Shawn

July 17, 2019July 17, 2019

In Which I Have Nothing to Say But Thank You

I am writing this on Tuesday evening, in a cozy little room at the Montrose Retreat Center. A storm passed over us, driving rain against the windows, pinging on the window air conditioning unit. But the clouds have cleared in time to make room for the setting rays of sun. The birds sing in the dusk.

I am sitting in an armchair in my room, feeling very, very content. Today my latest novel released into the world. And somehow I have not felt the normal stress or pressure that comes on release day, the ridiculously high expectations, or the creeping disappointment if certain things do not happen. I feel only an intense gratefulness for this life. This book. For you, the folks who read what I write. For Maile. My children.

How have I been so blessed?

For the first time in a long time, I care very little what anyone else things of this book. I wrote it how I saw it, put in the effort to tell it clearly, and now here it is. Take it or leave it. It was the absolute best book I could write at the time. There’s something to be said for wrestling with the work, doing it well, and then releasing it into the world. I suppose it’s much like raising children, or farming, or any other thing in life we might care about.

There is also much to be said for gratefulness. It seems that enough of it can crowd out just about anything else – jealousy or fear or anxiety about results.

The last few lines of Psalm 90 from Eugene Peterson’s The Message have been resonating with me quite a bit lately:

And let the loveliness of our Lord, our God, rest on us,
confirming the work that we do.
Oh, yes. Affirm the work that we do!

So, thank you. Thank you all for walking this journey with me again. It is not lost on me, the amount of time you take to read the words I write. Hopefully, there will be many more, and we can journey together for another few thousand pages.

July 16, 2019July 15, 2019

Today is the Big Day!

TODAY IS THE BIG DAY!

It’s time to release another book into the world, and this one feels like a long time coming.

Light from Distant Stars.

Can I be honest on here and tell you I’m just plain tuckered? I’m sitting in a motel room at a writer’s conference with five talks to give this week, plus I’m speaking at my church this weekend, and we’ve got a book launch party Friday night. I’ve done 10 podcast interviews in the last week or so. Oh, and I’ve just handed in a novel that’s slated to come out next summer. And I’m busier than ever with co-writing, my day job.

*sigh*

I need some sleep. But then there’s the small issue of this book.

This book means so much to me. The story is near and dear to my heart. The characters have become a world all their own, almost like memory to me. I am so eager for you to read it. Sooooo…can you help me get it out into the world?

Here are just a few of the places you can get it:

Aaron’s Books, Lititz, PA – call 717-627-1990
Amazon
Baker Bookhouse
Barnes and Noble
Books-a-Million
Christianbook.com
Hearts and Minds Bookstore
Indiebound

This is what some folks are saying about it:

“A tense novel exploring the breadth and limitations of loyalty, forgiveness, and faith, Light from Distant Stars is a memorable dive into the human psyche.” Foreword Reviews

“Light From Distant Stars expertly traverses the past and present of a man whom readers can’t help but root for and adore.” Interviews and Reviews

Here are a few of the ways you can help:

– Buy the book as a gift to yourself or a friend! Or both! It’s also a great book club read, so consider it for your book club.
– Share this post on social media by clicking the little buttons below!
– Call or email your local library and ask if they can carry it.
– Forward this email to friends who you think would be interested in reading the book.
– And, once you’ve read the book, please review it on Goodreads, Amazon, and any other online sites!

You guys are amazing. Thanks for all of your wonderful support. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you, my faithful friends and readers.

Have a wonderful week. Enjoy your summer! Now, I’m going to bed. (Which sounds weird because even though I’m writing this at night, you’re probably reading it in the morning…oh well.)

July 11, 2019July 10, 2019

Some Thoughts on New Berries, Stephen King, and Chasing Your Dreams

There is a broken Lego set on the table, and I can feel a few pieces under my feet, the small ones, the kind the vacuum sucks up without any regard for the incomplete set it has just created. There is an open newspaper at the other side of our large dining room table, and there is my wallet with a one dollar bill folded in the clip. It is a quiet morning, an early summer morning, and through the windows I can see the barely rustling trees that line the alley, the gray-blue humid sky, and the wooden framework above our small back porch that needs to be painted.

Maile is in the kitchen, washing and cutting strawberries. The water makes a pinging sound on the metal sink. She is barefoot, still in her summer pajamas, a kind of airy, blue dress, light as a breeze. It is just the two of us in the open kitchen-dining room.

I hold up a book I’m perusing, a book I’ve read many times before. Stephen King’s On Writing.

“Listen to this,” I say. “I love this story.” Stephen King writes,

My wife made a crucial difference during those two years I spent teaching at Hampden (and washing sheets at New Franklin Laundry during the summer vacation). If she had suggested that the time I spent writing stories on the front porch of our rented house on Pond Street or in the laundry room of our rented trailer on Klatt Road in Hermon was wasted time, I think a lot of the heart would have gone out of me. Tabby never voiced a single doubt, however. Her support was a constant, one of the few good things I could take as a given.

“Sounds like you,” I say to Maile, smiling. I continue reading.

I had a phone call…My wife, sounding out of breath but deliriously happy, read me a telegram…CONGRATULATIONS, it read. CARRIE OFFICIALLY A DOUBLEDAY BOOK. IS $2500 ADVANCE OKAY? THE FUTURE LIES AHEAD. LOVE, BILL.

I think of when I received the email that The Day the Angels Fell had found a publishing home at Revell. I remember sitting down in the study, my back against the wall. I tried to read that email to Maile, but I couldn’t read it without crying, so I just handed my laptop to her, and she sat down beside me and read it, and she started crying, too.

At some point while I’m reading King’s book out loud to her, Maile comes over to the table and perches on the bench, right beside me. She crosses her legs and puts her chin in one of her hands.

“That story about Stephen King and his book makes me want to cry,” she says quietly.

“Wait until you hear this part.”

One Sunday not long after that call, I got another one from Bill Thompson at Doubleday. I was alone in the apartment.

“Are you sitting down?” Bill asked.

“No,” I said. Our phone hung on the kitchen wall, and I was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “Do I need to?”

“You might,” he said. “The paperback rights to Carrie went to Signet Books for four hundred thousand dollars.”

…I hadn’t heard him right. Couldn’t have…I was still standing in the doorway, looking across the living room toward our bedroom and the crib where Joe slept. Our place on Sanford Street rented for ninety dollars a month and this man I’d only met once face-to-face was telling me I’d just won the lottery.

That was Stephen King’s story, but I know it. I can feel it. By now my own throat is aching, because I can imagine what that must have felt like. I am filled with happiness for Stephen King in that long-ago year, when he received such good news. Good news. We are all yearning for good news, aren’t we? We all have that desire in us, to see that we are making our way in something that we love to do.

I close the book and leave it on the table. I trace the wood grain with my finger. Somehow, Maile and I are far, far away from that kitchen.

“What in the world are we doing?” I ask Maile in a whisper, and while I don’t get any more specific than that, we both know what question I’m asking.

Why do I spend so much time writing books? Why is she querying agents over and over again about her own quiet, beautiful book, not stopping in the face of rejections? Why do I keep freelancing when sometimes the checks come and sometimes they do not? Why do we spend nearly every waking moment reading books, talking about books, writing our own books?

Can a life made out of words be enough?

Maile leans over and puts her head on my shoulder, her hand on my leg. Her hair tangles in my beard.

“We’re chasing our dreams,” she says, and her voice is rich with happiness. It is enough. That’s what she’s saying.

We sit like that for a long time, or what feels like a long time, the hot summer morning pooling around us, children waking and coming downstairs, asking for breakfast, the city waking up. Poppy and Leo climb like monkeys up onto the stools beside the island and start eating the berries Maile has cut, their mouths curling in the sour-sweet. Poppy giggles.

“These are new berries,” she says in her squeaky, almost-three-year-old voice.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, they are.”

* * * * *

My next book releases in only five days. Five days! After all this time, Light from Distant Stars has arrived. I’d be honored and pleased if you’d preorder it from any of these booksellers (or perhaps your own local bookstore not listed below):

Aaron’s Books, Lititz, PA – call 717-627-1990
Amazon
Baker Bookhouse
Barnes and Noble
Books-a-Million
Christianbook.com
Hearts and Minds Bookstore
Indiebound

If you don’t have the money at the moment, you’d be doing me an incredible favor if you contacted your local library and asked them to order it. Then, you can read it for free.

June 26, 2019June 25, 2019

As Light as a Memory

We wander a block from my in-law’s house to their neighborhood pool, the kids who didn’t choose to slip on some footwear dancing lightly across the hot street, making for the grass. The sky is a melting blue-gray and the air is a wool blanket. The kids run ahead and us parents and grandparents come slowly behind, carrying all the things. It is a summer day just west of Charlotte.

Two kids argue over who gets to use the key fob to unlock the gate, and once inside it’s a flurry of splashes and shouts. I sink into the warm water and spend the next hour being a shark or an underwater diver or the thing Leo tries to swim to. Time moves slower in the summer, in the pool, in the heat.

Later we walk back and eat supper. The youngest kids go to bed early and fall into a dead sleep within moments, exhausted, their hair still wet from the pool. We play a game, watch a movie, go to bed late and sleep in. I write all day.

And, at four o’clock, we head to the pool again.

* * * * *

It has become a much-anticipated summer tradition, our time with family in North Carolina. The long, hot days. The Cookout milkshakes. The quick trips to Books-a-Million where we make extravagant book purchases.

It reminds me of the traditions we used to have when I was a kid: the trips to Florida in the summer when our vacation neighborhood was empty and we’d race the streets on bikes, walk to the candy store, and spend hours at the beach. Or the old Christmas tradition, when grandpa and the uncles would play Monopoly and grandma and the aunts would play Scrabble and I’d fall asleep on the couch, wishing someone would let me in on one of the games.

It’s hard to imagine that someday this tradition will be a memory. It’s too sad a thought, so we go on pretending it will never end, that we’ll keep coming here forever.

* * * * *

I go downstairs, taking a break from writing. Poppy comes running over.

“Daddy, will you be my horsey?”

Of course, and I get down on my hands and knees and give her a ride back-and-forth, back-and-forth, from here to there.

She is so light on my back. Light as summer days. Light as memory.

For more pics like this, follow me over at Instagram at @shawnsmucker

June 25, 2019June 25, 2019

A Dream in Which Every Single Review of My Book was Negative

I woke up on Thursday morning having had the strangest dream. At first I couldn’t remember it – the dream was nearly gone, like a name you can’t quite remember. But then, there it was, and remembering it brought a hollow pit into my stomach.

I had dreamed that every single review of my new book was a negative one. Every. Single. Review.

In the half-light of early morning, it felt nonsensical, almost humorous, but I could just about still remember that feeling of crushing disappointment when I scanned first the Amazon rankings and saw all 1- and 2-star reviews, followed by email after email of prominent, negative reviews. And as I woke up and started walking through the day, I kept coming back to the dream.

What if all of my reviews are negative?

And then:

Why am I dreaming about reviews?

* * * * *

Maile has been reading a book lately that I obviously need to pick up. It’s Life Without Lack by Dallas Willard. She keeps reading me these mind-bending quotes about having everything we need. At the beginning of the introduction, Willard quotes Charles Spurgeon:

We have all things and abound; not because I have a good store of money in the bank, not because I have skill and wit with which to win my bread, but because the Lord is my shepherd.

Willard goes on to explain, using Psalm 23 as his foundation, that one of the weirdest, most transformational truths of being a Christian is that with God, you do not ever lack anything. And he’s not talking about an avoidance of lack that equates to a name-it-and-claim-it prosperity gospel that comes fully equipped with the biggest house and best car and a Scrooge McDuck style money silo. No, Willard’s point is that precisely in the moments when the world would look at you and think you lack everything important – a good retirement account, a well-paying job, the trappings of a successful life – you can live and believe and know that actually you lack nothing.

Of course, many of us feel a sense of lack in areas outside of our finances.

We feel like the lack is us. We are not enough.

How often do I look at my writing life and feel a sense of lack? How often do I wish I could sell more books, have more reviews, generate more followers?

Could it be, could it really be, that I lack nothing?

Could it be that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, that I have exactly what it is I’m supposed to have?

* * * * *

I woke up Sunday morning to find the following comment by my friend and bookseller extraordinaire, Byron Borger:

So, my fear was alleviated. Not everyone hated my book! (Apparently, the only real lack in my life is cellphone battery life!)

Still, even after receiving such kind words, I’m left with a desire to move into a space where my contentment and satisfaction aren’t based on the most recent review my work has received, but in a sense of having all things, and lacking nothing, because I know that God is my shepherd.

Can I get there? Can I actually get to that place?

I feel like I’m close.

* * * * *

Now for some news:

Preordering an author’s book is one of the best ways to support the writers you love!

While writing #LightFromDistantStars, I kept a journal recording goals, progress, and struggles. I’d love to email you a PDF of that 51-page journal.

First, preorder from any of these booksellers: http://shawnsmucker.com/light-from-distant-stars/ … (If you preorder from Byron Borger’s store, Hearts and Minds, just note that in the receipt/order # field.)

Then enter your details here: http://eepurl.com/guv5kb

The journal will be emailed to you immediately, and you’ll also be entered into a drawing to win signed copies of my other books and a $50 bookstore gift card!

June 20, 2019June 19, 2019

On Almost Having a 16-Year-Old in the House (and When God Tells You “Not Yet”)

Though he couldn’t possibly remember it, this first son of ours who turns 16 this week was born in a kind of faerie land, on a property called Rocketer. It was a warm June morning in Wendover, England, and his mother paced the tiny kitchen while I timed her contractions. The cottage was at the bottom of the hill on a large, 100-acre estate, made up of mostly trees, and our hedge-lined garden welcomed Maile as she took her laboring outside. At the top of the hill was a path worn three feet deep in the earth, a path taken by pilgrims for hundreds of years on their way to Canterbury. Or so the legend went.

But on that day in June, 2003, Maile made many laps around the garden, breathing methodically, pausing when the contractions came down. The sheep, with their mid-summer lambs, looked on, chewing the grass, bleating, wandering along the fence row. We were young in 2003. I was 26. Maile was 24. We were babies.

We could never have imagined who that about-to-be-born-boy would become. Some things are outside the realm of our imagination.

Eventually, we drove our Mini along narrow, English roads to the hospital ten minutes away. Maile’s mom braided her hair from the back seat. Maile’s breathing was intense but in control. When we arrived, the midwife examined her, smiled gently, and said she wasn’t dilated yet, that we should come back later, when the contractions were closer together.

* * * * *

How often I think I’m ready for the next phase! Ready to bring into existence something new! Bring it! I’m good to go! I’ve got everything figured out! And then God taps me on the head and smiles gently and says, in the kindest way possible, “Keep doing what you were doing, son. Keep breathing. Keep laboring. It’s not quite time yet.”

* * * * *

A few hours later, the trip to the hospital looked a little bit different. Maile’s feet were braced on the dashboard, and she shout-moaned through each contraction. She could barely walk when we got out of the car. She labored hard and long and, finally, late that night, after shifting over onto her side, our first son came into the world.

So small that he fit easily into my arms. I was terrified. A son? How was I supposed to raise a son? I had grown up with all sisters.

Now he is inches taller than me, broader in the shoulder, looking for a job. He has read almost all of my favorite books, and they are his favorites. Now he walks a mile through the city to school during the year and navigates issues I never even had to think about. He is finding his own way. Soon, too soon, he will leave us.

We will tell him not to look back.

* * * * *

While I was writing Light from Distant Stars, this book that’s coming out July 16th, I kept a daily journal that I would write in prior to working on the novel. In it, I talked about the difficulties I was facing as a writer, what I was trying to write, and just sort of my general process. If you preorder the novel now (preordering a book is one of the most helpful things you can do for a writer), I’ll email you the 51-page journal. Find out how to get it HERE.

* * * * *