There’s No Expiration Date on My First Book by Nina Faye Morey

While my novel’s first draft flowed nimbly onto the paper from the nib of my pen, my second is stumbling unsteadily across my keyboard. But I’m not going to let myself get bent out of shape on account of this snail’s pace. The way I look at it, there’s no expiration date on my first book.

The slow progress of my novel is mainly due to getting sidetracked by an offer that seemed just too good to refuse. I honestly did try to decline it a couple of times to stay focused on my novel. But when the offer reappeared for possibly the third and final time, I decided God must have had a hand in it.

For the Lord of hosts has planned, and who will annul it?

His hand is stretched out and who will turn it back?

~ Isaiah 14:27 NRSV

You see, I’d always dreamed of writing for and editing a magazine. The writing side had already become a reality, but I’d begun to think the editing side was destined to remain in the dream category. Unless I founded a magazine of my own. Believe me, that thought—temptation—has occurred to me more than once in my lifetime. So, long story short, I accepted the offer to be the editor of InScribe’s FellowScript magazine.

Even though it’s a quarterly publication, working as FellowScript’s editor eats up a substantial portion of my time. So that means I’m often forced to let my novel rest undisturbed in my desk drawer for extended periods. But I view this editing opportunity as another one of those life experiences that will only serve to enrich my writing in the long run.

Frequently, I see those lists of bright, young, up-and-coming authors, who are celebrated as “the ones to watch.” But just because I’m getting a few grey hairs doesn’t mean I’m past my “best before” date. I like to think I’m still in the “prime of life,” and it’s not too late for me to achieve success as an author. Besides, just think of all the life experiences I’m accumulating along the way to write about. Despite having already passed me on the path to publication, those bright, young prodigies are still far behind me on the road of life.

I would hardly be alone in writing and publishing my first book rather late in life. Several successful authors have proven it’s still possible to find the path to publication in later years. These “late bloomers” have had their first book published after age 40, 50, or even 60. After all, “late” is a comparative term. Late as opposed to . . . ? Besides, I don’t believe creativity has an expiry date either.

I can think of several “mature” authors who’ve inspired me over the years. When I was a youngster, one of my favourite books was Black Beauty by Anna Sewell. She wrote this beloved children’s classic in her last decade of life, and it wasn’t published until she was 57. Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote and published her first book, Little House in the Big Woods, when she was 65. Like me, she’d written for some periodicals in her fifties, but her novel writing didn’t really get off the ground until her retirement years. One author who certainly proved it’s never too late is Millard Kaufman, who published his first novel, Bowel of Cherries at age 90.

As you can see, there’s no time limit on achieving your writerly dreams. So write, write, write; edit, revise, and repeat; and stop worrying about still not having made your way through the door of that publishing house. Just relax, take your time, enjoy the ride, and never give up on your dream.

Photo Credits: Best Before Date - Nina Faye Morey; All Other Photos - Pixabay

Engaging A New Genre by Bryan Norford

I generally focus on non-fiction, and, if I’m honest, I’ve always been sceptical of fiction as “telling stories” rather than “telling the truth.” You can interpret that anyway you wish! That, despite the fact that Jesus was perhaps the greatest recorded “story-teller” of history.

Jesus’ genius was finding spiritual application from the everyday things that surrounded him: sheep, seeding, and so on, and the endless variety of human foibles. In contrast, an inadequate imagination has always been my handicap.

But back to my non-fiction fixation. I wanted to write a book detailing the reasons I’m a Christian. I’d have no difficulty in filling many chapters. And if I did, I’d eventually have one book in ten thousand that no-one wanted to read, and perhaps exalted me well above my rank.

But slowly the ideas of fiction began to gel in my mind, partly as Ann and I started writing our war stories. It was necessary to include some fiction categories to complete the stories and make them readable. Something towards, but, I hoped, short of full dramatization

The idea of combining the virtues of the faith with a novel began to take root and make sense; something centuries of fiction writers already knew. First, I wrote a short story—about 6000 words, perhaps not so short—in response to a competition, for which I received a polite “thankyou.” Damned by faint praise!

Then I wrote a novel—about 70,000 words—incorporating my ideas. It was an enjoyable experience; with the characters and the plot often taking on a life of their own. A good writer friend read it and suggested it “wasn’t a page turner,” and I should “reduce it by a third”!

However, I was already beginning to see major problems with it, and a few fiction workshops confirmed my concerns and added a few more. I was finding out, by the writing itself, and what I learned since, fiction has a lot more constraints surrounding it that at first thought.

Surprising, for surely, here is a genre where even the sky isn’t the limit; it gives freedom to go beyond imagination, and liberty (license?) to say whatever I want. Yet even fiction must follow guidelines if its intended audience will pick it up and read. And those guidelines change constantly, decade by decade.

However, the idea of a novel lives on in my bucket list, but next time with far more wisdom and appreciation of the art. And with the numerous recognized fiction writers as mentors in InScribe and The Word Guild, it could become a meaningful creation.

The Adam & Eve Project Prologue by Donna Fawcett

Thought I'd give you a sample of the newly released novel featured in Word Alive's promotion.

Prologue

In the underground bunker the voices bounced hollowly, like floating apparitions of sound. It was 1940 and the German war machine was smashing its way boldly through Western Europe. Poland was occupied. The Germans had flanked the Maginot line entering Holland without as much as a warning. Britain sat itself squarely in Belgium, like a steadfast bulldog prepared to guard new territory. Japan turned its eyes on the vastness of the South Pacific, hungering for the expansion of her mighty empire, and Itally ceased waffling between the Axis powers and the Allies, firmly deciding to join with the nearest geographical might.

But in the bowels of the earth none of this was of importance at the moment. No one knew of this particular hole in the dirt. Far below the titanic conflict that threatened to destroy all that lived and moved in this European corner of the world nestled a conglomerate of rooms tied together by narrow and dimly lit halls. The rooms were proportionate only to the ability of their stabilizing structures in the effort to keep the tons of dirt above from swallowing them, but even still, they were large enough to host small groups of scheming and heavy thinking men who enjoyed their strutting and crowing before the red and black banner of the Nazi movement. The thick language of the German people chopped through one room in particular, anger and dissatisfaction crashing against the steel walls like relentless mortar shells.

"What do you mean, you had to stop the Project? How do you know for certain that anyone is aware of the complex?"

The Fuehrer jumped to his feet, knocking the chair back in his tirade, a lock of unruly dark hair flopping across the tense forehead and spittle flecking the corners of his mouth. His eyes were wild with an instant fear and fury as he faced the possibility that his lifelong dream might be discovered by the enemy. Drawing a calming breath, the man struggled to control his infamous temper, and reached down to upright the chair. He sat slowly again, like a snake lowering itself into its coils before the strike. Glittering eyes scanned the faces in the room, noting with a strange satisfaction that no one would return his intense stare. That was good. They feared him.

The young officer who had brough the message stood straight as a rod, but Adoph Hitler could see that the lad was terrified. He wouldn't be the first one the leader of Germany had shot for delivering an unfavourable message. Hitler narrowed his eyes and looked closely at the young man. Perfect. Beautiful. Foundation stock. Why is he not part of The Project?

He eyed the second lieutenant like a predator would assess its next meal. The man was easily six feet tall and built solidly. Deep azure eyes drilled holes in the far wall, never wavering. Hair, so blonde--almost white--and silky, covered his head in a thick and wavy carpet. His skin was fair like a woman's and his cheeks were tinted with a bright red, telling all in the room that he feared the attention of his Fuehrer.

"What's your name, Leutnant?" He pronounced the German equivalent rank as 'loy-ten-nant.'

"Eric, Mien Fuehrer. Eric Schneider," the young man said in an even, steady voice.

"What part do you have in the Project?" The words purred through the room and a few of the Generals shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

"I was in charge of security, Mien Fuehrer."

"I see." He was suddenly amused by the craftiness of The Project's chief scientist. The fat old man was a genius in diplomacy and politics as much as he was in his particular scientific field. If the French had discovered the whereabouts of the experimental laboratory, it was because of this young man's inability to do his job correctly, and the aging scientist would make certain the punishment didn't land on his own doorstep. Pity such a lovely specimen of the Aryan race had to be so incompetent. He watched as the man swallowed hard, the fine forehead beading with perspiration.


To find out how it all ends, look for the Adam & Eve Project in your local Christian Book Store through Word Alive Press. OK so I couldn't help promoting:)

The Opening Scene - Marcia Laycock

This is the opening scene to my novel, One Smooth Stone. It's about the fourth or fifth time I've changed it, but I'm quite happy with it at this point, and so is my editor. Any and all comments are most welcome. :) Marcia

Alex Donnelly was alone. That’s how he wanted it. He told himself that’s how he liked it. That was a lie.

He twisted the throttle on the boat motor to the off position, leaned back, pulled his floppy-brimmed river hat off his head and turned his face toward the sun. The silted water hissed against the bottom and sides of the boat. A breeze tussled his thick black hair. He heard a hawk whistle from a high cliff and squinted to watch it plummet from its perch.

Closing his eyes, he slumped low. He would let the current take him home. He had all day and there wasn’t anyone waiting for him, except his dogs. They’d howl their welcome in anticipation of food but Alex knew there was no love lost between them.

The hawk whistled again and Alex opened his eyes, letting them fill with the sweeping green hills and wide brown Yukon River. As the boat caught and circled in a whirlpool he dipped his hand into the cold flow. Two minutes, he’d been told. If he fell in – or jumped – it would take two minutes for this river to kill him. He knew it was true because it had almost happened. He’d been looking for the cabin where he now lived, had beached at the mouth of the wrong creek and decided to wade to the other side to search for a trail. Half way across he realized he was in trouble. It was deeper than he’d thought and his legs were giving out. Then the bottom dropped off completely and he’d had to swim. He barely made it to the shore in time; he couldn’t stand when he got there. His legs were useless for several minutes, even though the sun was high and hot that day. He remembered he’d shivered for two days.

His eyes caught the gray shifting of mist in the rift of a small valley far ahead as thick clouds spilled their burden of moisture down toward the river. He could smell it as the wind brought the fragrance of poplar toward him. The trees on the banks seemed to turn their leaves toward it. He pulled his hat back on and shrugged into an old slicker. As the rain came toward him he started the motor and steered the boat closer to shore. He knew a wind could come up strong enough to keep him at a stand-still. He snorted as he thought about that. It was the story of his life right now. Standing still. But at least he wasn’t running anymore. He wondered how long it would last.

Just before the rain hit him a sudden shifting of light curved over the hills in a faint rainbow. God’s promise. Funny how he always thought that when he saw a rainbow. Someone somewhere must have said it to him. He pulled his hat down and cut the motor again, to listen, as the first softness of rain touched him. Everything around him seemed to whisper. He breathed deeply and almost smiled. Out here a person could almost want to believe in God and promises. Almost.