What is Behind Door # Two?

A PRIZE FOR YOU!

This might be premature of me, however, I am submitting the first page of my second novel to a "First Page" contest at the Orane County Christian Writer's Conference at the end of the month. I am looking for critiques, my friends!

FREE CONTEST~There is a prize involved for the most helpful comment! A Steve Green CD--brand new--titled "For God and God Alone" or maybe a million dollars...it depends on which I can lay my hands on first.

So, here's the rules.
1) Read page one of my new book (below)
2) Write a comment that would be helpful to me as the author in the comment section of this post. In one week, I will decide which comments are helpful and have a drawing for the CD. I will post the winning comment and send the CD on that day. Easy!

Book 2
Chapter One


Willow left her restaurant five minutes before seven, erroneously thinking that ample time to arrive. She slid onto the driver’s seat of her VW van which she then rolled down the snow-packed main street of Sage Meadows, Oregon. Five minutes should have been plenty of time to drive five blocks to the town center, but tonight, revelers slowed traffic to a stroller’s pace.

Having moved to the area less than a year before, Willow had no idea that tourists came in droves for the western town’s quaint tree lighting ceremony. Who would have guessed?

As her van crawled by the gathering, she strained to find an empty spot. Nothing. She did see plenty of scarves, hats, and mittens—all red—in theme of the season. How original, she thought. A Suburban behind her honked with impatience. Willow jumped, cursed, and sped on.

She finally found a space at the curb, two blocks away. She still radiated internal heat from the fast pace she kept in the restaurant kitchen, so her wool pea coat hung open and her alpaca muffler and cap bulged from her pockets as she trotted toward the festivities. Her thick wool socks slipped in her Birkenstocks with each slap-slap on the street. The gravel truck had been through that day spewing fresh volcanic ash gathered from the surrounding Cascade mountains. The tiny stones peppered the snow, providing better traction for vehicles and walkers.

As she neared the crowd, she could hear high-pitched laughter and mellow murmurs ripple through the chilled air. Children’s voices steamed from their chapped lips as they argued for the best spot on the hay bales that formed a circle around a towering evergreen.

How am I going to find Mum in all of these people? Willow’s mouth curved up from either side of the lip ring in the middle of her lower lip. Her heart still soared when she thought of her good luck at finally finding her birth mother. Had it really been only three months since they met?

Mt Hermon Christian Writer's Conference

I haven't written much about the conference I am attending at Mt Hermon in April because I have been working on writing for the conference. And now there are only two weeks before I hit the road for the Santa Cruz Mountains. Wow! I'm so excited!

I have probably spent more time writing and rewriting than I ever have in a thirty day period of time. It feels good to know I can do it. I've sent off two proposals for editors at the conference to consider for publication. Although, I have been warned repeatedly not to expect to sell anything at the conference (I am assured conference contacts and networking are as valuable)I am poised to publish Julia, one way or the other.

It's nice to believe in a work enough to make that statement. There are few other things in life of which I am as sure that Julia's time has come. Isn't that bold (and maybe foolish of me?)

I'm sure that one reason I feel this way is that I am ready to move on. Besides the sequel to Julia, which I am well into, I have a hankering to write screen plays. So, Julia needs to move over to the "finished" category.

Mt. Hermon is doing an excellent job of matching up buddies to help first time attenders (me) and assigning mentors. I am thrilled to say that Brandilyn Collins (mystery writer) is my and 7 other people's mentor. We will meet as a small group to critique each other's book in progress. What a great help this will be!

I'll update the blog from there with details of the conference in mid April. For now, I better return to my rewriting!

First Page of Julia

I'm submitting the first 250 words of my book, Julia, to this contest(cut from Brenda Drake's blog, http://brenleedrake.blogspot.com/)

I've really enjoyed this proces. Thanks, Brenda!

Name: Shelley L. Houston
Title: Julia
Genre: Suspense/Relational Drama

Looking up from her cell phone, she saw racing toward her the highway guard rail and cavernous cliff beyond. Dropping the phone, Julia clinched the steering wheel with both hands and simultaneously stomped the brake as she wrenched the wheel to the left. The boxy Scion careened around the curve of the mountain pass and then righted in the lane, rocking slightly from side to side.

“Schnikies!” Julia's veins coursed with adrenalin. I wanted to get there before dark, but arriving in one piece is good, too. She laughed at herself and rotated the tension from her shoulders.

Glancing in the rear view mirror she checked to see if anyone had seen her. No one. Good. But she did see the sun hanging low over a sawtooth ridge of evergreens silhouetted against a blood orange sky. Wow. Literally awesome. She inserted Beethoven’s Fifth in the CD player to match the mood.

After Julia drove another five minutes, she caught a great view of Mt. Washington on her right. The mountain’s single tower jutted from massive rock shoulders. Only a few dirty patches remained of last year's snow. Summer had demanded its due.

Summers can do that. Her mind flashed to last year's tragic June when her mother’s obituary listed Julia as “sole survivor.” The phrase still echoed in her brain like a call from the bottom of a well. Would her own obituary report she had no survivors?

“That was then. This is now.” She chanted this as if reciting a mantra.

First Tuesday Post

Time to update my blogging friends. I am committing to once a week blogging—on Tuesdays.

In the last month I have been spending large periods of time writing or related activities. In the last few weeks, at least eight hours a day. The motivation is conferences. Two in April, Mt. Hermon Christian Writer’s Conference and Orange County Christian Writer’s conference. All kinds of doubts and hopes fill my thoughts about these events. I will be as honest as I can about those and try to document the outcomes for the benefit of readers. I am realizing I really should have done research with other authors before committing to go. So, here are my “wonders.”

I am wondering:
1) Will the $1200+ for one and the $900+ for the other really be worth the contacts, networking, and counsel I will receive by participation? That is without an actual book contract. I am not counting on that, although, of course, that would be the highest outcome—or would it?

2) This is a hard one…I don’t know how to state it. Somehow there seems to be what I’m going to call a “Christian Publishing Culture.” I’m not well acquainted with it, but it seems a club of people prefer each other, I’ll say. Is it inbred or can new comers break in? More on this later.

3) Are there “on years” and “off years” for conferences that I should have known about before committing?

4) Most importantly to me, is this really what God has in mind for my writing? To pursue this Christian Publishing industry as my venue?

5) What to wear!? Shallow as it seems, I asked this question of a group of writer friends I have on Facebook. The answers were helpful—casual can mean jeans and nice shirt, but remember, you are meeting your potential boss/clients. One woman, who is a long time professional says she always wears a blazer.

Egan Warming Center--Join Me?

It was a bad night. I frequently have trouble sleeping, but when my alarm went off at 5:00 A.M., I viewed my couple hours sleep with contempt. I forced a smile at my husband who scurried past me to dress for our morning task—the Egan Warming Center. We were due at 5:30 to relieve the night crew.

Why did I agree to this? I brushed my teeth, washed my face, swiped a comb through my hair, and blinked at my reflection. Perhaps no one would recognize me…

As I lumbered out the door, the cold slapped me fully conscious. I then thought, some of the one thousand homeless people in our county probably slept outside last night. Maybe they shivered, even now, under some bridge. I decided not to think about that.

The church windows glowed as I pulled into the parking lot. There, some of our “customers” stood with their cigarette smoke evaporating into the darkness. I nodded to them as I walked by, which a few returned. One man glanced my way but looked too weary to nod.

As I entered the church, the smell of hopelessness offended my senses. I greeted fellow workers but, internally, I staggered under the feeling of desolation that so many homeless experience. Then, inexplicably, a fire to survive surged through me. I wanted to overflow with love—God’s love, which I so often take for granted.

My task was actually easy. I handed out plastic bags in which people stored their bedding. Then the bags were marked so they received the same bedding the next night. Easy.

“Good morning! How’d you sleep? Would you like a bus pass? Yes, there’s dry socks for you. Now, get a good breakfast.” I managed smiles of comfort and words of encouragement.

I had difficulty maintaining that character as all ninety people filed by, some with frostbitten faces, rashes, or scrapes. One man burned with fever.
I greeted the next young man in line, “Good morning, James.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome! Could you use a bus pass?”

His eyes searched mine as he took the pass. He had something to say. I waited. His hands fussed with his jacket. His mouth opened, but his voice broke. I smiled, encouragingly. “Would you like some socks?”

He shook his head. “Just—thank you.” He fidgeted a little more and started to turn away but then, he found the words and turned back. “It means so much for you to do this. Thank you.” Tears welled in his eyes.

Shame flooded through me as I recalled my grumbling that morning and my distaste as I arrived.

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Thank you. It’s a blessing to be here.”

“For I was hungry and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger and you invited Me in; naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.”

“Then the righteous will answer Him, ‘Lord, when did we see You…’”

“The King will answer and say to them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me.’”

Last September I volunteered to help a local Christian school with their annual fundraiser. The school development director asked me if I would acquire items and services for the scholarship auction. I cannot remember exactly why I agreed to this. I know I wanted to serve the Lord, Jesus, and my heart had long desired a venue of education that would faithfully center in God’s truth. I was impressed with the world view of Lifegate Christian High School and Middle School, but I wondered if begging for donations from the community was really how God wanted me to spend the hours of my days.

God called me to write. I know this. I stumbled through the logistics of this miss-match of efforts, writing and begging—even for a good cause, and assured myself I would only work with Lifegate a few hours a week, organizing the efforts of many, and continue to write full-time. Didn’t happen. But the lessons I learned while completing the task for Lifegate, will spur me on to more confident writing.

By October I realized that being “Acquisitions Chair” pretty much meant I was it. Parents and staff were busy and volunteers would rather do just about anything before acquisitions. I wrote in the school newsletter that, although I was hoping that the people of the school would be helpful in obtaining items on which to bid, if they couldn’t help, they could at least pray and the “zeal of the Lord” would provide what the school needed to make the auction a success. I remember that the phrase came to mind as I was hastily tapping out the news item for the auction update column.

As I typed, I stopped in mid-stroke. Did I really mean that? That the zeal of the Lord would complete the task? I reviewed the origin of the phrase—Isaiah, I thought. The coming of the Christ to provide out salvation. Yep, I decided. I meant it. I knew He was our only hope in the eternal and in this temporal challenge as well.
The few hours a week became many. My schedule, my house, and my mind became cluttered with tasks to complete, people to talk to, and stuff. Oh, the stuff! Even my car stored boxes and bags of tagged and cellophane covered baskets of trinkets an d treasures. I entered stores and talked to people I never before encountered just to ask for more nick-knacks. Some responded with distain, some with grace, but four times more than both reactions combined, my requests met with bored apathy.

When I wasn’t working actively on acquiring, I dreamed of what could be. Cruises, diamonds, gas grills, and sides of beef. No earthly pleasure was left unconsidered. And when the donations came, I cheered! The things felt like mine, and I rejoiced, even though I began detesting the actual stuff, I felt rich with the satisfaction of the goals being met—our prayers being answered.

I like living in the center of God’s plan. The night of the auction, the school netted almost double the amount they had done in the past. And I realized that God had pulled many people and items together. Living in God's plan gaurantees my efforts as worthwhile.

I'm thinking I want to write with the same focus--looking for God's hand to lead me in His plan. When I first began to write I worried because so little money can be expected in writing. A counselor, Kyle Leitdke, instructed, "Write. Let God worry about publishing,"

Now that I am at the get-it-in-print phase of these books (yes, that's now plural), I consider what efforts I should be making to make this happed. However, if I follow the lesson I have learned with the auction, I realize that God will certainly print these books in His own zeal, not mine.

Stories after midnight

The bad news is I didn't keep my goal of writing from the last post--more bad news, insomnia has returned, caused by too much pain to sleep. The good news? I am writing in the middle of the night!

When I wake with pain in my ankle, knee and/or hip, I try rolling over to change positions first and sometimes return to sleep. I'll give this process about 20 minutes before I stand up (painful at first, but then the pain goes away as long as I stand--sometimes sitting with my feet on the floor will work too.) I'm detailing the process to explain how I came to think of moving a laptop to the kitchen couter. There I can stand and type, removing the physical pain from my body and replacing the frustration of not sleeping with the joy of having quite writing time. If sitting works, I can sit at my desk and sometimes do that, but several nights this last week I wrote for an hour, once an hour and a half, as I stood in the kitchen.

I consider this progress in my writing "career." Also, the night writings inspire me to continue durng the next day, completing a scene or idea and thinking of "what next."

OK. So, I would prefer to return to writing first thing in the morning, and still hope to do so. But mornings sometimes start at 9:30! That's the equivalent of everyone else's noon to me.

Still, I'm feeling on the rise in the writing process. I like the sequel that I am writing better than the first in the "series." (Wow! That feels so presumptuous to say when I am on the 5th chapter of the first sequel.) Still, good to have dreams.

My next short term goal? To complete writing the story through Christmas before Christmas comes in real life--this year!

Back to work!

OK. I'm committing to writing five days a week. It seems counterproductive to do this two days before Thanksgiving. Do I really have the time? I think I want to prove to myself that this can be done regardless of the times in which I live.

I was reading Lewis who was saying the importance of continuing on with one's academic pursuits of truth, even in the middle of a war. It would be so easy to excuse oneself when the world, and closer to home, the walls are crumbling around you, literally.

So, 4 hours minimum, 5 days a week. Lets' see if it can be done.

A second pebble...

From my war satchel of wisdom comes another thought:

I can not achieve the ultimate goal of life, which is, by the way, Life itself.

I used to think I could, should, and definitely would obtain that prize. I thought I deserved it for being so good. People adored me because I was so cute. And all good things would come to me since I was so unjustly mistreated.

When I was about nine I went to Gillespie Pool in our neighborhood of El Cajon, California. My siblings were with me, somewhere, but the pool teamed with all manner of swim-capped girls and buzzed-cut boys, so we were soon separated. Nothing is quite so lonely as a child in an independent crowd of children.

But, I lived many days alone in my mind and now, comfortably developed a game for myself. I would swim across the pool, without stopping, taking as few of breaths as possible. It was a goal. Not a life's goal, but a huge task since I was a new swimmer. I decided to swim in water over my head, since fewer children played there.

I swam hard. One breath, two, then three, then...someone caught me by the ankle. It must be my sister, but I turned to see a teenage boy. I smiled. Did he want to play? Then I saw his face cloud dark with anger. He spit water as he spoke. "Watch where you're going!" He twisted my foot in his two hands, wrenching my ankle.

Searing pain shot from my foot to my knee. Fear and confusion washed over me as I sunk beneath the water. I couldn't get my bearings at first and then struggled to reach the surface. What if he was still there, waiting to hurt me again?

I couldn't remember how to swim. I sunk again and choked on the water as I opened my mouth to cry out from the pain and the humility. I don't know how I made my way to the edge of the pool. I hung from the side,crying mournfully as children screamed with fun around me. I peered from time to time in each direction, wondering if the my attacker would return.

I don't know to this day what happened to that poor kid. Had I unknowingly kicked him in the groin? It was a crowded pool. Maybe someone else did and he thought it me--I can't say. He was too mad for me to think his fury wasn't based on some injustice or harm. But, at the time, I only knew I had been stomped by a big kid--even though I was cute and worthy of his long-suffering.

How quick we are to dismiss our own short-comings.

My efforts to perfect my swimming techniques were trashed. And oddly, no matter the fervency and sober righteousness of my training and goal setting, I actually brought about my own failure--I guess. I mean, maybe there is a man somewhere in the world who lost a testicle in Gillespie Pool that day! Maybe I kicked right by him, totally unaware of the grief I had caused.

Who knows?

But this I do know- We all fall short of the glory of God. And that truth, my dear walking friend,is why I know none of us will reach that ultimate finish line--not wihtout intervention.

Long Hand

I miss writing with a pen.

One time, many years ago, I told a friend that I could not think without a pen in my hand. I long for the days that the inspiration from a stick-in-hand could fill a page, or even just my head, with order and light.

Mrs. Alexander, my composition teacher at Grossmont Junior College, promised we undergrads that if we would order our thoughts on paper, we would benefit from the exercise with clear thinking. Tall, slender, and fashionably dressed, I believed her. As I recall, she would straighten giant-framed, Yves St Lauren glasses on her nose while changeling bracelets danced on her wrist.

I remember, in particular a pale pink dress with a white lace collar. You have to believe someone wearing a white lace collar, after all. And, she was right.

I chose to leave her class for a full-time job managing a sweater store. I hated to leave. She knew that. She asked me why I made that choice. I said my husband was in school and we needed the money. She nodded and said I was a good writer. Then she told me she wouldn't be there next semester as she had cancer.

I'm not sorry I left school to return to work full time, but...sometimes I wonder.

You were a beautiful woman, Mrs. Alexander. Thanks for the tip.