If dogs could write

Picture this.

I am reading after midnight alone in my bedroom. Husband is off doing Air Force Reserve duties and I can read as late as I want without bothering anyone. So I do.

I finish The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein sometime before 1 in the morning and as I turn the last page, I am weeping. I climb out of my bed and stumble downstairs in search of my dog. I must see him. I find Luke, my 12-year-old Labrador, asleep on his bed. I kneel down and throw my arms around him. "You're such a good dog," I murmur between sobs. He thumps his tail and just lets me do it.

I am not giving anything away by telling you the dog dies in The Art of Racing in The Rain. You learn that from the opening chapter. But reading this rather unconventional book, told from the point of view of a dog named Enzo, took me to a place I fear: the place where I lose my good old dog to old age. Luke is 12. He is losing his hearing. His hips sag and sway. He doesn't run up the hill anymore. He sleeps a lot.

But I am not ready to say goodbye. Especially now, when I consider the highly remote possibility that Luke, like Enzo, could narrate the story of his life with us if he wanted to. And if he could, what he might say.

I loved this book for the fresh perspective on what a dog might observe as he lives out his life with the humans who gave him a name and an identity. If he had language, what would my dog say if given the chance to tell his life story? My dog has seen me at my best and my worst. He has seen me when life was breezy and when it was as turbulent as a cyclone. And he still wags his tail when I come in the door, whether I've been gone five minutes, five hours or five days. and you can just hear his unspoken thoughts: "You're home. I'm glad."

If you've ever read the excerpt from dog's and cat's diary - the author of which is unknown to me - and found it wildly funny, you will understand the depth of my devotion to my dog.

I don't think I've ever cried as long or as loud at the reading of any other book.

Perhaps it was because it was nearly one a.m. when I finished it and I was over-tired from watching the Olympics every night past midnight for two weeks straight.

Perhaps it was because I was alone and didn't have to hide my reaction from anyone.

Or perhaps it was because I know dogs don't live near long enough. Enzo didn't. And neither will my dog.

And it just doesn't seem fair.

Why do we love our dogs so much? I think it's because they love us, warts and all. I bet we'd be amazed at the stories they could tell, if we were brave enough to listen to them.

Great book. Don't read without tissues at the ready.

The many splendored thing

I did what I said in my last post I was going to do.

I took my characters in my current manuscript to the valley of decision, plopped them down in the middle of The Pivotal Moment, and left them to marinate there for the weekend.

Had to celebrate my parents' 50th wedding anniversary.

They weren't invited, my characters, though they jockeyed for position to ride shotgun on the way to the party. I told them, "No. Sorry. You have to stay here and think about where you're at right now and how you got there."

"You put us here," they whined.

"I will bring you some cake," I said. "Really good cake. Bavarian cream."

They acquiesed.

And I had a lovely time and didn't think about them at all.

My parents, Bill and Judy, (top photo was taken while they were still dating) were married Aug 8, 1958. Don't you just love the 50's? Cars were cool, the music was cool, clothes were cool. I love my parents' wedding pictures. I can just feel the hopeful optimism in those deep black and white tones. It seems like the last decade before the world became a different place. Less optimistic, maybe? Less simple. Less genteel.

Just think of the decades anyone married 50 years has had to wrap their wits around. The rebel 60s, the culturally bankrupt 70s, the big hair-big glasses 80s, the it's-all-about-me 90s and the techno 00s. I salute my parents on every front for meeting each decade, as it swept them up in it, with grace and humor.

Paul Sweeny once said, "A wedding anniversary is the celebration of love, trust, partnership, tolerance and tenacity. The order varies for any given year." That's what makes the 50th anniversary golden, eh? It celebrates the marriage that has been refined, like gold, in the fires that have made it strong and beautiful.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad! Shine on. . .

Fog of Olympic-sized proportions

A friend of mine, sitting on my couch with his head in his weary hands peeked at me and groaned this complaint: "I hate the Olympics."

"How can you say such an unpatriotic thing!" I exclaimed between yawns.

And then I knew. He was like me, staying up every night past midnight to watch Olympic coverage and it was beginning to wear on him.

I, too, am in an Olympic fog and am navigating the mist with plenty of java in the a.m. and Diet Coke in the afternoons. I would say more on how I wish I could function on a mere fours hours of sleep a night but I'm in the home stretch of a deadline and the end of a book and fog or no fog, I am propelling my characters to the valley of decision today. Today they will face their giants. Today they will face the music. Today they will confront their demons. Today they will reach the point of no return.

Yawn.

Or maybe tomorrow. . .

A little treat from the UK

I am being held hostage at the moment by a cast of surly characters who suffer from severe separation anxiety today.

Could be they know I've an August 30 deadline and since they are still dangling over the pit of doom, they keep me bound for my own good.

In any case, I have a little treat for you today in place of my own sage words, a wonderfully clever article from a British newspaper that just made me smile all over. So funny. It's about how hard it is for authors to let go of their first novel. But you don't have to be a writer to appreciate the humor - or the pathetic truth. Here it is. Enjoy.

And pray for my release. . .

Wings

One of the most peaceful, memorable moments of a very busy business week at the International Christian Retailers Show in Orlando last month was hearing a song by recording artist Cynthia Morgan about what we're meant for.

We are meant to fly.

Cynthia, married to a good friend and fellow author Sigmund Brouwer, wrote the song to capture in music the theme of Sigmund's new book, Broken Angel, which I am happy to say I began to devour on the flight home.

The song, Beautiful Bird, is hauntingly lovely, the words powerful enough to transcend the confines of just one book, and it dovetails in amazing ways with the gritty reality of this futuristic story. Sigmund is a master storyteller and speculative fiction is definitely his creative niche. The prose is tight, tenacious, and tender - all at the same time.

Can you imagine the world - our world - on a different axis? Spinning to a tune you don't quite recognize? Where God is there but not there? Where you feel fettered to the ground and stripped of nearly every hope? Not a pretty picture, that. Sigmund painted such a world in the pages of Broken Angel and I admit, I had to turn away a few times. A world where beauty and peace have been squashed into distortion isn't a pretty one. The sad reality is, this book is a quiet compass pointing to the lives of thousands of people who - at this very moment in our very real world - live under the thumb of every kind of oppression.

You can almost feel the nubs of wings itching under your skin as you read. You want to escape a world like that. You want to rise above it. You know you were meant to.

A great read, Edglings. One to make you ponder.

An excerpt awaits you. . .

Have a beautiful, unfettered weekend.

A great conference

It's my pleasure to chat today about the upcoming American Christian Fiction Writers Conference, taking place September 18- 21 in Minneapolis at the Sheraton-Bloomington. If you're an aspiring novelist or a prespiring novelist (that would be me!) who writes with a Christian worldview, this is the conference for you.

Since June, we blogging ACFW members have been chatting up the conference. You can read what other bloggers have been sharing about this premier writers conference by clicking right here. The line-up of workshop leaders and continuing session teachers is top-notch. I am teaching a couple classes, too, but that truly is beside the point. The keynote speaker, Angela Hunt, is a gifted novelist, wise and funny, and she will be one of dozens upon dozens of professionals teaching and attending the conference.

If you've got a work in progress whose final chapter is in sight, you can sign up for agent and editor appointments that provide one-on-one face time that you just can't get anywhere else. A national conference like this one is simply the best place to pitch a book idea to a prospective publisher or agency. I am amazed (God was nice to me) that I ever got published without attending a conference first. This is the way to break into the industry, meet people, learn and grow.

It's the best investment you can make in your writing career if you are pre-published. Honestly. And hey! Over 100 authors (including me) will be signing books at the Rotunda at the Mall of America! It's going to be wild and fabulous. If you're a fiction writer, I hope you'll consider coming. If not this year, then next. It's never too late to make plans for next autumn!

Have a lovely Monday. See on the workweek's bookend. . .

Sometimes there are no words

Most of the time I am of the mind that a picture is not worth a thousand words. That's a very silly thing for an author to subscribe to ALL the time. A thousand words can indeed make you weep because of their combined beauty. I have to believe this or I am in the wrong business.

But I will admit that the vistas I saw while vacationing with my family in the Sierras deserve to be seen in their natural splendor - off the page and unfettered by human language.

I offer you today a small sampling of the creative mastery of God, captured by my 15-year-old son - all except the last one. That one is him.

The top photo is a snow-fed lake high up a trail known as Mosquito Flats. Do not be deceived by the title. My lungs assured me we climbed every vertical step to this glistening wonder. Definitely NOT flat. And the mosquitos - not so many - were easily tamed with tropical-scented Off.

The second one is a rest stop on a hike up to Crystal Lake. Everything was UP.

This third photo was taken from Duck Pass, a heady 10,800 feet above sea level. A four mile hike from the parking lot. All of it UP!

And lastly, the son who took these photos climbed a rock to enjoy the sun setting on the Mammoth Minarets.

My daughter shot this last one.

Beauty is sometimes best enjoyed without the clumsy addition of words. Sometimes.

This time.

But not always.

See you Monday . . .