I met author Judy Christie a few years back at our “Author! Author!” event here in Shreveport. Judy writes excellent novels with a “Louisiana flair” and her books are delightful. Check them out. Well, not too long ago, Judy and I reconnected and she has written an article for the Shreveport Times about little old me! I am humbled and honored by her article you can read at this link.
Now, for an update to the fourth book in the Chronicles of Jonathan Steel. I am finishing up the final edit this week. After being released from a very restrictive book contract and whittling down the story from 120000 words to 75000 words it is a pleasure to completely redo the novel. I was forced to cut so much of the story in order to meet these word count restrictions. Now, I have written the book I want to read. And, hopefully, my writing has improved thanks to editorial input from fiction editors I worked with while at Charisma.
My plan now is to publish the book under my own imprint and I am shooting for August or September so I will keep you posted.
Thanks again to Judy for a wonderful article.
Those who accept the authority of the Bible and embrace a Christian worldview take different positions on whether God might have created intelligent life on other planets. This question has been debated at least since Thomas Aquinas discussed it nine centuries ago.
Scholars who believe extraterrestrial intelligence (ETI) physically exists see it as a display of God’s creativity and power. They argue that a God who so obviously enjoys creating, a God of unimaginable power, should not be expected to limit His creative expression to just one planet and its one species of spiritual beings.
In my post on May 14th I talked about UFOs and my fascination with them. In my last post I talked about the death of my future. Today, I want to talk about the death of evolution in my writing.
Let me explain.
I was ecstatic when I heard the announcement way back in 1986 that Gene Roddenberry was bringing a brand new version of Star Trek back to television. Star Trek: The Next Generation promised to fulfill all of my nerdy science fiction dreams. Granted, the first season was rocky thanks to a writer’s strike. But, the following seasons were profound. And, the best cliffhanger of all times in television occurred at the end of the third season when Captain Picard appeared on the Enterprise view screen and said, “I am Locutus of Borg”. Read the rest of this entry
I was examining the presents under our Christmas tree, anxiously wondering if my parents had gotten me what I had asked for Christmas when Erik Sevareid made a troubling announcement. I turned to our brand new color television and watched as the aging news anchor announced to the world that Walt Disney had died. It was Thursday, December 15, 1966. My heart sank and I collapsed in the middle of the floor. Uncle Walt was dead? How could this be?
And so it was that on that day, my future died.
I’m old enough to say I totally geeked out over the X-Files television show back in the 90’s. In fact, I would put myself right up there with Spooky Mulder in saying, “I want to Believe!”. I grew up in the countryside outside of the tiny hamlet of Blanchard, Louisiana and my night skies were brilliant and clear. There were many nights I would take an old blanket out and place it on the ground, recline and just watch the stars go by. Many times, I would see meteorites falling to the Earth streaking across the sky in brief brilliance. I watched as satellites blinked and slowly made their way across the darkness. One night, in coordination with a broadcast on network television, I watched one of the Gemini spacecraft soar across the heavens, a tiny blinking white dot against the cosmos.
I yearned, I longed, I even prayed to see a UFO. Just once, I wanted a flying saucer to land on my front lawn. Back then, aliens were not quite as hostile in their fictional depiction. It was the age of Progress, a time enlightened by the success of the American space program. Our hope was the stars. Our future lay beyond the solar system. Star Trek promised a future Utopian society where racism, sexism, disease, hunger, and strife were a thing of the past. If we could only get out there! And, in our unyielding optimism, we knew that friendly, highly educated aliens were just waiting for us to mature to a level that could withstand the truth of their existence.
I just posted this on my Conquering Depression blog so I wanted to share it with my reading followers.
My wife, at diverse times, is convinced I am crazy.
Okay, so maybe my behavior, at diverse times, is consistent with her conclusion. For instance, it was mid February. Sherry and I had just returned from a much needed break, a trip to Orlando to relax and have fun and visit our dear friends Mark and Donna Sutton. On a Wednesday afternoon, Mark and I spent several hours brainstorming a devotion book to accompany “Hope Again”. In a rather alarming revelation, Mark told me he had gone to have a check up the day before and his doctor wanted to keep him overnight for a cardiac treadmill. But, Mark told them he had to keep his appointment with me! Wait a minute, I said. You refused a treadmill because you might have heart problems so you could meet with me?
I’ve wanted to write a post after seeing Cinderella. I was so afraid it would be another Maleficent. But, Rebecca Reynolds, writing for the Rabbit Room has said it more clearly and in a more moving way than I could ever write it down. Check out her post. Now! Quickly before we lose hope again!
The last entry from my upcoming booklet, “Our Darkness, His Light”.
(This Beautiful Image from this site by Brian Doc Reed.)
BLINDED BY THE LIGHT
Simon heard a noise and the door to his house burst open. He sat upright on his pallet, his eyes still filled with sleep, as the bright sunlight gushed into the room. A figure stood in the doorway, eclipsing the sunlight.
The figure remained silent, silhouetted against the bright light and he stepped into the room. Motes of dust swirled in the air, as the man stepped up to the pallet and looked down at Simon.
Simon stood slowly and squinted at the man’s face. The man was dressed in rich, royal robes with gold chains around his neck and he wore a hat with jewels on it. His face was very severe, dark, with glistening eyes and a jet black beard. A finger covered with jeweled rings pointed in accusation and he was pushed roughly in the chest back against the stone wall of his bedroom.
“Are you Simon, the Christian?” The man’s harsh voice echoed in the room.
This is my eighth entry from my upcoming booklet, “Our Darkness, His Light” and raised the question that changed the world, “What if a dead man could come back from the dead?”
THE UNWELCOME VISITOR
A knock at the door. Martemeus looked up from the darkness of the room. The knock came again, insistent, unrelenting. Fear filled his heart and he shuddered. Outside, the sky hung like clotted blood. Rain cascaded from swollen clouds, and the earth trembled as if in labor. He did not want to open the door. He did not want to embrace the unknown. He huddled closer to the meager light of his lamp, pulling his cloak about him against the cool, damp air.
Who was at the door? A friend? Unlikely. A stranger? Perhaps. A foe? Certainly. In these times, to answer the knock at the door was folly. It might let in death. Rap, rap, rap.
“Martemeus, let me in.” A faint voice. He glanced up from his corner at the rough hewn wood of the door. Thunder shook the walls again. Could it be? Impossible! He stood shakily and crossed to the door. His hand, shaking with fear, reached to the latch.
The door swung open on a gust of rain-filled wind and she stood there. White linen draped her figure, hanging from her head, wet with rain. Her face gleamed in the lamp light with moisture and she stepped into the warmth of his home.
“Martemeus.” Her voice was soft.
Here is the seventh entry from my upcoming booklet “Our Darkness, His Light”. These events would have historically occurred on Good Friday.
Cletus pushed the broom across the worn tiles, straining to get at the blood. Skritch, skritch, skritch. A sound he had come to endure, repeated all day, every day for the last twenty years. My, how filthy the floor was. Especially after yesterday’s record crowd. Again, he scratched at the blood soaked deep into the mortar between the tiles. Black, aged, dried from years of shed blood, the tiles would never be clean. The blood could never be removed. It was there forever. And everyday, the people came, strewing dirt and straw and leaves across his carefully scrubbed floor. And every evening, he cleaned. Skritch, skritch, skritch.
The never ending pattern of his sweeping was well rehearsed. He could do it in his sleep. He always began in the back corner and ended up near the curtain. Today, he had been fortunate. The usual crowds were gone. The vast chamber empty. They were all out there, watching the show. He did not complain. It gave him the opportunity to finish his task earlier. Perhaps tonight, he would get home before sunset.