When 2013 ended, yes, I’d finished a great year of making income for my family, but I’d fallen far short of my writing goals. I’d failed to complete the first draft of my third novel, which I’m tentatively calling Drone. I tend to get down on myself when I don’t meet my personal goals, but then I have to remind myself that I have priorities that must come before my writing—namely, supporting my wife and two daughters. So while I didn’t meet my writing goals, I kept food on the table—and really, what’s more important? That’s an easy question to answer. God doesn’t go soft on men who fail to provide for those under their care (1 Tim. 5:8). So yes, I do have a personal goal to finish novel number three in 2014, but I also temper that goal with an important truth. God gives us just enough time…
I’ve written a new eighty-thousand-word novel—except for the ending, that is. That’s where, I confess, I’m struggling right now. “What? Why?” you may ask. When faced with seemingly too many good plot choices, my default is to become indecisive. I’ve been there, done that—written an ending I thought was the best one only to later discover it stank to high heaven. Wasted words. Wasted time. Wasted life. If only I could get it right the first time. <See me banging my head against the wall?> Indecisive Me Maybe you’re not like me. Maybe with every life choice you know instantly what you want and which path is best. But that’s not me. Picture me at an ice cream stand. Okay, which flavor do I want? Mackinac Island Fudge? Chocolate? Black Cherry? Rocky Road? Mint Chocolate Chip? Um, well, I like them all. So the question isn’t, which ice cream do I like…
The notion of lost memories and the mysteries of the brain have always fascinated me. Even more so when my dad was diagnosed with stage-4 brain cancer (glioblastoma multiforme) in January 2009. Because my parents moved to my town for Dad’s cancer treatments and I sometimes helped out as caregiver, I got to see the ravages of brain cancer up close and personal. Sometimes when my mom needed to get groceries or run other errands, I sat with my dad and worked on my laptop (rather like I’m doing now) while he slept in a reclined wheelchair. Usually Dad slept soundly, but other times he mumbled words. Names. A smattering of mumbled speech. Something garbled from a dream. Normally, the soliloquy made little sense, but sometimes I recognized a name. Roger. Wayne. (Those are the names of two of my dad’s four brothers.) I heard only an occasional word, but Mom…
