Brock Booher's Blog, page 4

Delivery

As part of the launch party for The Charity Chip we held a charity auction for The House of Refuge, a local organization that helps the homeless. I auctioned off a personalized short story. Rebecca Harscher won the bid. I interviewed her to find inspiration for the character of the story (only inspiration NOT an exact likeness). Additionally, I chose two cards from The Storymatic deck (a deck of cards used to provide inspiration for stories) — Secret Meeting & Inconvenient Phobia. Based on a few tidbits from our interview and the cards from Storymatic, I put together this short story for Rebecca. Enjoy the story, and if you feel generous, please donate to The House of Refuge — http://houseofrefuge.org.

Delivery
Beep. Beep. Beep. Becky backed the delivery truck up to the rear entrance of the funeral home and set the parking brake. Just the thought of this delivery made her chest tighten and she squeezed the steering wheel until her knuckles were white as funeral lilies. What is wrong with me today? You would think that after all this time I would get over this. She leaned her forehead against the steering wheel and closed her eyes. Just concentrate on the flowers. After a few moments the aroma of roses, orchids, and lilies calmed her. By mustering all of her willpower, she delivered the floral arrangements to the funeral home.            When she made it back to the truck, her breathing returned to normal and her hands no longer felt clammy and cold. She told herself that nothing worse could happen today, but before she could drive off, her phone vibrated. It was her ex-husband.            She stared at the phone for a moment wondering if she should answer. She hadn’t heard from him for over two years. You know he only wants money. But he could be in trouble again. Who’s going to help him if I don’t? A wave of unwarranted guilt washed over her. She sighed, and tapped the phone. “Hello Nate.”            “Hello Becky,” he replied. His voice seemed strained like he was having difficulty forcing the words from his mouth.            “I’m not giving you any money.”            “I’m not calling for money.”            “Then what do you want?”            “I need to speak to you in person.”            Becky took in a deep breath to firm her resolve. “I don’t think so.”            “It’s a matter of life and death.”            “Whose life and death?”            “Mine. But you have to promise that you won’t tell anyone.”            Becky clenched her teeth. For years she tried to save her ex-husband from himself, even after the divorce, but to no avail. But she still loved him and her heart ached when she thought of how much the man she once loved had suffered. “Okay. What time? Where?”            “Tonight. At your flower shop.”
#####
            The bell hanging on the front door jingled as the last customer left the store. Becky turned the sign in the door to “Closed” but didn’t lock the door. She looked up and down the street for her ex but didn’t see anyone.            She worried as she swept up all the dead flowers from the floor. What does he want this time? Matter of life and death? Just mentioning of the word death made her chest tighten and her hands clammy and cold. She frowned and bit her lip as she scooped up the dead petals and tossed them into the trash. When she turned around she was face to face with a man dressed in a black suit. “Whoa! You startled me,” she said as she clutched at her chest. “I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you?”            The man gave her a thin, toothless smile. “I’m here to meet someone.”            “Meet someone? I’m about to lock up.” Becky looked the man over and her stomach crawled up her throat. “Are you a funeral director? A mortician? All you have to do is call our number and we deliver.” She could feel the necrophobia seizing her like some invisible boa constrictor tightening around her chest and making it hard for her to breathe.            “I prefer to do my work in person.”            Becky moved behind the counter hoping to regain a sense of security. “When’s the funeral and what would you like? I can show you some samples.” She pulled out a binder and plopped it on the counter.            The man sauntered around the room with his hands folded behind his back. “Why are you afraid of me?”            “Afraid?” stammered Becky.            The man turned to face her and gave her the same thin smile. It was the same smile used by every funeral director she had ever met. “Yes, afraid. Your heart rate is elevated, you have shortness of breath, and your skin is cold and clammy.” He shook his head. “Why have been afraid of me for so many years?”            Becky swallowed and unstuck her thick tongue from the roof of her mouth. “Look Mister. . . ?”            “Mister Black. Mister Mort Black.”            Becky gripped the counter and steadied herself. “Look Mister Black, it’s closing time and I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.” She grabbed a brochure and offered it. “Just call us tomorrow during business hours and we’ll be glad to help you.”            Mister Black looked at the brochure, but didn’t take it. “I’m not here for you.”            The bell on the front door jingled and Nate shuffled into the store with the help of a cane. “Hello Becky,” he said with forced breathing. “Hello Mister Black.”            Becky’s mouth dropped open. She barely recognized her ex-husband. His hair was all gone and his once athletic build was nothing more than ashen skin on brittle bones. “Nate?” She shook her head as if trying to awake from a nightmare. “You know this man?”            Nate nodded and moved closer to the counter. “He’s here for me,” he whispered. “He’s here to take me home. Deliver me.”            Becky frowned and shook her head. “Home? Deliver? I don’t understand.”            Nate leaned on his cane and shook his head. “Pancreatic cancer. It’s ironic really. All the years of drugs and alcohol didn’t kill me, and along comes pancreatic cancer and does the job in just a few short months.”            “Irony is almost universal in death,” said Mister Black, “as well as fear. But truthfully, neither is necessary.”            Nate looked at Becky with tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you. You have loved me more than I ever deserved.” He glanced at Mister Black. “He gave me a little extra time so I could see you before I had to go.”            Becky wanted to rush around the counter and wrap her ex-husband in her arms one last time, but instead she steadied herself on the counter and tried not to pass out. Tears began streaming down her cheeks.            Nate pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and placed it on the counter. “This is for you.” He reached out and put his hand on hers. “Goodbye Becky.” He turned and nodded at Mister Black. “Okay, I’m ready.”            “No!” shouted Becky, but Nate collapsed and fell to the floor. She hurried around the counter and put her cheek next to his face. He wasn’t breathing. She put her finger on his neck and searched for a pulse. Nothing. He was dead. When she looked up at Mister Black she expected to see the cold face of death, but instead she saw kindness in his eyes, and his thin smile had been replaced with the look of satisfaction, like an artist who has finished a great work.An apparition of Nate appeared beside Mister Black, and smiled at her.“Becky,” said Mister Black, “I love to see the flowers you deliver to the funeral homes. You always seem to add compassion to the arrangement. When we meet again, you have no need to fear.”Nate and Mister Black locked arms and walked through the display window in the front of the store and disappeared.            The anguish on Nate’s face had been replaced with peace, and she felt the phobia that had plagued her for so many years melt away. She knelt beside the body for a moment as her breathing returned to normal, then stood and plucked the envelope from the counter. The papers had a musty smell as she pulled them out and unfolded them. It was the life insurance policy they had taken out on Nate right after they were married. Her name was still listed as the beneficiary.             Becky arranged the flowers for Nate’s funeral, and delivered them without a panic attack.

Legend

“Come out Neville!”
In Richard Matheson’s science fiction story (NOT the movie) I Am Legend, the main character Robert Neville sits every night in his fortress home and listens to his former friend and neighbor Ben Cortman call for him to come out. Of course he is calling for him to come out so the “vampires” like Ben can eat him or at least convert him to the new reality of the world around him. Robert Neville never does come out.
Robert barricades himself in his house night after night. During the daytime he ekes out an existence and searches for answers and understanding. He struggles to maintain his sanity. He drinks to forget and numb the pain. At one point he says to himself, “The world’s gone mad… The dead walk about and I think nothing of it. The return of corpses has become trivial in import. How quickly one accepts the incredible if only one sees it enough!” Robert was struggling to live in a world where he was no longer the norm.
I always figured that one day I would be a relic, a token of a bygone era, but I didn’t expect to see it before I turned eighty. Each day I feel more and more like Robert Neville, surrounded by a world and a society that values the opposite things that I value. Like this character in fiction, I find myself barricaded in my thoughts afraid to speak too loudly because of the “thought vampires” circling outside and calling for me to come out. I am forced to hide in the darkness, and pray for the coming of the sun.
Robert never stops trying to make sense of, or save, the world he lives in. He never stops caring for the former people, now monsters, outside his door every night. He clings to his humanity as the humanity he believes in crumbles and disappears. Robert even mourns the final passing of his taunting nemesis, Ben Cortman, when the enforcers of the new society finally kill him. Even though they show up on his doorstep every night and try to destroy him, Robert continues to love.
I work closely every day with individuals whose values and standards are different than mine without hate. One man in particular was surprised to find out about our differences. It surprised him because I have always treated with respect and kindness. We hug each other every time we work together. I bear him no malice even though our core values are radically different. This loving approach towards others is also part of the fabric of my value system. Even though my value system is becoming more peculiar every day, I cling to what I know to be true and right. Like Robert, even though my value system is being systematically dismantled right outside my front door, I still care for the people that are dismantling it.
In the end Robert is captured and sentenced for execution. He comes to a grim realization. “And suddenly he thought, I’m the abnormal one now. Normalcy was a majority concept, the standard of many and not the standard of just one man.” He stares at the faces of the onlookers from the new society and realizes that he is the pariah in this new world. He never abandons his values or becomes like those around him. Instead of becoming the norm, he becomes the legend.
As I watch the moral fabric of the world around me change so rapidly, I feel like Robert Neville barricaded in a morality that is no longer accepted, or even tolerated. But I will not abandon those core truths and values that make me who I am—even if I become legend.

Getting Creative for Charity

Stephen King said a writer’s work should, “Get under your skin, and make you react.” That’s exactly what we want to do at our next book launch, but the reaction we want may not be what you think.On Friday, June 26, from 7 – 9 pm, Barnes & Noble at San Tan Mall will be hosting us for a book launch/signing to promote awareness and raise money for House of Refuge, a local charity that provides help to the homeless. Barnes & Noble will donate a portion of the proceeds from sales to support the literacy efforts of the organization, and we will be auctioning off creative items through a silent auction (see list below). All proceeds from the auction will go to the House of Refuge.Items for silent auction:Brock Booher#1 – Soccer Jersey: Authentic Alianza Lima soccer jersey (as mentioned in the novel The Charity Chip) adult small.  Starting Bid: $10 #2 – Personalized Short Story: Be the main character of your own short story written by Brock Booher. 1000-1500 words.  Starting Bid: $10 Janette Rallison#3 – Autographed Poster: Own an autographed poster signed by Janette Rallison, Brandon Mull, Stephenie Meyer, Shannon Hale, James Owen, and several other famous authors.  Starting Bid: $25 #4 – Character Name in upcoming novel: See your name in Janette’s next novel (you might even survive until the end).  Starting Bid: $10 #5 – Writing Critique: Get the first 100 pages of your manuscript critiqued by successful writer, Janette Rallison.  Starting Bid: $20 Randy Lindsay#6 – Micro-Fiction: Here’s your chance to be the hero of your very own story. Randy will have you fill out a short questionnaire and then put together a story based on the information provided.  Starting Bid: $10 #7 – Author Visit (AZ): Randy Lindsay will visit your classroom, office, book club, or private gathering and do a reading from his soon-to-be released second novel – Call to Arms: Nations Fall. Or if you prefer, Randy will offer a class on working as an author and about the publishing industry in general.  Starting Bid: $10 Adrienne Quintana#8 – Author Visit (AZ): Adrienne Quintana will visit your classroom, office, book club, or private gathering to perform a reading and teach about the writing craft.  Starting Bid: $10 #9 – Painting: “Superstition Mountain Shadows” by John Horejs (Adrienne’s Father) 16″ x 20″ print valued at $1,000. Visit—http://www.xanadugallery.com/2013/Artists/Detail.php?InvID=109277—to view the painting and learn about other art by John Horejs.  Starting Bid: $100. Laura Walker#10 – Character Name: Be a character in Laura Walker’s next romance novel and maybe find even find true love.  Starting Bid: $10 .To bid visit— http://www.32auctions.com/CharityChipSilentAuction Bids will open June 8that midnight and close July 1st at midnight.  All auction proceeds will be collected by the House of Refuge, and prizes will be distributed after funds are donated. No purchase necessary. You do not need to be present to participate, but shipping costs are not included in the auction.House of Refuge is a faith-based, non-profit organization helping homeless families in crisis by providing transitional housing and supportive services that assist participants as they strive towards self-sufficiency and seek to obtain permanent housing. Their vision is to take the broken human spirit and restore it body, mind and soul by educating and assisting not only the individual, but the family as well. Since 1996, House of Refuge has served over 6,000 people, or roughly 2,400 families, and is one of the largest transitional housing facilities in Arizona.

Haunting Hunger

Do you know what it’s like to be hungry and not know where your next meal will come from? I don’t mean the kind of hunger you feel when you are late for lunch, or when you have to miss a meal because you’re working late. I mean hunger that gnaws at you day and night with no end in sight. I’m talking about hunger without any immediate hope of being satisfied. I mean hunger that will make you desperate, or hunger that will cause you to do things you would never dream of doing if your stomach were full or even had the hope of a coming meal. Do you know what it’s like to be hungry? I know I don’t.
Pulcallpa, Peru, sits on the banks of the Ucayali River, one of the main tributaries of the Amazon. It is a sleepy town of muddy roads, friendly people, and noisy motorcycles. That’s where I met a hungry boy whose name I don’t remember, or maybe I blocked out of my mind because of guilt.
One afternoon in 1996 my Squadron Commander asked to see me. I hurried to his office trying to remember anything I might have done that would get me in trouble, but when I reported to him, his only question was, “Do you speak Spanish?” Two weeks later I was stepping off an airplane in Lima, Peru, for a four-month duty in the US Embassy.
My job had a fancy title, something about multinational, multiservice force control. In reality I was a glorified coordinator of government assets to counter the traffic of illegal narcotics from Peru. It was interesting work with a lot of variables and lot of players. I travelled a lot trying to stem the flow of unprocessed coca leaves and cocaine from the high jungles of Peru. The river city of Pucallpa was in the center of the effort because of its location.
They offered me a 9mm pistol to carry with me. I am a proponent of self-protection and a firm believer in the Constitutional right to bear arms, but after careful consideration, I declined. I was in another country and I wasn’t too sure if the law would protect me should I be forced to use a weapon. Besides, the drug runners were much better armed and a 9mm pistol wouldn’t do much against automatic weapons. Instead I chose to use my wits to keep safe and avoid danger.
When I first stepped off the airplane in Pucallpa the hot, humid air of the Amazon region hit me in the face like I was walking into a steam room at the spa. Mototaxis buzzed up and down the clay streets belching out oily smoke from their two-cycle engines. Squat wooden shacks with tin roofs pushed up against the airport fence line. I shuffled down the airstairs and through the terminal looking for my contact, a Peruvian Air Force Lt Col. As I exited the terminal I was immediately swarmed by “shoe-shine boys”—boys living on the street eager to earn a few soles by shining shoes. One of the other members of my party, a soldier who had been in country a few months, handed them his inflight meal and some candy. He was an instant rock star. Typical Mototaxi in Pucallpa
A key component to avoiding danger in a strange place is to develop local allies who can alert you to danger. My traveling companion in his goodwill attempt had stumbled into a brilliant solution for keeping us safe. Those “shoe-shine” boys would alert us to anything out of the ordinary. Since I dressed in civilian clothes I was wearing running shoes that didn’t need a shine, but I usually tipped the boys for helping me with my bag. Like my traveling companion I always brought treats. After several trips they watched for me to deplane with eagerness.
While I waited for my flights I talked with them. They were all under twelve years old. Most of them had no parents. A few had one parent. All of them lived in the nearby huts and scavenged on the streets or hustled passengers for a few soles to survive. One boy in particular caught my attention. He was their acting leader and very talkative. He was alone in the world and survived with help from a local orphanage—a wooden hut with an outdoor kitchen and a tin roof. Despite the difficulties life had given him he had an eager smile and laughed often. Shamefully, I have forgotten his name. Julio will do.
Julio insisted that I bring a pair of dress shoes for him to shine. So during my last trip to Pucallpa I took a pair of dress shoes along with me and turned them over to him when I deplaned. My size thirteen shoes looked like clown shoes in his hands. He joked about their size and showed them off to the other boys. I left the shoes with him while I took care of my business. When I returned they were clean and shiny. I paid him triple the going rate and tipped him well.
Since it was my last trip to Pucallpa, I wanted to do something memorable before I left. Just inside the door sat an ice cream vendor. When I approached a man in a suit cut in front of me and began haggling with the vendor and treating him with disdain. I waited patiently, but inside I wanted to grab the man by the collar and teach him proper manners. In the end he walked away without buying anything. I smiled at the vendor and looked into his cooler. He didn’t have much left. To his surprise, and delight, I bought it all and distributed the ice cream treats to the “shoe shine boys” just outside the door while the man in the suit looked on.
I’ve never been back to Pucallpa, but I am sure that a pack of dirty boys still hustle passengers as they hurry to and from the terminal. I’m sure those boys go to bed hungry wondering if tomorrow they will get a hot meal. Hunger haunts them. Hunger makes them desperate. Hunger drives them to do things they would not do if their stomachs were full, or if they only knew that tomorrow had the promise of food.
Do you know what it’s like to be hungry? I certainly don’t. But I have looked into the faces of hungry children. I have seen hungry, hollow eyes stare back at me as I hurried past on my way to something important. Those eyes haunt me and remind me to share of my abundance.
I don’t know what happened to “Julio,” but he was the inspiration behind the main character of my novel The Charity Chip. My personal experience motivated me to finish the book.
From the acknowledgements - "Although this is a work of fiction, I tried to use actual data to support the plot. Thousands of children die each year from malnutrition resulting from poverty. Perhaps it is time we found a viable solution instead of throwing money at the problem. Perhaps we should find a way to empower people to rise out of poverty at the lowest possible level. I hope this work of fiction raises our awareness of a problem that has lingered in the human condition for far too long."
If you would like a street view of Pucallpa, click here - 

The Shoulders of Giants

“If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” Sir Isaac Newton
They say that when you are ready for the lesson, life provides the teacher. Sometimes those lessons can be painful and the teachers can be the kind that rap your knuckles with a ruler and make you go sit in the corner. Life has a way of teaching us that doesn’t always follow the outline we envision in our head. I guess I was ready for the next lesson, but it didn’t come exactly in the way I envisioned.
I loved the movie Interstellar. In spite of some of the technical plot holes that were easy to overlook for the sake of the story, it was a mind-expanding movie coupled with fantastic story telling. But I did have one problem with the movie.
(Spoiler Alert!) When Cooper is in the black hole and is looking back at his daughter’s bedroom through various points of time, he concludes that the designers of this time dimension are not “they” but “we.” He makes the claim that the human race somehow lifted itself out of this desperate situation by using time as another dimension and communicating across gravity. That humans lifted themselves out of an impossible situation without help from a higher intelligence was too much for me to swallow.
It is the typical time traveler’s conundrum. If you are trapped in quicksand with no way of escape, can the “future you” travel back from the future and save the “present you”? No. But someone else from the future (who can time travel of course) can travel back in time and save you. We cannot lift ourselves out of some quagmires without the aid of others. We cannot elevate our thinking without help from someone else with more knowledge.
It is true that we are capable of original thought and that the human mind is an untapped power and underutilized resource, but most often we elevate our thinking because someone, or something, teaches us or challenges us to elevate it. When we are ready for the lesson, life provides a teacher.
Several years ago I took a class from Orson Scott Card and when it ended I asked if he recommended any other classes. He didn’t see a need for a lot of formal instruction. He recommended that I download the reading list for any creative writing masters program and read those books, but the number one thing for me to do was to write—every day.­ In a sense he is correct, if a writer isn’t writing are they really a writer?
So I wrote—two novels, several short stories, a few magazine articles, a monthly blog, and a nonfiction book. But just because I write, and just because I’ve been published, doesn’t mean that I am a skilled writer or that I don’t need instruction.
As I was searching for my next project I decided that it would be good to take another writing class. I heard that David Farland was one of the best writing teachers in the industry and so I looked up his courses online. He offers a variety of courses depending on skill level and since I wasn’t sure which one to take I sent him an email and asked. His response surprised me. He offered me a spot in a professional writer’s class. The only problem was that it was short notice, and I didn’t think I could clear my calendar. At first I declined, but then I got lucky and was able to secure the days off with the exception of one day. Certain I could clear that one day from my work schedule, I committed to the five-day course. Life had presented me with the teacher.
It is hard for me to spend time away from my family when I am already gone so much, but I packed my bag and headed for the airport ready for a week of learning. I was not disappointed. Dave conducted the class casually leaning back in his chair and balancing on two legs while he spoke for almost three hours without stopping. I took copious notes and wondered if he would be able to keep up that pace all week. He did.
When we finally stopped for a break I got the chance to meet some of my classmates. All of them were talented writers with successes under their belts. Some of them had been published several times. When it comes to flying airplanes I am pretty confident with my abilities, but when I get around other writers I feel like a poser, like I don’t really belong. Quite frankly, I feel like the dumbest guy in the room. This class was no different.
I have been wondering where to go next with my writing. Listening to Dave Farland made me realize that I could do so much more with my craft. He inspired me to expect more from my own abilities. He encouraged me to succeed at levels I had only dreamed about. He helped me to see that I really could produce professional work. Although I still struggle with self-doubt, he convinced me that I am capable of much more than I have yet accomplished.
As a young man I was always looking for the shortcut to success. As an older man I simply ask about the price of success, weigh whether or not I want to pay it, and start paying. I was about to find out how bad I wanted to succeed, or at least how bad I wanted to learn.
Because I wasn’t able to clear that last day of work from my schedule, on Wednesday when class ended at 3 pm, I put on my uniform and headed for the airport. I flew well into the night and ended up in San Francisco. I would miss a day of class on Thursday while I was flying, but I really wanted to catch the last day. I got as much sleep as I could before starting my flying day on Thursday because I knew that if I wanted to get back to class on Friday, it was going to be a short night. After a long day of flying I got in bed around 1 am. In order to make it back to class, I had to be up at 4 am.
Lack of sleep has a multitude of side effects—grumpiness, loss of concentration, a dull aching of joints, even a twisted sense of humor. Surprisingly, I was able to concentrate, keep a smile on my face, and even participate in the conversation. I was eager to learn. I wanted the lesson, even if it meant losing a bit of sleep to get it.
When life teaches you a lesson you either change your behavior, or perhaps you crystalize your thoughts to a point that your decisions are galvanized into action. That moment came to me while I sat in class on the last day exhausted from lack of sleep. A discussion ensued about the impact of our writing, and writing about controversial topics. Someone commented that haters are always going to hate and you can’t do anything about it. That’s when it hit me. My resolve crystalized. I knew why I was writing. Life had just taught me.
I objected to the statement. Why else do we write if we don’t want to change another person’s mind? If all we are writing for is to make a buck, there are easier ways. We shouldtry to overcome hate. We must try to elevate the thinking of others. We have a duty to write something that does more than entertain. We must strive to raise the bar of human thought and moral behavior. Why else do we risk epic failure at the hands of countless critics if we are not attempting to both entertain and inspire?
In the bowels of a black hole surrounded by an amazing time-space continuum, Cooper stated emphatically to TARS (his companion robot) that “we” saved ourselves from catastrophic failure. I am arrogant, but not that arrogant. Just like Newton, if I see further, think more clearly, discover or apply truth, it is because I stand on the shoulders of the giants in this world, or because I have been inspired by heaven. Sometimes the shoulders of giants are not enough and we must be lifted up by an even higher power.
When the student is ready for the lesson, life provides the teacher. I only hope that I can apply what I have learned. 

The Promise of Sunrise

I watched the sun come up over the Wasatch mountains. There is never a guarantee that the sun will come up, but we certainly expect the sunrise every morning as if it were guaranteed. We expect the earth to continue in its course as it has done for eons and produce a sunrise worthy of our wonder. We expect life to begin anew as the rays of the sun reach the spinning earth. However, sunrise is not guaranteed, but sunset is.
According to the World Death Clock - http://www.medindia.net/patients/calculators/world-death-clock.asp- over one hundred and six people die each minute. That means by the time you finish reading this blog, over two hundred people will have witnessed the sunset of their lives, depending on how fast you read. The passing of one person is nothing more than a millisecond. Like the passing sun in the sky, life, and death, march on.
Time. It is the one commodity doled out in equal measure – one second at a time. The rich, the poor, the young, the old, the diligent, and the indolent, are all allotted time in the same fashion. We cannot hoard it. We cannot preserve it. We cannot even slow its progress. We can, however, waste it, kill it, and squander it. Time is a running river of fresh water into which we can dip our cup over and over again, but we cannot regain the drops that have passed us by and hurried on their way downstream. The clock marches on offering the same valuable commodity to everyone in equal measure.
At sunset we can look back on the day and wonder where the moments went. We ponder how we spent the fleeting seconds, the hurried minutes, and languishing hours. How did we spend this perishable capital doled out in equal measure to everyone? Did we waste the waking hours slumbering on soft pillows? Did we greet the noonday with promises of enterprise only to be distracted by some fleeting folly? Did we charge forth into eventide and pour our energy into some passing fancy that will not be remembered for a week, much less a century? As the sun raced across the sky and sunset approached, what did we do with the one perishable commodity that we will never recapture? Sunrise is not guaranteed, but sunset is.
I have often said that if I had the power to pass one of my developed skills on to my children, I would pass on to them the skill of time management. It is a skill that has taken me years to hone, and I still feel like I could squeeze a bit more out of the minutes that are mine. I could still make better use of the rare commodity doled out in equal measure. The young, it seems, think that time is in abundance. The old can feel the clock ticking and can sense the closing of the day pressing in. Yet in truth, time continues its steady flight, unchanging, and waiting to be utilized instead of just endured, or wasted.
My finite mind cannot comprehend the eternities – a place where time is no longer measured. I cannot comprehend something without a beginning, or an end. Perhaps that is a good thing, for now. It keeps me focused on the seconds, minutes, days, and weeks that I am blessed to experience. It helps me drink in every moment, cherish every sunrise, and grieve at every sunset. I am a mortal man, and my time is measured. I cannot afford to waste those precious drops from the river of time as it hurries by. I must dip in my cup, and drink deep, and often.
What will I make of today? Will I do something that will be remembered for a week, a year, or maybe a century? Will I use my fleeting moments in a way that makes the world a better place, or will I indulge myself and squander those passing rays of sunshine on simple pleasures or frivolous pursuits? When the clock strikes the hour of my passing, and my sunset has arrived, will I look back and wonder what I did with my time, or will I stare into the past and see a tapestry of accomplishment woven from the seconds I harnessed utilized in good works?
Each day we have the promise of sunrise. Each day we have the promise of time, that precious commodity doled out in steady measure. What will we do with that promise?

Sunrise is not guaranteed, but sunset is.

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The Power of Editing

They say the only difference between good writing and bad writing is proper editing, but if you ask any successful novel writer, he or she will tell you that they have at least one “trunk novel” (an unsuccessful manuscript tucked away in a trunk) that never saw the light of day.
When I first got the crazy notion to write a book I was long on ideas and short on skills, but one idea carried so much energy that I ignored my lack of skills and began the project long before I probably should have. The first chapter of this book was written before I understood plot structure, point of view, or characterization. It simply sprang from the strength of an idea. It took me years of work to lead me to a place where I could finish the story properly.

I thought it would be fun to post the first chapter of my next novel - The Charity Chip - as it was first written over five years ago, and then post the first chapter as it will appear (plus a few more copy edits) when it is published in June. 

I apologize for the length of this blog.

The Original Chapter One
Julio was hungry, but it wasn’t the first time.  He zipped up his thin jacket as the cool layer of sea fog settled over the night.  Traffic on Avenida La Marina passed by paying little notice to him or his hunger.    He had learned to beg on the streets of Lima for what he needed and, when begging didn’t work, stealing usually did.He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head and moved away from the busy street toward a less travelled side street in search of an easy mark.  He had worked this area several times before because the lighting was poor and it was near a market.  Sticking to the shadows he began moving slowly waiting for an unsuspecting woman walking home from the market with his dinner.As he paused in the shadow of an alcove, he saw his mark – a woman with a small mesh bag of food.  She was older than him and slightly larger, but he was confident that he could outrun her.  She seemed to be focused ahead and didn’t appear to see him as he waited for her to pass.  He waited patiently and then sprang from his shadowy hiding place.  He moved quickly grabbing the bag from her hands and sprinting away as she shouted, “Ladron!  Thief!”From the sound of her shouting, Julio could tell that she wasn’t pursuing.  Dinner was served.  Just then a large black human blur jumped out of the shadows on his left and tackled him.  Before he could recover from the impact, Julio was on his stomach, hands bound behind his back and a large policiasitting on top of him.“What have we here?  Un ladroncito?  A little thief?  You have learned the art of stealing at a very young age amigo,” said the cop.“I was just trying to get something to eat.   Let me go!” begged Julio.“Ah, you are hungry, No?  I will take to a place where you can eat three times a day, but the view is not so good.  Vámonos ladroncito, let’s go,” said the officer.The policeman lifted Julio up off the ground with one hand and placed him on his feet.  The woman whose food he had stolen had gathered up the scattered food and stood looking at Julio with a look of disgust.  “You should be ashamed!”  Her look of scorn was new to him.  He had always escaped with his dinner.“Please Señor, I promise not to steal again!  Please let me go!”  Julio’s begging did little to dissuade the officer.“You don’t understand ladroncito, I know you have been stealing on this street for quite some time.  We got complaints from women walking home from the market and I began reviewing the security videos.  I saw you steal several times in the same way you did tonight, but this time I caught you in the act.  I am sure the Judge will find the videos enlightening.”Julio began to cry, not from pain, remorse, or grief, but in hopes that his tears would soften the heart of the officer, but it did little good.  The officer pulled him along towards his car.  He was going to jail.As the officer shoved him into the back seat of the vehicle Julio began to worry.  His brother Raul would be waiting for him to come home with food.  He could see his mother’s dying face pleading for him to care for his younger brother. As the gravity of his situation began to set in, Julio felt a strange mix of guilt, anxiety, and panic.Julio’s heart sank as the officer shoved him into the back seat of his car and closed the door.  He looked around in vain for something to cut through the plastic handcuffs.  As he looked out through the window again, he noticed the officer talking to someone.  He was a large man, much larger than the officer, with short blond hair.  The stranger was well dressed and seemed confident, his hands in his overcoat pockets, as he spoke to the officer.  He nodded at Julio and the officer glanced over his shoulder.The officer and the stranger shook hands, but Julio noticed it was not a normal handshake.  Something was exchanged discreetly as their hands clasped.  The stranger turned his back on the car looking aloof and disinterested.  The officer moved hesitatingly toward the vehicle and opened Julio’s door.“You are lucky tonight little thief.  It appears you have a new friend” said the officer.“He is not my friend.”  Julio replied.  “I have never seen him before.”“Ah, but he is your friend tonight, because he has arranged for your freedom.”The officer pulled Julio from the vehicle and pushed him toward the stranger.“Suerte – good luck!” he said as he drove away.The stranger turned and looked down at Julio with a confident smile.  “Buenas Noches” he said with a heavy accent.Julio simply looked at the ground.  Sensing an opportunity, he quickly bolted to make his escape, but with his hands still bound in the plastic handcuffs, it was a futile effort.  Within a few steps the stranger had overtaken him and grabbed him by the jacket, bringing him to a sudden stop.“Let me go!” shouted Julio.“Relax!  I am not going to hurt you.” He said.  “I want to help you.”“Why would you want to help me?” said Julio.  He had lived long enough to know that nothing was free.  Everything had a price.“Where are your parents?” asked the stranger.“Dead,” answered Julio curtly. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?  Do you have any living family?”Julio paused for a moment looking at the ground and shuffling his feet.  He replied smoothly letting the lie pass easily over his lips, “No”.The stranger paused as if thinking to himself or perhaps searching in his mind for the right words in Spanish since it was obviously not his native tongue.“Are you hungry?  Can I get you something to eat?” asked the stranger.Julio was uncomfortable with the stranger, but hunger had just driven him to steal.  Now the hunger pains overpowered his fear of the foreign man.  “Yes,” he replied.“My car is parked nearby.  If I cut the handcuffs off, will you promise to go with me to get something to eat?”  The stranger asked with that confident smile across his face.Julio paused again considering the possibilities.  What did the stranger want?  Why was he offering to help?  Julio looked the mysterious man in the face searching for clues.  His face was difficult to read.  He had a calm, confident demeanor and a smile that almost made him look smug.  His blue eyes were piercing and seemed to be looking straight in to the soul.“I promise.”  Said Julio.  Hunger had won. The stranger pulled out a knife and with one swift motion cut the plastic handcuffs from Julio’s wrists.  Putting the knife away, he extended his large hand to Julio and said, “My name is Isak Blixt.”

End
The current version -
Chapter One – El Ladroncito (The Little Thief)
Isak: I need another boyUgarteche: So soon?Isak: The program is expandingUgarteche: Most boys will be watching the soccer game tonightIsak: The desperate ones will be on the streets. Desperate children make the best candidates
         Julio was hungry, but it wasn’t the first time. The bustling traffic on Avenida Iquitos ignored him, and his empty stomach. He stuffed his charred juggling batons and the plastic bottle of diesel fuel into his tattered backpack and pulled the coins from his pocket – seven soles, not even enough for a piece of bread at one of the few stores that still accepted hard currency. He slipped on his backpack and pulled the hood of his jacket over his head to protect against the layer of sea fog settling over Lima. Mamá had died four years ago today.         He hopped on his skateboard and kicked his way towards Plaza Manco Capac determined to find something to eat. He considered the Chinese restaurant, but remembered how the owner had chased him out with a meat cleaver the last time he snuck in, and skated on. When he passed Roky’s, the smell of fat chickens sizzling over an open flame made his stomach growl, but the security guard at the door waved him on with a nightstick. It was Saturday night, and he knew their dumpster would have decent scraps, but he was craving fresh food. He kicked his skateboard across the plaza and stopped in front of the supermarket.         Mamá taught him not to steal. At least a thousand times she said, “It is better to suffer hunger than the shame of dishonesty.” But she hadn’t lived to see the advent of digital money. How can I survive as a street performer if no one carries cash anymore? Seven soles won’t even buy enough bread for me, let alone my difficult twin brother. Tonight, I would rather suffer the shame of dishonesty than hunger. Dishonesty won’t kill me.         He use his hood to shield his face from the various security cameras in the plaza and skated across the uneven sidewalk trying to look inconspicuous among the steady stream of shoppers rushing home to their families with bags full of fresh food. He scanned the crowd and picked his mark – an older lady with hunched shoulders clutching a small bag of groceries in her left hand.         A knot formed in his stomach and he pulled the pendant of Saint Michael from under his shirt. “Saint Michael,” he whispered, “guardian of souls, vanquisher of rebel spirits, pray for us.” He kissed the medallion and slipped it beneath his shirt. He fixed his eyes on the bag of food and picked up speed for the snatch. Crouching low on the board he grabbed the bag from her unsuspecting hands as he zoomed past.         The old woman cried out, “Ladrón!”         Julio kicked again and accelerated away. He cut hard to the right and dodged a woman with a stroller. A girl with headphones over her ears walked right in front of him and he had to push off of her to keep from running her over. A gray-haired security guard in a dirty brown uniform appeared out of nowhere and grabbed at him, but Julio ducked and then jumped the curb into the street to get away. He darted into oncoming traffic and came so close to a mototaxi that he brushed the arm of the driver. He spun to the left and found space in between the lines of rushing traffic and skated away with his bounty.The security guard still hurried along the sidewalk trying to follow him. Julio skidded the tail of his board and reversed directions. He used the cover of a passing bus with a larger-than-life picture of the popular newswoman, Sofía Encuentro, plastered on the side, and hitched a ride from the tailgate of a passing delivery truck. He used the momentum from the truck as it took a left turn at the intersection and propelled himself down the street towards an alleyway. He looked over his shoulder. The security guard was talking on his radio, but he was falling behind.If I can make it to the alley, I’ll be clear. He swerved in front of a careening bus to make the alley. The driver blared his horn, but Julio ignored him, and coasted down the alley into the dark.         The sounds of the busy street began to fade behind him and the few pedestrians and drunks in the alley ignored him. He looked back one more time, but the security guard had given up. He grinned, pulled out the pendant, and kissed it. He stopped to catch his breath and peeked into the bag. The snatch had garnered him an uncooked half chicken, a bag of rice, some tomatoes, and a fresh loaf of bread. He held open the bag and took in the smell of fresh bread. If Doctor Barilla isn’t passed out drunk in the kitchen, I can make a good dinner for me and Raúl.He thought of Mamá, and guilt gnawed at his hungry stomach. He tucked the bag under his arm, and skated towards the other end of the alley and home.         He never saw the wire stretched across the end of the alley, but he felt it. It hit him just below the knees and sent him flying off his board headfirst. He tried to break the fall with his free hand, but it was useless. His head bounced off the sidewalk and he rolled over onto his back as the streetlights did circles above his head and his skateboard rolled into the street. He was still seeing double when a policía straddled him and bound his hands in plastic restraints.         Once he restrained Julio, the policeman stood and straightened his shirt. “What have we here? Un ladroncito? A little thief?”          Julio shook his head and tried to make the world stop spinning. “Why did you stop me? I was going home to cook dinner for my brother.”         The policeman picked up the bag and opened it. “Mmm… nothing like the smell of fresh bread.” He broke off a piece of bread, shoved it into his mouth, and chewed with his mouth open. “Still warm too. How did you pay for your groceries?”         Julio sat up and shook his head to clear it. “I had money.”         The policeman shoved the loaf back into the bag and pulled a small scanner from his belt. “Let’s see.” He waved the scanner over Julio. “No implanted chip, and the last registered transaction on your free chip was over a month ago. Are you sure you paid for the food?”         “I paid cash.”         The policeman held up the bag and looked at the logo. He shook his head. “This market does not accept cash. I’ll bet you took this food from some little old lady near the plaza.” He pulled the receipt from the bag and held it up to the light. “Maybe we should find Señora Flores and she could tell us all about it. Of course we could just watch the security video from the plaza.” He held up his phone for Julio to see. There on the screen was the video of Julio grabbing the bag from the woman and darting into traffic to avoid the security guard. His face wasn’t visible, but the clothes matched.         “Is it a crime to be hungry?”         “Ah, you are hungry?” The officer removed the wire from the mouth of the alley. “I know a place where they will feed you every day.” He grabbed Julio and pulled him to his feet. “Come on ladroncito. Let’s go solve your hunger problem.”Julio searched for any signs of compassion in the officer’s face, but his face was angular and gaunt with a thick black mustache and a large scar that started near his left eyebrow and disappeared into course black hair. It was not a face that offered hope, but he attempted at begging anyway. “Please, Señor, I promise not to steal again. Please let me go!”“You should not make promises that you cannot keep. You have no chip. You have no money. You will steal again.” The officer grabbed Julio’s bound hands and dragged him over to the waiting black squad car parked halfway on the sidewalk. He shoved Julio face down into the back seat. “Don’t get my seat dirty.” He slammed the door shut.Julio struggled into the sitting position and began to look around for something to cut the plastic restraints. The only thing sharp in the back seat of the squad car was the smell of stale puke and alcohol. He tried to slip off his backpack, but his hands were bound so tight that it was impossible. He looked along the wire mesh that separated and protected the front seat, but it offered nothing. At last he gave up, and sat there feeling the blood pulse against the restraints on his wrists.The officer opened the front door and tossed the bag of food into the front seat. Instead of getting into the driver’s seat, he leaned against the front of the car and made a phone call. The smell of fresh bread began to mingle with the acrid smell of vomit, and Julio’s stomach growled.He looked out the window at the passing crowd. Most people hurried by and seemed indifferent to the scene, too busy with their own lives to even care. A woman glared at Julio and shook her head in disgust as she walked by. Julio hung his head. I should have listened to Mamá.A man in a black coat strolled across the street through the busy traffic and walked into the glaring lights of the squad car. He had cropped blond hair and a fair complexion that made him look like a marble statue. He was carrying Julio’s skateboard. He pointed at Julio with his chin and his clear blue eyes reflected in the headlights like the eyes of an animal on the prowl. The officer looked over his shoulder at Julio and grinned.They talked for a few moments, and the towering stranger pulled a silver chain with a large cross dangling at the end from his coat pocket. The officer smiled as he took the crucifix and slipped it around his neck. After the exchange, the man turned his back on the car, but still clutched Julio’s skateboard.The officer shuffled over and opened Julio’s door. “You are lucky tonight ladroncito. It appears you have a new friend.”“He is not my friend. I have never seen him before.”“Ah, but he is your friend tonight because he has purchased your freedom.” The officer yanked Julio from the vehicle, pushed him towards the towering man, and slid behind the wheel. “Suerte,” he said with a wave. He forced his car into traffic and drove away. The stranger turned and looked down at Julio, and then with a foreign accent greeted him. “Buenas noches.”Julio stared at the ground.The man held out the skateboard and asked, “Would you like your skateboard back, or should I keep it?”Julio nodded.The stranger put the skateboard on the pavement and pushed it towards Julio with his foot. Sensing a small window of opportunity, Julio kicked the skateboard down the alleyway and ran after it for a rolling getaway. But when he jumped for the moving board, he felt a tug on his jacket and his feet flew up into the air. The man suspended him in the air by his collar with one hand as he thrashed about with his legs, but it was impossible to get free with his hands still bound by the plastic restraints. “Put me down!” demanded Julio.The man shrugged and dropped Julio onto the dirty street. He wriggled onto his back and glared at the man. The looming foreigner wore a satisfied smirk and a black earpiece in his right ear.“Relax, I don’t want to hurt you. I’m trying to help you,” said the man.“Why would you want to help me?”“In my country when someone does you a favor, like returning a lost object,” the man nodded at the skateboard a few feet down the alleyway, “it is customary to thank them.”Julio rolled his eyes. “Gracias.”“Where are your parents?”Julio wiggled his fingers and could feel the blood throbbing in his wrists. “Dead.”“Do you have any brothers or sisters? Any living family?”Julio looked away. “No.”The foreigner grabbed Julio under the armpits and raised him up on to his feet. He squatted down and locked eyes with Julio. “What is your name?”The softness of his voice disarmed Julio. “Julio César Camino de Pachacutec.”“That is a very long name for a boy on the street. May I call you Julio?”Julio shrugged.“How old are you?”“Fourteen.”“And still on the streets? You seem small for a fourteen year old.”“That happens when you don’t get enough to eat.”“Well, are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat?”Julio’s stomach growled at the mention of food.“If I cut the restraints off, will you promise not to run away?”Julio stared up at the man’s chiseled face. He had lived on the streets long enough to know that nothing was free. Everything had a price. Tonight the price for satisfying his hunger was trusting the blue-eyed stranger long enough to fill his stomach, and hope that whatever he wanted in return would not be too costly. “I promise.”The stranger pulled a knife from his coat pocket, spun Julio around, and with one swift motion cut the plastic handcuffs from his wrists. Julio rubbed his wrists as the blood began to flow back into his hand. The man closed the knife and slipped it into his coat pocket. He smiled and extended his large white hand. “My name is Isak Blixt.”

End
Hopefully, you found the second chapter better than the first. BTW the original first chapter was good enough to get me into Orson Scott Card's Literary Boot Camp. It is one of the very first things I ever wrote. I have spent a lot time with these characters and these words. It has been fun to see the changes, and I am excited about the novel's release this summer. I hope that you are too.

Homeless Santa

Here's a new, edited, and improved version of a Christmas story I wrote a few years ago. Merry Christmas!
Homeless Santa

My four-year old daughter tugged at my sleeve and pointed. “Look Dad. It’s Santa!” she whispered.
I looked up from serving soup in the homeless shelter and saw an old man with a bushy white beard holding a soup bowl. Except for the tattered army jacket and his unkempt appearance, he did look just like jolly old Saint Nicholas, minus the jolly part.
I smiled and filled his bowl with hot soup. “Did anybody ever tell that you look exactly like – ”“Santa Claus?” His face was blank. No jolly laugh. No twinkling eyes. No ho, ho, ho. “Yes, because I am Santa Claus.” He stared back at me in a way that made feel transparent.
I glanced down at my daughter and saw her chewing at her bottom lip. “Don’t worry,” I said trying to comfort her. “He’s not the real Santa. The real Santa lives at the North Pole and is a jolly old elf.”
The old man stared at me with the same deadpan look. “Ho, Ho, Ho,” he said as he took his soup and moved on. I continued to serve soup to the others, but couldn’t take my eyes, or mind, off of the Santa look-alike as he sat by himself and ate his soup. When I finished serving, I sought him out.
“Feel better after the soup?” I asked.
“Like a bowl full of jelly.” He stared at me with that same blank expression.
I fidgeted in my seat wishing that maybe I hadn’t initiated this conversation. “You know, I am sorry that life has been hard to you, but you didn’t have to burst my little girl’s bubble. She still believes in Santa Claus.”
“Well, I am Santa Claus.”
I chuckled. “I know you look like Santa, but – ”

“Santa Claus is just a fictional character to bring magic to Christmas,” he said. His voice had changed and I could tell that he was mocking me, along with everyone else who makes that statement. He pointed his finger at me and continued. “You see, youdon’t even believe in me, and yet you lecture me on not bursting your little girl’s bubble?”
My face flushed and I looked away.
“Most people don’t believe anything they can’t see or touch anymore,” he said. “How can you believe in the miraculous birth of the Son of God when you can’t even believe in Santa Claus when he’s sitting right in front of you?”
“I guess you’ve got a point,” I mumbled as I stood to go. “Merry Christmas.” I stood and walked away with my tail between my legs.
Over the next few days the conversation with the homeless Santa troubled me. What should I do? How could I help? He was right, I didn’t believe in Santa, but I did believe in helping my neighbor. So when my boss asked for Christmas party suggestions, I got an idea.
I told everyone at my office about my encounter with homeless Santa and asked if we could sponsor him. We could take up a collection to buy him new clothes, help him find some temporary housing, and a buy him few Christmas presents. In return he could come play Santa at our company party. Everyone loved the idea.
I spoke with the director of the homeless shelter and made all the arrangements. Everyone contributed generously and the company matched our efforts. We got him new clothes, shoes and a winter coat. We found a small private shelter and paid for three months rent. We bought a month’s worth of food and stocked his shelves. We were all excited about helping him as the day of the Christmas party arrived.
It was a wonderful party. Homeless Santa had ditched the tattered army jacket and cleaned up his beard. He came dressed for the part with the traditional red suit, black boots, and bag full of toys. He was the life of the party as he gladdened hearts with his rosy cheeks and his hearty “Ho, Ho, Ho!” He had a magical touch with children, and my daughter beamed as she sat on his lap. By the end of the night, we all believed in Santa Claus.
As the party finished and we gave him our gifts, he cried openly at our generosity. We joined him, but they were tears of joy. Everyone called it the best Christmas party ever.
That Christmas Eve, my daughter and I put out milk and cookies for Santa and waited together by the fire in my big leather chair. Of course, we both fell asleep long before the clock struck midnight, and missed our chance to see the jolly old elf. But the next morning the cookies and milk had been replaced with a note.
“Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me.”Thank you for believing in me!Santa Claus(P.S. I moved back to the North Pole.)

The Enemies of Success

Have you ever felt inadequate? Maybe you felt like you didn’t quite measure up, or like everyone else was better than you at some particular task. You looked around and saw yourself lacking when you compared yourself to others. I feel that way every time I sit down to write something new. The task humbles me and makes me dig deep within myself for courage. Self-doubt is the enemy of accomplishment.
Have you ever bragged about your abilities or felt so confident that you were smug in your approach to a particular challenge? Maybe you even believed that the task was so far below your abilities that you did little to prepare. You almost felt insulted that someone with your talents and skills was asked to perform such a menial thing. I know what that feels like as well. It takes a great deal of arrogance, even hubris, to write something intended to help others. Arrogance is the enemy of excellence.
A few years ago I was at friend’s house for a get together. His son had just returned from two years of missionary service for the LDS Church in Peru and we were celebrating. It was heartwarming to see a son reunited with his family. The celebration also sparked a nerve with me, a lurking emotion that had niggled at me for years. It reminded me of how lost I felt when I came home from my time as a missionary. Those awkward feelings of grief and loss mingled with the joy of returning home are a strange combination that lingered with me for years.
Many young men and women in our church serve as missionaries. Currently over 85,000 young men and women are serving worldwide. It is truly an amazing statistic when you think about all the things these young men and women could be doing with their lives. No matter what your religious beliefs, you have to admire their dedication and sacrifice. But what do they do after that sacrifice? Who do they become? How do they transition back to normal life after such incredible missionary experiences?
I was venting my feelings of thirty years ago to my friends at the missionary homecoming. I complained that we (meaning the members of the Church) don’t do enough to help theses fine young men and women transition to a successful life after successful missionary service. They must have sensed my anguish and concern, but were much quicker to see a solution than I was. My friend Brent (a coach by profession) looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “You’re a writer. Write a book.”
His candid, no-nonsense approach to the problem hit me in the face. Like any good coach he didn’t just nod his head and commiserate with me. He assessed the situation and then told me what I needed to do. His call to action stuck with me, and I thought about the idea for weeks. It hit me with incredible energy, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I felt prompted to move on it, but self-doubt crept in. After all, who was I to write advice for returned missionaries? I’m not an expert. I have no credentials. I pushed the task aside for almost two years feeling inadequate and unworthy to accomplish it.
Perhaps I felt unworthy of the project because my writing journey started out of sheer arrogance. I waltzed into the world of writers with overconfidence and arrogance only to be humbled by the craft. I know firsthand the cost of hubris. I understand all to well the price for arrogance. I certainly didn’t want to approach such an important project with pride driving me forward.
The idea lurked in the back of my mind but from time to time it would thrust itself into front and center, but each time my feelings of inadequacy pushed it back into the shadows. My wife Britt kept prodding, almost nagging, me to get busy and write it. She knew I could do it. She saw my passion for the topic. She believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
Eventually, I was asked to work directly with the young men and women returning home from missionary service, and I could no longer ignore the promptings. With the faith of my wife behind me, I started the project. It went slowly because of my internal battle between self-doubt and arrogance, but eventually I finished something I deemed worthy of sharing with others.
In an effort of improve the product, I sent the manuscript to my publisher. I hadn’t published any nonfiction, so this was uncharted territory. I was humble in my approach (not necessarily the best approach for building confidence in your publisher) and offered to work with anyone else who might be writing something similar. I still felt that surely someone else would be better qualified to publish this advice.
When Emily from Cedar Fort emailed me and offered to publish the book, all those feelings of inadequacy came crashing down on me again. I was terrified that my efforts would not measure up. My deadline was also very tight. This time, instead of running away, I reached out to my family and friends and asked for their specific prayers. I swallowed my self-doubt, along with my arrogance, and with heaven’s help I finished the manuscript on time.To say that I wrote this book would be a lie. I put it together, but I pulled from the wisdom of friends, family, and Church leaders. I also felt the guidance of the Spirit through the process.Both self-doubt and arrogance can destroy any successful endeavor. Both are distortions of the truth, like some caricature drawing that exaggerates a particular feature to the point of dominance. Both are false emotions that can keep us from becoming the best we can become, or from doing the best we can do. If we are to become or achieve anything worthwhile we must deal with these two enemies of success.
It has been over thirty years, but I can still remember that empty feeling I felt when I walked off the airplane after my mission. I hope that this book will make it easier for all the wonderful young men and women coming home to deal with the transition from full-time missionary to faithful returned missionary.
*** Return and Continue With Honor will be released on February 10, 2015 and will be available Deseret Book, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and other book retailers.