I’ve finally finished Shadows of Home, my romantic-suspense novel set in Louisiana and am now attempting to start the sequel to Breaking TWIG.  Problem is, when I wrote Breaking TWIG, I never figured on writing a sequel until so many readers asked me to continue Becky’s story. How did life in Paris work out for her? Did she have a child? And the number one question readers asked: Did Becky and Johnny end up together? Now, as possible sequel scenes swirl in my brain, I once again face the adversary of all writers—the blank white page.

When I wrote Breaking TWIG, I had a question niggling my mind. When raised in an abusive home, why do some children grow up and repeat the abusive pattern with their children, while others manage to break free and become loving, supportive parents? Finding an answer to this question lodged in my subconscious, and it wasn’t until I’d written two-thirds of the book that I realized this was the book’s theme. Frankly, I didn’t give a thought to theme in the beginning. I just wanted to tell the story of Becky’s quest to survive her childhood as it unfolded in my mind.

I’ve read books on the craft of writing a novel that state emphatically that a writer should never consciously insert or apply a “theme.” Somehow, the theme of your book (if it has one) will reveal itself through your characters’ action and dialogue. Trying to force a theme onto your characters can come off as “preachy.” Yet other writing experts insist the writer must provide via the narrative a theme or several themes to give the characters depth and show the deeper meanings embedded in the book.      

Thus the question arises--to theme or not to theme? Should you have a theme(s) in mind from the get-go? Or do you wait for the theme to effervesce through your narrative like bubbles through champagne? What works for you?

In Breaking TWIG, I wrote about the lives of three people who’d suffered mental, emotional, or physical abused by their parent. Two overcame their obstacles and became strong, loving adults. One could not break out of the pattern of abuse she’d known as a child. What made the difference in their lives? This became the major theme of the book. Perhaps Becky said it best, “Having one person who loves and believes in you is all a girl needs to keep hope alive.”

​Thanks for stopping by,

​Deborah

​PS: Shadows of home (Ebook) is on sale for 99¢ for a limited time. So grab you copy today. 

“How do you know if a guy has a good heart?” This was the question my daughter asked me the February she was seventeen. The boy she liked and her date for the upcoming Valentine’s dance had done “something” (she wouldn’t go into more detail) that was causing her to have second thoughts about Mr. Wonderful. Summoning all the restraint I could muster, I didn’t push her to reveal what the “something” was, as I knew that would send her fleeing in fear of a pending inquisition.

Many thoughts jumped into my brain. Make sure he respects you. (I’d preached that one for years). Does he listen to his mother? (More important to me, no doubt, than to her). But I sensed she didn’t want to hear a rehash of the platitudes and pearls of wisdom I’d tried to instill in her since birth. I didn’t want to screw this up. Her coming to Mom for advice instead of to her teenage peers was more and more a rare event.

She wanted something new, something simple and concrete that she could use as a yardstick in an attempt to measure the true nature of a human heart. Years before, I’d read a quote from Immanuel Kant, a famous 18th century German philosopher and ethics professor. It had stuck in my mind, probably because I love animals so much. My daughter does too. The quote seemed to fit our situation. I considered it a pretty good yardstick. So did my daughter, who eventually found and married a man with a good heart, a man that adores her and shares her love for animals.

“We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals.” Immanuel Kant.

Thanks for stopping by,

Deborah

According to the dictionary, cabin fever is an idiomatic term, first recorded in 1918, for a claustrophobic reaction that takes place when a person or group is isolated and/or shut in a small space, with nothing to do for an extended period.

I can understand how early settlers in rural locations could get cabin fever. There were no cars, phones, electricity, or the many things we take for granted today. But in this era of television, cell phones, computers, Skype, IPods, streaming videos, Facebook, eReaders, and a never-ending list of electronic wonders, it takes a lot of work to be “disconnected” from family, friends, or world events.

I never get cabin fever. There is simply too much to do. Research for a book or article, write, cook hearty stews or soups, answer emails, clean out the closets or design that special project to build next summer …here too, the list goes on and on. There are shelves of books, baskets of books, a Kindle full of books waiting to be discovered. There are stories running through my mind, scenes playing out in my dreams, and characters waiting to be named and given life on pages I have yet to write.

When I need fresh air and just want to play, I let loose the hounds (in this case – golden retrievers) into the fresh fallen snow. They romp, frolic, and roll around making their equivalent of snow angels. They’re like two silly kids enjoying a snow day. When play time is over, we trudge back inside to find a warm fire, a treat for them, and cocoa for me. Nope, there’s no time for cabin fever here in our winter wonderland.

Thanks for stopping by,

Deborah

One of the very best gifts I ever received didn’t come wrapped in holiday paper. There was no bow or cute little “Merry Christmas” card. It came around 10 am on a bright June morning in 1993.

In 1987, my husband, Nathan, and I purchased a ten acre tract of land in a beautiful little valley in Northwest Montana, with hopes of retiring there in 2008. We had an electric pole set and bought an 8 x 20 foot storage building. We wired our little “camp” and put in windows bought at a salvage yard. Shelving balanced on cement blocks (reminiscent of my college days) became our kitchen counter. Every August for the next five years, we’d come to Montana and spend our vacations “fixin’ up” our piece of the last best place. A neighbor gave us a hide-a bed and an old ice box. We cleared brush, picked out where we wanted to one day build our dream home, and under the star-filled big Montana sky, we decided our family was one person short. Our son was born nine months later.

Every year it got harder to leave Montana and return to Texas. In Texas, we’d worked hard and achieved “the American dream” – two kids, two cars, nice big house, and money in the bank. And we were miserable—trouble sleeping, short tempers, etc.

In June of 1993, we decided we couldn’t wait until August for our annual trek to our Montana paradise. After a four day drive, we arrived and started airing out the camp. I slept on sofa pillows on the floor and gave the bed to Nathan and the kids. We slept for ten hours. The next morning, Nathan came and sat by me on the floor. He put his arm around my shoulder and said, “Let’s not wait until 2008. Let’s move this summer.” Now I am a practical, pragmatic person, so I was a tad shocked when I heard myself heartily agree.

We bought a business, finalized plans for our log home, and went back to Texas to resign our positions, sell our properties, and say goodbye. Family and friends told us we were crazy. We agreed and kept on packing. That was twenty years ago.

Today, the business is sold, the kids have finished college, and Nathan is retiring this month. Because of his gift that June morning in 1993, we don’t have to “retire” to our vision of paradise. All we have to do is walk out onto our deck.

Have a blessed holiday season and thanks for stopping by.

Deborah