THE HOBGOBLINS--Now Available for Preorder!

I am delighted to announce the release of my latest book, THE HOBGOBLINS, a novel on John Bunyan. I managed to write the first draft in a whirlwind of only seven weeks--right in the early weeks of the pandemic hysteria. 

I thought I loved John Bunyan before writing The Hobgoblins, but now I love him to an incalculable degree. His entire life is an enactment of God's way in the gospel: God chooses the foolish to confound the wise (I Cor 1), the younger brother over the elder, the things that are of no account and are mocked and scorned by the world--these are precious in the sight of our God and Savior.

That was Bunyan, a poor, peasant tinker, with little formal education, surrounded by the Puritan age, an age of great piety, of great learning and erudition, and of great literary accomplishment. And along comes humble Bunyan, his life transformed by the power of the gospel, and, undaunted, he preaches, and suffers, and writes, including penning the best-selling book of all time (next to the English Bible), never out of print since 1678, The Pilgrim's Progress (ignore JK Rowling claims to have exceeded Bunyan; it took her seven books to his one; that's not how it works).

Some of my readers may wonder where on earth I got a title like The Hobgoblins; some may even be offended by the title. Like everything else in my newest historical fiction book set in 17th century Elstow and Bedford, I plundered Bunyan's own writings and vocabulary. In his classic Pilgrim Hymn, sung by Valiant-for-Truth in the second book of Pilgrim's Progress, Bunyan includes the lines:

“Hobgoblin nor foul fiend

Can daunt his spirit;

He knows he at the end

Shall life inherit!”

So, if you don't like the word Hobgoblins, I invite you to take it up with Bunyan himself! 

Having taught Pilgrim's Progress and Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners for many years, I have long wanted to write a book about Bunyan, but other projects always seemed to get in the way. Until God ordained a pandemic and the residual lock down and and suspension of ordinary life (little did I know then just how much suspension of ordinary life it would be for me). My travel schedule halted abruptly, and so I decided that now was the time to write on Bunyan. There was something else going on in my mind too. Because Bunyan is so important to the Church, I wanted this book to be my very best work, so I kept deferring it, pushing it forward, hoping to be the best writer I could be before taking it on, stalling, procrastinating--whatever it was. Until now. 

Musing on my best way to write the book, I finally hit on the idea of starting with Elstow Abbey today and a real person, my good friend Licensed Lay Minister, John Hinson who agreed to have something of a bit more than a cameo appearance in the opening chapters of the book. That is, until he takes a significant tumble down the narrow circular stairway up the 13th century bell tower next to the Abbey, and in his steepling plunge unearths a tin box containing a manuscript. Readers of Hostage Lands and The Betrayal are thinking, he's done this before. Yes, but not since 2009, and as those are two of my best-selling books, I decided it was time again. The story unfolds from the pen of Harry Wylie, a fellow rogue in blasphemy with Bunyan in their youth, and a man Bunyan actually mentions once in Grace Abounding, every writer of historical fiction's dream character. Harry goes on to be the benevolent jailer later in the story, but, convinced that people don't change, he was always bewildered by his friend, especially Bunyan's intrepid stand against bishops, episcopal church government, magistrates, and King Charles II. With increased secular pressures against Christians and the Church today, there are enormous implication from Bunyan's stand before kings and magistrates, suffering in prison for conscience sake in the 17th century, and our call to honor the king and to obey God rather than man in our own day.

If you would like to listen to me reading a sample chapter (4) from the book click here. While you're there, please subscribe and share the site with your friends and family. 

Today is the day! Pre-release day of The Hobgoblins! Every preorder will receive a free copy of my RISE & WORSHIP New Reformation Hymns album. AND! The first ten book orders today will receive a 2-for-1, 2 signed copies of THE HOBGOBLINS, the second copy for you to give to a family adversely impacted by the pandemic and the lock down. 

 

When and How Do Christians Protest Against Injustice?

Why does God choose the foolish to confound the wise?

We've seen protests in the streets of cities all across American in the last week, protests that have erupted into mayhem and violence, more evil, more injustice, and more death.

I am unapologetically a Protestant Christian, finding my spiritual and theological roots in the Protestant Reformation. Did you notice the word protest in the word Protestant? When and how do Christians go about taking their stand, protesting against falsehood, injustice, and evil? I've been thinking a great deal about this in the last two months as I have been writing about the life of John Bunyan. 

The last seven weeks have been an absolute delight for me as a writer. I thought I loved John Bunyan before writing The Hobgoblins of John Bunyan, but now I love him to an incalculable degree. His entire life is an enactment of God's way in the gospel: God chooses the foolish to confound the wise (I Cor 1), the younger brother over the elder, the things that are of no account and are mocked and scorned by the world--these are precious in the sight of our God and Savior.

That was Bunyan, a poor, peasant tinker, with little formal education, surrounded by the Puritan age, an age of great piety, of great learning and erudition, and of great literary accomplishment. And along comes humble Bunyan, his life transformed by the power of the gospel, and, undaunted, he preaches, and suffers, and writes, including penning the best-selling book of all time (next to the English Bible), never out of print since 1678 (ignore JK Rowling claims to have exceeded Bunyan; it took her seven books to his one; that's not how it works).

Some of my readers may wonder where on earth I got a title like The Hobgoblins of John Bunyan; some may even be offended by the title. Like everything else in the forthcoming new historical fiction book set in 17th century Elstow and Bedford, I plundered Bunyan's own writings and vocabulary. In his classic Pilgrim Hymn, sung by Valiant-for-Truth in the second book of Pilgrim's Progress, Bunyan includes the lines:

“Hobgoblin nor foul fiend

Can daunt his spirit;

He knows he at the end

Shall life inherit!”

So, if you don't like the word Hobgoblins, I invite you to take it up with Bunyan himself. 

Having taught Pilgrim's Progress and Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners for many years, I have long wanted to write a book about Bunyan, but other projects always seemed to get in the way. Until God ordained a pandemic and the residual lock down and and suspension of ordinary life. My travel schedule halted abruptly, and so I decided that now was the time to write on Bunyan. There was something else going on in my mind too. Because Bunyan is so important to the church, I wanted this book to be my very best work, so I kept deferring it, pushing it forward, hoping to be the best writer I could be before taking it on, stalling, procrastinating--whatever it was. Until now. 

Musing on my best way to write the book, I finally hit on the idea of starting with Elstow Abbey today and a real person, my good friend Licensed Lay Minister, John Hinson who agreed to have something a bit more than a cameo appearance in the opening chapters of the book. That is, until he takes a significant tumble down the narrow circular stairway up the 13th century bell tower next to the Abbey, and in his steepling plunge unearths a tin box containing a manuscript. Readers of Hostage Lands and The Betrayal are thinking I've done this before. Yes, but not since 2009, and as those are two of my best-selling books, I decided it was time again. The story unfolds from the pen of Harry Bayly, a fellow rogue in blasphemy with Bunyan in their youth, and a man Bunyan actually mentions once in Grace Abounding, every writer of historical fiction's dream character. Harry goes on to be the benevolent jailer later in the story, but, convinced that people don't change, he was always bewildered by his friend, especially Bunyan's intrepid stand against bishops, episcopal church government, magistrates, and King Charles II. With increased secular pressures against Christians and the Church today, there are enormous -implication from Bunyan's stand before kings and magistrates, suffering in prison for conscience sake in the 17th century, and our call to honor the king and to obey God rather than man in our own day.

If you would like to listen to me reading a sample chapter (4) from the book click here. I invite you to listen to The Revolt, God's Servant Job, and The Resistance read by yours truly by clicking on the read aloud image on the home page at bondbooks.net. While you're there, please subscribe and share the site with your friends and family. Watch for more news about the release of The Hobgoblins of John Bunyan and how you can preorder your own signed copy.

Douglas Bond is author of thirty books, including The Resistance set in enemy occupied Normandy, and two-time Grace Award book finalist; he directs the Oxford Creative Writing Master Class, is an award-winning teacher, podcaster, speaker at conferences, and leader of Church history tours in Europe. Visit his website for special buy-3-get-1-free book deals and study guides at bondbooks.net

Lewis's Oxford and grave (he loved cats--especially lions!)

On this day, November 22, 1963, Aldous Huxley died in LA of an LSD overdose, JFK died in Dallas from an assassin's bullet to the head. And on the same day at The Kilns near Oxford, C. S. Lewis's devoted brother Warnie brought a cup of tea to his ailing younger brother. Moments later, Warnie heard a clattering fall. Lewis had tried to get out of bed but had collapsed. He died of kidney failure. "Men must endure their going hence," was the Shakespeare quotation from the calendar on the day Lewis's mother had died many years before when he was nine. Warnie had the words chiseled on his brother's grave marker in Holy Trinity churchyard in Headington Quarry where you can see them today.  Eclipsed by the high-profile deaths of the author of Brave New World and an American president, in the drenching November rain, only a handful of friends showed up for Lewis's funeral and burial. 

In a chapter of God Sings! (And Ways We Think He Ought To), I explore a number of the things C. S. Lewis wrote about congregational singing and hymns, by no means all complimentary. Early in his Christian experience, he thought the things his unsophisticated neighbors tried to sing in church were "fifth-rate poems set to sixth-rate music." He revised that as he matured spiritually. I conclude that chapter with the following:

LEWIS SINGS NOW

In a thrilling moment in The Magician’s Nephew, Lewis gives us a peek into the irrepressible force of music, perhaps what he truly longed for in singing. He has Aslan utter

"...a long single note; not very loud, but full of power. Polly’s heart jumped in her body when she heard it.

She felt sure that it was a call, and that anyone who heard that call would want to obey it and (what’s

more) would be able to obey it, however many worlds and ages lay between."

We can be pretty certain Lewis and his brother would not be bolting from their pew at the end of the church service and heading for the exit sign during that kind of anthem.

Though Lewis may have been overly opinionated about congregational singing in worship, and wanted “fewer, better, and shorter hymns,” over time he did come to see “the great merit” of the voice of the congregation, untrained, but singing from the heart, voices joining together, making a joyful noise unto the Lord.

Three hundred years before Lewis’s time, another Oxford-trained poet, Thomas Ken, wrote of glorified saints singing in heaven:

And hymns with the supernal choir

Incessant sing and never tire.

We’re safe to assume that C. S. Lewis is doing it as we speak, singing more, the best, and longest hymns, incessant ones, right next to the man in elastic side boots who used to sing out of tune, but now who sings more like how God himself sings.

Douglas Bond is author of Grace Works! (And Ways We Think It Doesn't) and twenty-seven other books of historical fiction, biography, devotion, and practical theology. He is lyricist for New Reformation Hymns, directs the Oxford Creative Writing Master Class, speaks at churches and conferences, and leads Church history tours in Europe. His book God Sings! (And Ways We Think He Ought To), from which this post is an excerpt, is available at bondbooks.net; order today and receive a free Rise and Worship cd.

The Literacy Crisis—The Way Forward? Go Back

60% of American students read below grade level

True confession. I am a slow reader. My wife blows through a book at three times my reading rate. While on a flight once, we found ourselves with only one book (pre E-book world, but more of that in a moment). She was drumming her fingers on the armrest when I was still solidly on the first page. She maintains that she remembers almost nothing of what she reads while I seem to retain much more. She retains more than she thinks; I wish I retained more than I do. Some of this is DNA.

My father had dyslexia and was held back in elementary school for the crime of writing in mirror image and reading too slowly. His writing looked fine to him and it worked better that way with his left hand. He read Scripture every morning with us, one word at a time. I was embarrassed when I had a friend over, but look back on it now, thirteen years after his homegoing, in an entirely different light: he was given the gift of being a slow reader and loved every word of it. He read God’s Word with such affection and appreciation—of every single word. When he was writing his doctoral dissertation, my mother (who reads like a hummingbird hovering over a hibiscus) read his source material out loud to him, he stroking his chin, nodding in thought, and jotting a note down here and there, his mind retaining and processing every word.

SCREEN TIME

Some of this is the way God has made us. But not all. I’ve often told my children and students that the more they watch movies and television and play video games the more it will destroy their creative imagination. Unlike a book where my imagination must be awake and doing its job: creating images, awakening my senses, getting me involved in the story; on the screen, it’s all done for me. I become a passive receptor not an active participant, and my imagination grows dull.

Screen time retards our reading ability. But not only our ability, our interest in reading wanes as a direct result of too much screen time. Recent studies are piling up that indicate there are many disadvantages to spending excessive time on screen, including anxiety, depression, and more serious mental health issues that are being correlated to screen addiction. Studies show that, while Americans check their phones on average seventeen times a day, we are reader fewer and fewer books.

I hate my phone. Some of my best days are when my battery dies early in the day and I don’t bother to plug the thing in. I catch grief later for not replying to a critical email or answering texts or private messages from those I love. But the day was bliss and imminently productive. As a writer I’m forced to spend far more time in front of a screen than I would like. I’d prefer a goose quill or, better yet, a hammer and chisel and a chunk of rock. But that’s not the world I live in. So, I sit here in Iceland where I began this article, awaiting my connecting flight to London typing on my laptop, and staring at these words magically popping up on the screen before my bloodshot eyes.

C. S. Lewis never learned to “drive a typewriter,” as he termed it, because he knew it would destroy his sense of rhythm. He wrote by hand with a dip pen and persuaded his devoted brother Warnie to drive the typewriter for him. But the screen removes us another giant step from the tactile world of the typewriter with its ink ribbon, levers and gadgets, and real paper.

HOW TO RETAIN LESS OF WHAT YOU READ

Because I find myself travelling quite a bit, and because I’m a firm believer in travelling light, I do read some books on my phone while flying. But I do so with great frustration. I never quite know where I am in the scope of the argument or story. However unscientific and unsophisticated it sounds, I retain much less when I read on a screen. For a time, I tried memorizing Scripture using my phone, but I discovered a significant barrier to my ability to retain, a barrier that was only broken when I returned to writing down the biblical passage on 3x5 cards. Call me a dinosaur.

I do occasionally read my Bible app on my phone, at the dentists, or while waiting to pick up one of my kids, or while flying. But, there again, it’s with enormous distraction and peril to my ability to retain what I’m reading. One reason is all those pop-up notifications telling me that so-and-so just got a new puppy, or posted a picture of what they’re eating for their anniversary dinner, or of their lost cat. Think where I’d be if I didn’t know these things! My mind is flouncing here and there, assaulted by the chaos of busyness called modern life. I’ve discovered that by putting my phone on airplane mode, I can eliminate the pop-up notifications, but I usually remember this after the fifty-seventh notification has derailed my ability to concentrate.

Visual stimulation distracts me, as does being an extrovert. I like interacting with people, but the older I get, the more the Bond hereditary dyslexia kicks in, and I find myself far more easily distracted. When I’m in a church service where there’s a band and instruments stretching across the stage (yes, they even call it a stage), as I attempt to murmur along with the rest of the folks, I find myself studying the different people singing, swaying, crooning, strumming, and drumming on the stage; the words on the screens (so much for too much screen time again), well, they’re far from the most important part of what we’re supposed to be doing. It may be the sense that something is out of proportion that makes worship leaders keep repeating the words over and over again. Surely vain repetition will help us cut through all the distractions and get at the meaning of the words.

THE WAY BACK

What are ways you and I can help solve the literacy crisis? Unplug your phone. Let it go dead, for long stretches. Sing from real hymnals. Read real books, you know, the kind with paper pages and real letters and words inked on the paper. The tactile activity of reading a real book will slow you down. This is a good thing. As you read real books do so with real pen or real pencil in hand. I jot notes down, yes, with paper and pencil, and sometimes I use 3x5 cards or post-it notes, then organize the ideas I’ve jotted on the notes by moving them around on the desk or table. Sometimes I brainstorm using a white board and erasable markers, adding sketches of characters, or diagramming the progression of thought that I just read.

Read challenging books from dead authors (what am I saying!), and read them slowly. We will descend further and further into the illiteracy abyss the less we are intentionally letting ourselves be shaped by the ideas and stories of the past. Reading old books will make us far more able to discern nonsense when we see it flit across the screen. We gain a vantage point from which we can see our own world more clearly, where it is going, why it is going there, and what we can do to halt the decline. Sometimes listening to the best music from composers living in other places and in other times, uncluttered by the distractions and presuppositions of our world, can aid us in understanding and appreciating challenging literature from the past.

But best of all, have a concerted family time where all devices are shut off and put away and everyone sits in the same room and reads their own copy of the Bible silently (we do this aloud too). We’ve started doing this in our home. Afterwards we talk together about where and what we read, and give a brief summary of what we learned. It’s remarkable how quiet it is, how uncluttered, how together we are—without distractions--and how much of God’s Word we can read and take in without being interrupted by cat videos.

It’s not rocket science, nor is it more information technology or more social media platforms. There’s no app that will solve the literacy crisis. The solution to mounting illiteracy in our new social order is simple. Augustine took the advice of children playing a game. “Take and read! Take and read!” And so must we.

Douglas Bond, author of numerous books of historical fiction, biography, devotion, and practical theology, is lyricist for New Reformation Hymns, directs the Oxford Creative Writing Master Class, and leads church history tours in Europe. Watch for his forthcoming book God Sings! (And Ways We Think He Ought To). Learn more at bondbooks.net.

The Vastly Immeasurable Value of Few Words--Inkblots

Oxford Creative Writing Master Class nearly filled for April!

Five Blots this chilly evening (with more snow predicted for the morning), and chatting about final editing, dangers of "find and replace all" (beware, something will always glitch), better to find next and inspect carefully; make the Word program do what you want it to do rather than be the patsy of grit (sand). John is in final editing on Saving Grace, a labor of love for some years, great cover art, the final push to publication, and a real book in hand, more important thematically now than ever. John has said over the years of writing this book and learning his craft in the process, that if one abortion-minded young woman reads it and does not consent to killing her baby in the womb, he will be happy. May it have this effect on many. There's a lesson in this about how a writer measures success. 

I want to briefly distill the important elements of good writing that we explored and honed this evening (below are pasted notes more relevant to the specific writers who penned the words). Cheyenne is entering a UK unpublished novel contest and must write a 350 word synopsis as part of her entry process (you can read her first draft below). In a synopsis, be concise, every word must have work to do. Avoid proliferation of names, especially if there could be any confusion. Keep the main character and the main plot in the forefront. A synopsis is often the debut of a writer's ability to a publisher, contest judges, potential distributor, and reader, hence, one must spend careful time writing, rewriting, revising a good synopsis. Rules that are important in your manuscript are equally, or, if possible, more important in a synopsis: Show don't tell. Avoid vague language. Be concise. Use action verbs. Diagram your entire plot on an anatomy of fiction timeline (status quo, inciting moment, rising action, etc.). Try writing your synopsis in sonnet form, fourteen lines of iambic pentameter. This will do many things for your writing, but it will certainly force you to be brief and to choose words that are loaded with meaning and purpose. 

Next, we discussed when to end a chapter or episode. Hannah wrote a frightening ending to an episode, but added a touch more than was needed. Keep your reader in suspense. End a chapter with the protagonist uncertain, off balance, teetering. Don't stabilize the situation or character at the end of a chapter (there are exception to this). Generally, if a chapter begins in stability and certainty, it must end in uncertainty. If the episode begins with uncertainty, it should end with something else, either more uncertainty, or a interlude of certainty (or perceived certainty).

We also discussed shifting points of view within a chapter, when there is no obvious break. This can throw readers off balance, confuse them, lift them out of verisimilitude; it is so unlike the way we experience reality. If the shift in point of view is necessary (they are not always necessary), then signal your reader that the shift is happening with a chapter break, or an internal division of some kind, extra space, *** in that space (which I used to use but don't really like anymore), or, as Daniel Silva does from time to time, create an internal chapter break with space and a drop-cap first letter to the new point of view. I return to caution with shifting points of view. It is not for the novice and can have perilous results. There is a reason for the rule to stick with one point of view, your protagonist's. Break it to your peril. 

I concluded with a brief word about the non-fiction book I'm beginning. I’m calling it tentatively God Sings, comparing and contrasting how God and his people sing in the Bible (there’s tons of this) with how we are attempting to do so in the glare and glitter of an entertainment ethos. More coming on that front, God willing.

Register today for the final spots available in my writing intensive literary tour of middle England, Oxford Creative Writing Master Class, April 2-9. "The Oxford Creative Writing Master Class was above and beyond my wildest dreams. I learned so much about writing, history, theology. OCWMC has truly changed my life," so said one of my recent OCWMC grads. Check it out today, but do not delay, bondbooks.net or email me at bondbooks.net@gmail.com. 

Desperate for adventure, or anything to distill the monotony of her life, JULIET [why caps?] goes hiking, and finds a sprawling, upside-down tree. [Can you make us hear the chomp?] It swallows, transporting her, and she wakes in a different [sounds too vague, bland] place where she arrives at the town of [I wouldn't use the name in the synopsis] Umi no Machi: a Japanesque town with a medieval [can you use more specific language? what makes her feel like it's medieval?] feel. 

[keep us in Juliet's point of view] There, a woman named DAYNA warns of impending doom [specific kind of doom? Sun will die... invading army...], but the townspeople pay no heed. Raiders attack in the night, but Juliet evades their clutches. She, Dayna, and the UNKNOWN begin a quest to rescue the townspeople.

While on the trail, Juliet slips up [slips up how?], causing Dayna to demands answers concerning Juliet’s past. 

[under cover of darkness] Finally, they catch up to the raiders and rescue the townspeople under the cover of darkness, but Juliet is ambushed and captured. The Unknown [is he called this or his name?] rescues her, and she learns his name—ADNAN. 

During an attempt for Juliet to return home, the three are taken prisoner and led to TRISTAN, who forces them to help in his uprising against KING JAIIN. 

They are separated during an attack. Seeking refuge, Juliet meets HANIEL and MARI, two of Tristan’s trusted rebels. She embroils herself within the uprising, while dealing with conflicting feelings concerning Tristan, the uprising, and all the secrets surrounding her. 

Aware of how she is looked upon by the rebels, Juliet accuses Tristan of using her, and he agrees to let her leave on a foray with Haniel, but the king’s men take her. She escapes and, on foot, makes it back safely on the verge of collapse. 

Juliet urges Mari to go be with her niece [too many people in this sentence] who is expecting a baby, and soon after realizes Tristan cares for her [which her?]. Without Adnan to counsel her, Juliet decides to commit to the uprising, but when Tristan asks to court her for the sake of his people, who see her superstitiously as the Otherworlder, she turns him down. 

Juliet and Haniel leave to warn his and Mari’s village of wandering raiders, but they’re too late; everyone is dead and there are no survivors. Angry at what she has seen, Juliet agrees to fight with Tristan, and agrees to his courtship proposal.

In general, I would strongly suggest that you kill names, tighten prose, ramp up the dilemma that Juliet finds herself in with Tristan making advances. Draw the anatomy of fiction and place each episode of rising action on the diagram. This will clean the story arc in your own mind and help with writing the synopsis. Additionally, you could write the whole plot in iambic pentameter 140 syllables, a sonnet. This forces you to choose your words careful, each having important work to do.

Hannah read next, a romp in the forest. “Mommy, look at the flowers!” Charlotte ran off the trail and darted over to a cluster of small pink flowers surrounding the base of a nearby [what kind of tree?] tree. Amber stopped and slipped her backpack off her shoulders to dig around in it for the book she’d brought to identify plants with.

As she thumbed through the pages, she occasionally glanced up to watch her daughter. Another few pages and she stopped.

“Hey, Charlotte, those are-” Amber froze when she looked up and didn’t see her. She turned around in a circle. “Charlotte?”

No answer, except for the wind rustling the firs and cedars around her. “Charlotte, answer me,” Amber said, moving further up the path. “Charlotte!”

She checked behind a rhododendron shrub. Nothing. Her stomach twisted.

Could the Woodsman have gotten her?

Amber shook her head at the sudden thought. “It’s just a fairytale,” she told herself, her steps and heartbeat quickening. “Charlotte!”

She wasn’t behind the huckleberry bushes either. Amber didn’t bother to pause even for a second to grab the backpack as panic propelled her off the path.

Her prayers became more desperate as time passed quicker than she wanted. When sunset came, there was still no sign of the curly-haired little girl.

Amber tried to force herself to continue despite her legs feeling like jelly and the fact she didn't know where she was.

But one more step and she stumbled onto her hands and knees. Her shoulders heaved as hot tears dripped down her nose onto the dirt.

She remained that way for another few [be specific on time] minutes.

A rustle in the bushes startled her and she sat up, wiping at her red-rimmed eyes as a sliver of hope ignited. “Charlotte?”

A doe and her fawn appeared, and her shoulders slumped. The animals seemed to regard her for a moment, then turned and walked away.

Amber’s throat tightened, her eyes refilling with tears. A sudden squeal startled her and her head turned.

“Charlotte?”

Another squeal. Amber scrambled to her feet and rushed forward in the direction she thought it had come from. She batted at branches which tugged at her clothes and hopped over moss-covered logs. Her ears picked up more squeals. If they came from Charlotte, it sounded like she was happy.

           The trees became sparse, eventually ending at the edge of a small [small is not a helpful adjective here] slope leading down to a meadow full of [specific] wildflowers.

Among them was Charlotte, running to and fro, picking as many as she could. Amber nearly collapsed from relief. She opened her mouth to call, but was stopped short not just by the sight of her daughter running up to a newfound companion, but that person’s appearance as well.

Her eyes darted from the gas mask to the trench coat to the work boots and back to the mask.

Charlotte had found the Woodsman...or had the Woodsman found her? [leave off this final line and end the chapter]

Dave reads next. Rewriting older manuscript.

Steven laughed out loud inside his car as he watched [could you name him so the pov shift is more natural down the page?] his prey walk into the jewelry store. This is going to be more fun than I thought. I get rid of this big ugly guy, then take his girlfriend as the spoils. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He hated humidity, and here he was stuck in a small car in Knoxville. Even in the middle of October, the humidity was still bad until late afternoon. He looked back at the store, the big guy was still in there standing at the counter yakking with the clerk. Come on, how long does it take to pick out a stupid ring? He turned the key in the ignition and turned the air conditioning on full blast. Steven re-checked his guns. He wanted to be sure there was plenty of tranquilizer darts for the girl. From what he’d been told, she was a feisty one and he didn’t want to deal with fighting her after possibly having to fight the big guy. A slight glint caught his eye. The first target was on the move. He came walking out of the store with a smile on his face and a small bag in his hand. Ugh. This guy’s got it real bad. Steven slipped the car into gear and followed him up S. Central street. He let out a groan when his target turned into a diner just a couple blocks later. He pulled the car over and left the engine running. Five minutes went by and Steven started banging his head on the steering wheel. He picked up his guns for the third time and started to get out when they both came bouncing out the door. Finally! He watched with baited breath as they walked down to a Suburban parked on the street. He smiled as he saw them climb in and pull into the light Thursday afternoon traffic. With shaking hands, he pulled out a few car lengths behind them. [these shifts in pov can be moments where readers get confused, and confused readers usually stop reading] Bruce swerved a little as he pulled into traffic, making Alexis laugh. “What’s up? Your arm still not healed up all the way?” “Nah, it’s fine, my hand just slipped a little.” He smiled sheepishly as he rubbed his left arm. It was still a little weak after being in a cast for six weeks.

...“Alrighty, I won’t be long.[this should be a coma]” S[this should be lower case s] he said as she walked away. Attributions are not capitalized. ...“Hmmm. Must have been a S[no cap]quirrel or something[coma and lower case s].” Said Bruce.

...Just a few minutes [Moments later--be concise] later, they were all [a]lone in their favorite spot, right next to the lake. The sun broke through the morning overcast and warmed them up a little as they set up their [little twice in same sentence--find a better adjective] little picnic.

I felt like the proposal scene was stalling a bit, then the brother assassin appeared. John suggested changing the girl's name so it wouldn't make readers think of chatting with cutting edge technology. Gunfire would have been heard by other hikers on the trail. Silencers maybe?

What We Write Matters Because Life Matters--Inkblots

Though we are few, a handful of 'Blots have gathered in Brookside cottage (one of our tiny house retreats) as Gillian has become our family librarian and is entirely reorganizing the Scriptorium, dusting all the shelves, establishing categories, bustling about making it bookish and charming.

Rachel will lead us off with her 1950s yarn. I love your intricate details of picking the lock. It can be challenging to figure out the best way to convey non-verbal sounds, hiccups and the like. How did you spell it? You do a good job of filling in details of posture and what the person is doing in the midst of dialogue. I wonder if this scene needs to be more tense, or are you aiming at humor rather than the shock of discovery as she rummages through his papers? She does show emotion afterward, but I felt like it was missing earlier when she was being discovered. Margaret and Daisy are the same person which is a bit confusing. How is Daisy going to be pressured to change? Rachel's protagonist is trying to figure our her place, find her wings, discover who she is. I suggested creating longing for everything to be right, for the problem to be solved (without solving it entirety). Give the reader hope that things do not have to be this way, broken, dysfunctional, without resolution.

Alisa reads the opening pages of The Emblem (again, which Alisa pushed back on reading to us). Alisa wrote the first draft in 2010. This is a book set in the 1930s exploring the tensions between white minors in Washington State and black minority laborers. You write narrative so well, but I would like to hear more dialogue in the opening chapter. I love the scene with his little girl. Ordering up a whiskey. I wonder if there is a more colloquial way of saying this in the 1930s. I wonder if you could start with this dialogue and weave in the back story narrative in between the talk. Readers love listening in to others talking, like eavesdropping. There's a sort of conspiratorial emotion for the reader when we do this, in my opinion. Connections of the soul. Compelling love story. She wants her main character(s) to be more intriguing. I'm reading the entire manuscript in the next days.

John doesn't want to read. He is smarting after another critique. We understand at 'Blots. You're in good company. Read! He gave us permission to interrupt him when we don't like something. I think you need to abbreviate the dialogue. "I can't!" rather than, "I just don't think I can do this." Suddenly she threw up. Is there another way to convey this? Alisa has given birth, and interjects. They would clean her up right away, not leaving her in her vomit. Rachel asked what John is trying to say with the birthing scene? He wants it to be realistic. The story is all about a baby that was almost aborted. He is trying to show the difficulty. Rachel feels like there needs to be a reprieve after the anguish. Alisa feels like it needs to be tightened, condensed, and that's what Mother Bond wanted too, tighten the scene, make it move more quickly. What I am hearing is, less is more. Don't overwrite the birthing scene. We all seemed to agree that the baby's name Grace should not be named after the mom's name. We want to hear Grace for the first time in the final line of the book. We talked about abortion, about the NY Governor Cuomo Herod law, about the rhetoric of toxic-masculinity, identity politics and whether it will produce men who will give their lives for others, or will it backfire and produce more selfishness and boorish pride as men simmer under the dictates of the left to act more like women. 

Some writers don't take Christmas off

Four Blots on a blustery power-outage winter evening, the moon now shining brightly, clouds scudding furiously across its path, John begins, his designated reader Rachel leading off.

California writers, join me at the Christian Writers Seminar

John's book set in Russia, Violetta, is the result of his arduous research interviewing Russian immigrants who worked at the hospital John retired from three years ago (and came to work for me on the farm, what a blessing!). He fills in about the fascinating stories that he learned, sort of Solzhenitsyn-esque, gathering the stories of all Russians whose families lived the oppressions of the past, only John did not have to "write" them down using improvised prayer beads made from pieces of bread and mud. Rachel tells us about the museums and concerts she just visited in Berlin, including the new spy museum. Got to see that one. She took her four year old to see Rembrandt, and to Mozart's Requiem, Mendelssohn's Elijah, she wept through them all. WE talked briefly about historical research for writing, one of my topics at Fresno Pacific University February 9, 2019 at the Christian Writers Seminar.

Rachel reads on. Lenin, Bolshevik Revolution, 1917 era. How do you explain foreign language expressions in your writing? Footnotes are a bad idea in fiction, in my opinion. It is best to weave in understanding incrementally, but avoid doing so by explanatory narrative: This means in French... or which means... These are not the ways to weave in meaning and understanding naturally. Soot had darkened...  Instead of the beams were darkened by the soot, which is passive voice description, slows the pace, makes writing less vigorous. When you write about inanimate things, keep the doer of the action as the subject of your description--the soot was the cause of the blackness. I wonder if Collette in third person is a bit pedantic sounding. Can you give her more life, more authenticity?

Sydney up next (
her text with my capital letter comments): The Archbishop stood before us. Here was the man I was commanded by the king to protect. Here was the man who, in his turn, had protected the one upon whom Haldor wished death, who had protected the offspring of that brutish murderer, who had protected with all the powers of his life the person who had sucked the last of his dying mother’s. Here was the man who had raised as a father one who should never have been a son; who had sanctioned the final, destructive piece on my existence; who ​knew, who knew all and kept it hidden, hidden — oh the irony — to protect he whom had destroyed from the bare knowledge that he had destroyed it. Here was the man of God who said: At last, by my choice, a man shall not reap what he has sown.  This man was smiling. He had a tall, slender figure, bent forward beneath a white robe. His brow was coarse and grey, passing in thin lines above his eyes, which beamed from the old, pale face as paint  come alive upon dry parchment. His eyes were young. They seemed to glisten, and in any other person the glistening would have seemed as tears, but in this man, that thought would have been mistaken. It was joy, somehow, joy that glistened. Vibrancy. Life. One was not used to seeing such life in eyes. I CAN SEE AND FELL THIS From the draping sleeve of his robe a hand was extended in greeting, as thin and fragile as a bird’s claw.  “Father Alphege, you’re alive,” Finn said, grasping the hand in his own dirt-besmeared one, and pressing it with such a strange mixture of vibrant admiration and timid self-restraint, that I would perhaps have found it amusing under other circumstances. As it was, I turned my full attention upon the fragile man, who seemed larger within than without, and said nothing. GOOD DESCRIPTION OF SUBTLE CHARACTERISTICS  The thin lips had passed again into a smile. “Very much so, Finn.” The Archbishop glanced over the two of us, his eyes were laughing in a way, like Finn’s but the laughter was different — soft, knowing, as if the knowing too much had made them gentle.  “Are you well? Is this man wounded?” he asked, looking at me.  “Very much so.” The Archbishop opened the door wider, and I believed he would have done the same before a wounded Dane, if one had so appeared at his door.  “You are of course welcome here.” He gestured us within, and his keen, blue eyes peered out into the fog across the forest in the direction of the city. “God help them,” he said as he shut the door, and something in his tone made me uncertain if he spoke of those in the city who were helpless victims, or those Danes who might even now be killing them. Perhaps he spoke of both, and neither one over the other. I could not tell. It aggravated me that I could not tell. GOOD INTENTIONAL NUANCE OF UNDERSTANDING He led us into a tall room, lined with the same rough-hewn timbers I had seen scarring the face of the outside. There was little light, but a fire burned in the grate over which a small pot was simmering, though with what it was filled I could not see. A stack of bowls sat at the hearth, and directly across the room was a small, wooden table, on top of which lay a steaming bowl of water and three rolls of bandages.  “Gustav put these out PLACE ATTRIBUTION HERE in case there should be need of them while he was gone,” the Archbishop said. The unassuming manner in which he said the name struck me with a cold wash of anger. Did one whisper the word ​asp after it struck you? Did the Archbishop act to all the world as he acted before us now — as if nothing belonged more to this life than the one person I knew never should have been born. I closed my eyes and felt the blood ooze once more beneath the cracking scab on my forehead, as my brows furrowed, my head pounding in the darkness behind my lids.  “May I see your injuries?” THIS SHOULD BE A CAPITAL T, AS IT IS NOT TECHNICALLY AN ATTRIBUTION the Archbishop’s voice lifted beside me. I opened my eyes. He was standing quite near, his eyes fixed with a quiet expression upon my face. Finn had seated himself upon a chair, watching.  “No,” the word fell flat into the air, as if my tongue had dropped it. I heard the silence, and Finn shifted in his chair.  “They may require attention.”  “I am only hungry,” I said, gripping the back of the empty chair at my side. I half-turned and felt Finn’s eyes boring into the side of my head as I fell into the seat. “I would be grateful for a bowl of what is over that fire,” I added, and would not meet Finn’s eyes.  I heard the Archbishop step away, the crack of the pot as the lid lifted and the smell of beef wafted with AMIDST, MAYBE the smoke and wet steam into the room.  “Are you hungry, Finn?” the Archbishop asked, and I heard the clicking of the bowls as he lifted them from the stack near the hearth.
“Am I ever not?” There was tension beneath the grin of Finn’s voice.  The Archbishop straightened and turned, his footsteps sounded again across the floor. I I felt Finn’s gaze turn and I looked up. He was watching the bowls approaching in the grasp of the frail fingers, as the steam rose from them and the faint aroma gave all its promises of comfort and warmth. The grin was still playing about his lips, more genuine now, and a glint of eagerness shown in his eyes.  “Are you quite well, Father Alphege?” Finn asked, taking the bowl and dipping his ladle with relish. The Archbishop placed the other in front of me. “No harm has befallen you or the LOWER CASE WHEN YOU USE AN ARTICLE Cathedral it seems, and praise Heaven for that!” “No harm whatever, Finn. We are all quite well.” The Archbishop seated himself beside me, drawing in his chair before his own bowl of stew. He paused, lifted his eyes to Heaven, and the made the sign of the Cross. I felt my body stiffen upon the chair. I refused to look at him. “And Gustav?” Finn asked. I could feel his gaze. “Occupies the library like his lifeblood is the ink from the manuscripts,” the Archbishop smiled. “He has always been a clever lad, but this last year he has shown great progress in his work, and has been able to THIS IS A SPLIT INFINITIVE VERB, TO SHOULD GO WITH HELP, TO HELP most effectively help me in my own.” “The last time I was here, he spoke in admiration of the king’s army,” Finn said. “Does he ever think of joining us, of fighting against the Danes?” Everything in my body throbbed and I felt my muscles tighten, my fingers curl and grip into the palms of my hands, my jaw clench beneath the dried blood upon my face. I could feel Finn watching me still.  “No,” the Archbishop said. “He does not. He is determined to serve in a different manner.” “I trust him to do that,” Finn breathed. “I would trust him — with my life —” Something in his tone forced me to look up. Our eyes met across the table.  “Where is he now?” Finn asked.  “He and Raul have gone into the city. The areas where the fighting has deserted the wounded still lie. Those who are well enough, they will bring here, but the rest they will tend to as best they can in the street, and pray God’s mercy upon them.”  “I should be with them,” Finn said, and he began to rise to his feet. He stopped suddenly, ran a hand through his hair and glanced at me. “Not forsake one friend for the sake of the other,” he mumbled, then collapsed upon the chair and pulled it up to the table, his brows knitting across his face.  “When you go, I am going with you,” I said. Finn looked at me, aghast.  “By no means beneath heaven,” he said, “will that be the case. You’re being too wounded to be out there is precisely the reason we are stuck within these walls this very moment.” “I need to see him, Finn.”  “Gustav?” “Yes.” “Do you?” There was a moment of silence, during which I could feel his breath falling heavy between us. The Archbishop leaned forward and turned to me, his eyes full of a gentle command. “Do you know my son?”  The quiet words slammed into my skull with a violence to which the gentle tone seemed only to add. As frail fingers behind a sharpened knife, as the smile lingers below the threat, as the laugh is the voice of a mockery, GOOD USE OF COMPOUND SIMILES so the words fell upon my ears, permeated my skull, whirled with the memories within, the flashes from the night, the desecrated life, the anguish which had fallen because this parasite upon the universe — he whom the Archbishop called son — had a father who could not even be boasted of by a demon in Hell. I did not remember rising to his feet, yet here I was, swaying upon the floor, my feet gnawing to keep their hold in the earth but all the world seemed to toss around me, and I did not even know to care.  “I think so,” Finn was saying, rising to his feet as well, uncertain, one hand still upon the table where he was gripping his ladle, the scars on his knuckles shining white beneath the dirt and blood. “They met...years ago…” the words trailed off.

Rachel asked what the big picture of this story is. Haldor discovers that his brother is alive, Gustav and Dane are captured, Raul. Two parallel yarns, interwoven. Anglo-Saxon England setting. Resolution between brothers at odds.

Carol Writing Contest Results!

Announcing Writing Contest Winners!

Thank you to those who took time and creative energy to enter the Longfellow Carol Writing Contest. In the midst of the bustle of Christmas, we had a number of fine entries (and I had difficult decisions to make judging those entries).

Poets who entered considered Longfellow's poem written in 1863, "I heard the bells on Christmas Day." Does it qualify as a Christmas carol? Hate is still tragically strong and does indeed mock the song of peace on earth good-will to men, as we have so painfully been reminded of late. But is it really a Christmas--Christ worship--carol? Determined not to be a cynic, though the cannons of the Civil War were nearly drowning out the chimes of the Christmas bells, Longfellow takes a significant leap between the last two stanzas of his carol, and concludes, “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; The wrong shall fail, the right prevail ...”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

But how did he get to that conclusion? I think a genuine Christmas Carol, a hymn in praise of Jesus' coming into the world as a baby for the sole purpose, "...to save his people from their sins," fills in the gap between Longfellow's deep despair expressed in the second-to-last stanza of his poem, and his final inexplicable confidence that the right will somehow prevail over the wrong expressed in the last stanza. But what or rather Who bridges the gap between the despair and the hope? The contestants were urged to write a stanza that pointed to the gospel of grace alone in Christ Jesus alone, the subject of a true Christmas carol. Drum roll, please:

First Prize Winner!

Our path was doomed in rebel war

Against a God we should adore.

The Christ-child came

And loud proclaimed

His peace on earth, good-will to men!

Congratulations, Aaron Gruben (he received a free signed copy of my new release, The Resistance)!

Second Prize Winner!
For Christ—He in the manger lay,
And died to take death's sting away, 
And in the grave, 
Death lost its sway;
True peace on earth, good-will to men.
Congratulations, Sydney Simao (she will receive a new book at Inkblots next week)!

Third Prize Winner!

Yet from the dust a fair rose bloomed,

            The bells tolled ransom for the doomed;

            To lead men home

            The Christ has come

            With peace on earth, goodwill to men.

 Congratulations, Christianna Hellwig (received a free Rise & Worship cd)!

Grand Prize Winner!

True light is come! the Light and Life,

The Victor over sin and strife.

The right has won,

Now reigns the Son

With peace on earth, good will to men.

Congratulations, Paige Lamar (she won a 50% discount on April's Oxford Creative Writing Master Class--see you in Oxford)!

Join me April 2-9, 2019 for the Oxford Creative Writing Master Class (only a few spots available). "I loved every minute of it! I learned more about writing and history than I ever could have expected. Mr. Bond gave me literary tools which I am already using and will continue to use. It was a wonderful tour, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" (Cheyenne). Learn more at bondbooks.net and Listen to my podcast The Scriptorium at bondbooks.net/the-scriptorium-podcast