospital awaiting the biggest moment of his life and asking God to be there one more time. An athlete sitting in an abandoned barn wondering what to do with his broken life.             Mirrors. All of them.             There’s a field of flowers somewhere where the sky opens up and shines on them. I’m thinking of this field now with fondness. It’s a place I’ve visited and dearly love. Without these stories and these years, I would have never arrived at that place. I would never have found it. I would keep passing it by, day after day, searching in vain.             I don’t think we’re entitled to anything in this life. But God’s grace is to give us what we need. And usually then some.             I have a lot of then some. A lot.             I’ve got other backpacks I carry and always will. So be it. I’ll keep chipping away at those stones as well.             But I’ll do so knowing I’ve got a lot of help, and support, and encouragement, and grace.             I’m going to revisit that field again very soon. And I’m going to enjoy going there.             It’s a pretty cool place. One I know you’d like.             One I hope you get to visit someday soon.