Newly Released LDS Fiction

This week's new titles over on the LDS Fiction blog:

Journey of the Heart by W. Dave Free

Freshman for President by Ally Condie

A Modest Proposal by Michele Ashman Bell


Did we miss any? If we did, let me know.


We've also posted the next contest and the winner of last week's contest.

Changes for the Whitney Awards

I received an e-mail this morning about changes to the Whitney Awards, judging committees, etc. I think this is a great step and the changes will make some needed improvements to the process.

Which is not to say that I think the Whitneys were defective before. No! They were/are wonderful and I whole-heartedly support the Whitney committees and their efforts to acknowledge and reward top notch LDS fiction.

Go, Whitneys!

Oh, sorry. Got carried away there. Go HERE to read the changes.

More on Author Promotion

If an author wanted to get word of mouth out about their book, like you mentioned, what are some ways they can do that, without reflecting negatively on their publisher, who may or may not have tried to promote the book?

Although it may be more difficult for you, as the author, you can do pretty much the same type of marketing and promotion that a publisher can do—depending on how much time and money you want to put into it. I have lots of posts that deal with this. Click on the labels "Marketing" and "Promotion" to read what I've said about it in the past. But here's a quick list (in no particular order):

Virtual book tours—find bloggers you like/know and ask if they'll participate. This will cost you a copy of your book per blogger.

Brick and mortar book tours/signings/launch parties—get to know your local bookstore managers and see if they'll allow you to do this. If they're not interested, contact your local library. When you travel for personal reasons, call the bookstores in the area, see if they carry your book, ask if they'd like to do a signing. Or do a drive-by, go in and ask if they'd like you to just quickly sign the copies of your books on their shelves. (Take stickers that say "Autographed Copy" and put them on the books.)

TV, Radio, Newspaper interviews—contact your local places, send press releases, see if you can get on the local interest shows.

Get your book on Amazon, even if you have to list it and sell it yourself.

Establish an Internet presence with website(s) and/or blog(s), join reader forums, hold contests to give away copies of your book, etc.

Keep in contact with your publisher to let them know what you're doing. Hopefully they will be positive and supportive.

And for all of those who insist a publisher should be doing all of this—well, yes, in a perfect world. But we're talking about a less than perfect situation here. Yes, you will have to promote your on book aggressively and yes, you will have to spend your own money doing so. This is a pain but if it's your current reality, you either bite the bullet and do it or you let your book fail. Your call.

When a Good Book Doesn't Sell

If you publish a book, you obviously believe it will sell. If a book doesn't sell well, what do you think are some of the causes?

Assuming the book is, indeed, a well-written book, in the LDS market the main reasons a good book doesn't sell well are:

1. Deseret Book didn't pick it up so it's not in their stores or on their website, therefore most of the LDS book buying public don't know the book exists.
   


2. It wasn't marketed/promoted correctly—either not enough promo (so readers didn't know it was there), or the promo wasn't targeted to the right reader, or the promo was lame, or the book cover was unappealing.


3. I guessed wrong. The book appealed to me/my staff but didn't have that same appeal to the general LDS readership.

All of these reasons are issues with the publisher, not the author. Unfortunately, it reflects on the author, making it more difficult for them to find another publisher willing to take a chance on them. If an author finds themselves in this situation, they need to double their efforts at getting the word out about their book and encouraging positive word-of-mouth recommendations.

Another issue occurs when a poorly written book is published. It gets negative buzz from readers and doesn't sell well. This is the publisher's fault because it shouldn't have been published in the first place—or it should have been cleaned up first. Some publishers put very little effort into editing and clean up work. Their "bad" books tarnish the reputation of their "good" books. (There is one publisher whose titles I will not buy because so many of them are poorly written. If I think I might like one of their books, I check it out from the library or buy it at D.I.)

Upgrading Publishers

I have a publisher who wants me to write faster and says they want my future books. Is there any value in me trying to "upgrade" or should I just be grateful that someone wants to publish me?

If you have a publisher who loves you and wants more of you, why in the world would you want to leave them?

The only reason to even consider switching publishers is if they're not doing a good job for you—or if they're a small niche publisher and you want to go national.

Are they targeting your maket? Do they pay you a fair royalty? Are they promoting your books? Are your books selling well? If so, stay where you are.

Summer Story Contest Voting Rules

Voting Rules:

VOTE between May 12th and May 16th.

There will be four winners: Readers Choice (Published authors), Readers Choice (Unpublished authors), Publisher's Choice (Published authors), and Publisher's Choice (Unpublished authors).

Publisher's Choice winners will be chosen based on quality of writing and uniqueness of story. You can vote by whatever criteria you want, just don't make it a popularity contest.

You MAY vote for yourself.


You may vote twice in each category: Published and Unpublished.

Click HERE to read all stories by Published Authors. Vote for two.

Click HERE to read all stories by Unpublished Authors. Vote for two.


You may only vote a particular story once. We're on the honor system here.

You may make all the comments you like, but VOTING COMMENTS must clearly indicate that it is a vote. (Ex: I'm voting for this one...)

I'll announce the winners on Monday, May 19th.

[P.S. Voting and other comments on the stories will also enter you in the Monthly Comment Contest.]

Summer Story: An Unexpected Summer Gift

"So you think this will really work?" Marie asked fancifully. She flopped her blond, lemon-pulp filled hair over to look at me, a sticky frosted donut in her hand.

"The Internet article said it should" I replied confidently.

Marie and I were lounged out in my backyard on two rickety beach chairs, the kind that recline all the way back to laying down. My backyard was the ideal location, not because of the random rooster casually strutting by, but because of the privacy from many curious and or judgmental eyes. My six younger siblings didn't care what strange girlie rituals Marie and I were up to. They were most likely too busy disputing who was supposed to do dishes that night, if dad would come home angry, or other monotonous struggles in our family dynamics. Even my mom was sure not to even take a glance out at us. Finishing off my donut, I shrugged, grinning.

"Your hair sure looks nasty."

"Thanks, you don't look so hot yourself." She replied sarcastically, a wry grin on her face.

"Nasty hair or not, that was good!" Marie exclaimed, licking the last bits of frosting from her fingers, "I haven't had one of those in like a year."

"That's why you should come to my house more often." I said back, checking my watch.

"Dang, its only been ten minutes. The sun is supposed to react with the acid or something, it takes like half an hour I think."

"Do you really want to stay out here that long?" She asked.

"No, not really." I said, uncomfortably adjusting the shoulder of my Speedo.

"Me either." She admitted. She brushed little pulp pieces off her own suit.

Raking my fingers through my hair, humid from the sticky juice, I imagined what it would look like to be blond. It wouldn't get that light, right? I glanced at a strand to check. I frowned. Nope, still brown.

"Well, what else should we do then?

"Hmm..." She pondered. "OH! Lets go to my place, Matt just got a new hockey set we could play with!?"

I thought a moment. The humidity caused my face to sweat, which was even more bothersome after the long hot bike ride to the grocery store this morning that had led to an embarrassing incident counting out my money in change. I pondered if playing hockey was a more comfortable option than laying out here sweating, when a low quacking noise alerted me that we were not alone. A stray duck had come to taste my hair. I giggled as he tugged pieces of lemon pulp off my hair.

"Yeah lets go, I'm being eaten alive!" I exclaimed laughing.

I scrambled awkwardly across Marie's driveway to stop the black plastic puck hurdling toward me and wondered if hockey had been a good idea after all. Luckily, I caught the puck just in time.

"Marie what did you think of me when we first met?" I said leaning on the hockey stick. "After all, we only met eight months ago." I didn't wait for her to answer though, realizing that this question was a great ruse. I ran the puck back, looking for an opening in her defense.

"I thought you were weird." She said in amused honestly, jumping side to side, anticipating my poorly concocted attempts to score.

I stopped a second then gave the puck a furious swat that glanced sidelong off her stick and into the gravel. Marie laughed loudly and ran to grab it.

"Oooh! Dang it, I thought that was in for sure!"

"Right Andrea, for sure." She said sarcastically.

"So what did you think of me when we first met?"

"I thought you didn't like me, and that you were stuck up and...of course you were weird too." I thought back to the day an unfamiliar blond girl walked onto the neighborhood playground who by rare chance seemed my own age, and later found out that our birthdays were about 2 weeks apart.

The sound of Marie striking the puck startled me from my reverie. I frantically swung my hockey stick in an effort to intercept the now flying puck, unintentionally exposing my fingers. The puck met the last two fingers of my right hand with a hard thwack.

Pain exploded in my fingers, and for some reason not consciously recognizable to me, I burst into tears. I knew it wasn't the pain, though. When you are twelve you don't cry about things like that. In fact, for a second, I wasn't even aware of where I was or what was going on. This injury was not the reason I was crying. The reason came from a deep sense of sadness that had suddenly welled up and burst to the surface. This sadness was so apparently harsh that I hadn't realized Marie standing next to me studying my swelling fingers.

"Oh Andrea, I'm sorry. I should have warned you. Really, I'm sorry..."

But I just stood there shaking with wrenching sobs. My new friend, whom I had spent many days similar to today, excluding this incident, came over and put her arms around me. I peered up through tear flooded eyes. When someone hugs you, it's typical to hug them back, everyone knows this. I knew this...but what I didn't know was what that really felt like...to be hugged as a true expression of emotion. I cried even harder. Knowing the type of cavalier friend I thought she was I hadn't expected this gesture from her, especially when I didn't recognize when the real emotional need for a hug actually was. Then she did something even more unthinkable. Gently she put her arm around me, taking my injured hand in the other and led me into her house. She called out for her mom, even though there was no obvious need for serious medical attention.

Even though I stood there bewildered in the middle of the house filled with little kids who'd all been running around but now stared at the strange bawling girl, I felt alone. Alone. Standing, sobbing, feeling no one was there for me, Alone. I don't know how Marie's mom knew this, but she did. She was with me in what seemed like an instant-- the woman that we had clearly avoided eating our donuts in front of, or laying out half naked in our swimsuits, while the sun bleached our hair. My shoulders shook continuously and uncontrollably still . My heart wrenched and heaved with the sadness. The situation before me held a strange disconnect. The day had started out so normal and all of the sudden--never ending sorrow. What was going on? But I couldn't really consciously ponder this, I was too entrenched in the mysterious inner pain I was feeling. As quickly as the situation had begun, my emotions subsided in several chest compressing sobs and the tears stopped running. My mature twelve year old self opened my eyes in disbelief as I realized the tender embrace of Marie's mother's arms around me. She gently smoothed my hair as I rested softly on her tear soaked shoulder. Marie stood watching sympathetically. I had never experienced that kind of pathos in my entire life. It made me wonder why I had never experienced this before. I hesitantly withdrew from her embrace, unsure of the affection being shown me. Composing myself I whispered, "Thank you sister Neil." and quietly walked out of the house with Marie. After closing the door behind us, I sniffled and took a deep breath, wiping my eyes. Marie gave me another hug and said, "Its okay Andy." I meekly said thank you, and I meant it.

Eleven years later, now my 23 year old self, I realized something from that day. Her mother may not have wanted Marie to sit around eating junk, or waste the day bleaching her hair with lemons. This woman may have a peculiar way that she'd wanted her family to live but I knew one thing. She'd taught her daughter to share something that I hadn't known I'd never felt before, nor did I even recognize. Our friendship dwindled away over time, as many childhood friendships do. But one thing that will never leave, is what she shared that hot Arizona summer of 1996, she shared love.

Summer Story: Hand of Sorrow

The summer night gripped him and he trusted it to conceal him. Anger it was that drove him on, fueling him to ignore the sweat that burned his eyes and the myriad cuts across his naked calves. Armor would not do on this night of stealth. Sometimes you need to sacrifice what you hold dear for the greater good.

Have faith. Faith moves all things, doubt moves nothing.

His clothing hung upon him like leeches drawing out sustenance. Feet were raw, blistered from marching all day with the army and now alone on into the deep night. Traveling light, he carried only a twenty foot cord knotted every two feet in his left hand and a four foot javelin in the right. Moving with the grace of a stalking cat he slipped between thick trees and sparse underbrush. There were guards in the woods tonight. Many men desperate and vicious as himself, but he was not afraid.

I have done this before, I can do it again.

He kept his breathing under control and never once looked at the moon nor the torches of guards round about the city. He would not compromise his night vision. Fighting the invaders for so long, you learn all the tricks of the deadly trade. Stepping heel to toe, he could test the ground before putting his weight down. The deer stalker step had been learned the hard way. Too many times as a boy, the family had gone hungry when he had not brought home a four legged friend. Now instead of his mother and siblings going hungry it was his own wife and children.

The invaders, it is all their fault. They are responsible for the famine in the land. They steal everything, not just our food but our lives and liberties if they can. They have stolen our peace for more than ten years. How I hate them. It ends tonight. The general says to be a forgiving man and love our enemies in spite of what they do.

I can't. The world has need of willing men to do what I can do. I have done this before, I can do it again.

He averts his eyes as a trio of copper skinned warriors pass by, their torches futilely fighting the gloom. Waiting another few minutes until they are beyond the edge of the wall he races out, casting the cord over the top. The walls here are old and made of upright palisades logs. The outside is covered with a stucco of lime, sand and crushed seashells but the tops are exposed irregular logs with pointed ends. They pierce the night skyline like the under bite of that old dragon, the devil.

The heavy knot in the cord easily catches between the teeth. Tugging thrice, he then climbs up to the narrow parapet that runs inside the wall. The invaders bodies are strewn about the inner city as if the battle avoided today were already done and lost. The heat of the day's march having affected them just as deeply as anyone else. He dropped down the parapet swinging his knotted cord back the other way. No time to find the ladders or steps.

If I do my job this will be done. Better for one man to perish than for the many to continue slaughtering each other. I am a gardener. I am pruning the evil tree at its very root, from whence all the bitter fruits have poured forth. I can end this.

The summer night burned but he moved silent as new fallen snow. Invaders snored and even those on guard duty dozed leaning upon their brazen spears. Moving from place to place he searched for where he thought the king might be found. Some grand homes atop earthen mounds, temples to dark gods, but he was not there. Only dog soldiers slept here, content to dream of the conquest that would be denied them with one well aimed spear.

Racing against the approaching dawn, he found a great tent in the cities courtyard. Guardsmen were arrayed about it in a zodiac of pagan superstition. Still they slept like dominos. Each man within a few paces of the next. Dead to the world, alive to the dreamtime.

How can I not be blessed, the way is open.

He stuck the javelin in the hardpacked earth and wiped the sweat from his brow and hands. Whispering a silent prayer of thanks, he crept toward the tent. Somewhere someone strummed a lyre and the haunting melody made him pause. Swallowing hard he came on, right between the sleeping guardsmen. None stirred.

He used the tip of the javelin to pry back the tent flap. A man lay sprawled out asleep amidst incredible finery. Silken pillows and ornate rugs littered the ground about him as did wine bottles upright like trophies. Incense from distant lands burned a putrid reek filling the tent with its foul odor like a demons breath.

The king lay with his exposed chest moving rythmically up and down. A golden chain around his neck slid to the side as he twitched. A whimper came and I hesitated. Was he having a bad dream? Ours will end with him if I do this. Anger turns to sorrow, but I must do this. He brought this war here and I will end it. I have done it before, I will do it again.

I took aim and let fly.

The kings eyes flew open in disbelief. He cried out once as a black wind came and carried his life breath far away.

I run, the servants and guardsmen shout and scramble. One casts a well aimed spear. I feel the heat but no fear.

Summer Story: A Fine Night for a Swim

Hot summer rain came down like the sky was sweating. I swear there hadn’t been a breeze for days.

“I don’t think I can stand another minute,” I groaned. “I’m going to melt into a puddle of goo.”

“Aw, Maddy,” said my best friend, Ardith, “you won’t be the only one.”

“They’ll have to mop us up tomorrow,” Georgina chuckled. “Just imagine the police report. Elderly ladies disappear, house flooded.”

It was, quite literally, too hot to laugh.

It was hotter that year than ever before. Although, I do believe we said that every year. The three of us, each with a fan in hand, had given up sleeping and gathered on the wide porch, hoping for a breath of wind. Everything you could see was indigo in the moonlight. I couldn’t even remember how many nights I’d looked out over that same blue scene. The three of us had all grown up, countless years ago, on this estate—two tenant farm girls, and the estate owner’s daughter—best friends practically from birth. We’d raised our families, sent our children on their ways, and each bid our husbands farewell from this life. Somehow, through all that, we’d stayed the same friends we’d always been. Some way, we’d all come back to the estate no matter where else life took us.

“How did we ever manage this when we were young?” Ardie shook her head. “Why didn’t we ever move up north, where it’s cool?”

“And do what?” I asked, a bit more snappishly than I meant to. “All we ever been is southern women. What would any of us do in the big city?”

“Get an air conditioner,” Georgina answered. I smacked her with my fan.

“Hey,” Ardie said, but then didn’t say anything else.

“What?” Georgina asked.

“Ya’ll remember that old swimmin’ hole,” Ardie asked, “Down behind the old mill-house?”

“Oh, sure.” My mind wandered a bit as I answered. “I haven’t been down there since the rooster knows when.”

“We never needed an air conditioner,” Ardie went on, grinning like a Cheshire cat, “when we used to run down there on a hot night.”

“Ardith!” Georgina suddenly, remembered exactly what her sister meant. So did I, and I couldn’t help laughing.

“I’d almost be willing to head down there right this minute,” I admitted. “I wonder if it’s still down there.”

“Of course it is,” Ardie said, getting out of her chair, slowly and painfully. I remembered watching her as a young woman get up from sitting cross-legged on the floor just as quick and easy as anything; seeing her have to work so hard to get out of the porch swing hurt my soul. Where had that youth gone? “And I am going to head down there, right this minute.”

I groaned my way out of my rocking chair. I sure wasn’t going let her go alone. Or so I would say, so I could blame her later for the whole thing being her idea.

“We used to be so scared we’d get caught doing this,” Ardie said with a giggle as we put our nightclothes back on after our swim. “Now, I’m sure we’d scare anyone who caught us!”

On the way back up the trail, we stumbled across a young, newly married,couple sneaking down to the river.

“Fine night for a swim!” Georgina called out loudly, startling them both. I could tell they thought they were the only ones in the world who knew about that old swimming hole. They let us pass on the narrow path, then watched after us in amazement—three nutty old ladies in sopping wet nightgowns and soggy slippers, who’d obviously been for a midnight dip.

Somehow it had been more than that. For a moment, we’d had our youthful joy again. The river was cool, reviving. In the dark, you couldn’t see the wrinkles, the liver spots, or the limps. Bare skin shone bright blue against the black water as we swam, and laughed, and forgot how ancient we were, if only for a moment.

“Fine night, indeed,” I agreed.

Summer Story Deadline Extension

We've got a few short story entries, but not quite enough for a full-blown contest.

I'm extending the contest submission deadline through the weekend.

You have until midnight, Sunday, May 11th, to e-mail your story to me.

I'll post all submissions on Monday, along with instructions on how to vote.

Submission Guidelines/Contest Rules

Contest Sponsors/Prizes

Newly Released LDS Fiction

This week's new titles over on the LDS Fiction blog:

Free Men and Dreamers (vol. 2): Twilight's Last Gleaming by L.C. Lewis

Finding Dad by Alma J. Yates

Waiting for the Light to Change by Annette Haws

The Great and Terrible (vol. 5): From the End of Heaven by Chris Stewart

The Host by Stephenie Meyer


Did we miss any? If we did, let me know.


We've also posted the next contest and the winner of last week's contest.

Summer Story: The Butterfly

I was lying in bed this morning pondering the vagaries of memory. Most things that happened to me in the first ten years of my life are very hazy, yet certain things I remember, a Christmas present; a fight with my brother; a crash on my bicycle. These incidents take place in a disconnected way, surrounded by periods of fog.

As I lay their pondering my mind alighted on a long forgotten incident something that must have happened when I was about eight years old.

It was one of those beautiful summer days that only exist in childhood. I was playing on the field opposite my house; well we children called it 'the field'. I used to wonder why the adults called it 'the tip'. Looking back I can now see it was because of the old washing machines, prams and other rubbish that was dumped there. To us children it just added to the excitement of the place. In the morning when we went out, to play, we wondered what treasures had been dumped there overnight. The only reason why the 'field' was there at all was because the land was too boggy to build on.

We children thought it was great though and would give exotic names to all the landmarks in our communal garden. The Sand Hills, a place where the soil was so poor even the weeds refused to grow. The Rolls Canardly, which was a car that had been dumped there so long ago that it had decomposed and become part of the landscape. Then there was the Silver Stream, which sprang up so mysteriously from the ground, it had to be magical. We would drink from it, reverently, as if it was some wonderful potion or elixir. When I think about it now, it's a wonder we weren't poisoned!

On this particular day I was wandering 'the field' lost in a reverie when I saw a piece of paper blowing about in the wind. From time to time I would forget about it but my eyes kept on being drawn back to the paper as it danced in the breeze. It was certainly an odd-looking piece of paper, very colourful, was it a toffee wrapper? The more I looked, the more puzzled I became. It appeared to have a life of its own, then I realised that it did have a life of its own it was a butterfly. As I looked I sometimes thought I must be mistaken, but yes, it was a butterfly, and what a beautiful butterfly. I'd never seen one like it before, and I've never seen a one like it since.

For a while I watched as it played happily in the sun, then I got to thinking. I was on my own, how could I ever describe to my friends how beautiful it was? How would they ever believe that I had seen such a wondrous thing? I couldn't ask the butterfly to remain still while I found a few mates. I had a problem what should I do?

Suddenly all became clear there was only one thing for it I would catch it and show it to them. I took off my shirt and pursued it with all my energy. The butterfly proved to be very illusive and it soon became obvious that it would be no easy task catching it, but I was determined that it wouldn't get away. Sometimes I'd lose sight of it altogether, but it was so distinctive I would always find it again. After much trying I at last managed to throw my shirt over it. I remember the feeling of triumph when this happened, I'd got it, I'd finally got it. Then ever so carefully so as not to let it escape, I moved the shirt so I could gaze upon the beautiful butterfly that had been the object of my attention for so long. It didn't escape, it couldn't. It was dead. In my stupid attempt to possess this magical creature I had killed it.

I've been trying hard to think of some positive moral to this story. It hasn't been easy but now I think I've found one. Don't lie in bed dwelling on past events what has happened has happened. You should get up and create some new experiences in your life and make sure they're good ones.

Anyway everybody shouldn't feel so upset it was fifty years ago so I think it would have probably died by now anyway!