One night, a couple of years ago, I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts and images raced through my mind and pulled me out of bed. I didn’t want to wake my wife, so I grabbed my writing notebook and went downstairs. There in the dim light of my living room, I wrote a short story. It took me about twenty-five minutes to put the basics of the story on paper. It took me over two years to get it published

I let the story sit for a few weeks.

Then one afternoon at Scout Camp with my son, I was free for a couple of hours. I sat down among the pines of the Arizona high country, opened my laptop, and typed up the story. It flowed from my fingertips just as easily as it had come to me that sleepless night. I was excited.

I tinkered with the story from time to time. I trimmed it down. I changed wording. I tried to find the essence of the story and tell it in the most straightforward fashion possible. I let a few people read it. They enjoyed it, and I was encouraged.

Later that summer, I attended a seminar hosted by Orson Scott Card. I mentioned the story to him and asked for advice. He recommended a title change, and suggested that I find an illustrator. I began to think it might get published.

I started looking for a home for the story, but I really didn’t know where to start. I sent the story off to a traditional publisher and described my vision for its publication. A couple of months later, I got my first rejection letter.

The story sat, but I didn’t forget it.

As Easter of 2010 approached, I pulled it out and dusted it off. I reworked the opening and polished the prose. I gave it to a few friends to read for Easter, and everyone praised the story. But I still didn’t know what to do with it.

The story sat waiting for me to do something.

Another year went by and as Easter of 2011 approached, the story and its message haunted me. I pulled it out again and gave it another edit. I tweaked a few words and sentences, but realizing that story wasn’t commercially viable, I still wondered how to get the story out for others to enjoy.

Then, a friend sent me an article about self-publishing, and I wondered if I should try that with this story. After all, this story meant something to me, and I felt compelled to make it available.

Following the advice of Orson Scott Card, I emailed my friend Alexy Bikman who occasionally works as an illustrator. I gave her a copy of the story and asked her if she could produce some simple drawings to help bring it to life. She quoted her price, and started her work. A couple of weeks later she delivered a few simple drawings that I thought captured the vision of the story. I took those drawings and combined them with the words to make a nice illustrated short story.

I decided to publish the story digitally first, and then work on the hard copy format second. It took me several maddening attempts to get the formatting right, but I finally published the story using Kindle Direct Publishing. You can find the story on Amazon for ninety-nine cents. If you don’t have the Kindle, you can download the Kindle reader software for free. Then set up an account to purchase books, and download the book to your computer, Kindle, Nook, smart phone, or any other electronic reading device.

Here is the link to download it -

http://www.amazon.com/Stone-ebook/dp/B004VYS7GK/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1302529014&sr=1-1

Here is the first paragraph –

Graves are often marked with headstones, because the dead, like stones, are cold and lifeless. They lie in the stony earth and return to dust, but I can tell you that the dead will remain neither dust nor stone forever.

If you enjoy the story, write a review for Amazon and tell your friends.

If you think a hard copy would be nice, post a comment here or email me.

Each story you write is important to you. After all, you gave it life. You brought it into existence. It is a part of you. This story, although small in scope and simple in plot, represents the best part of me – my core beliefs. I want others to understand how I feel. I want them to know what I know. That’s why I never gave up on “Stone.”

I hope you enjoy this Easter story.

On the banks of the Cumberland River just south of Burkesville, Kentucky, sits an old two-story house. The front porch has fallen down. Most of the glass has been broken from the windows.

The sideboards are bare and weathered, and the old stone chimney struggles against the elements like a lone sentinel left to guard a treasury that has long since been looted by progress.

At one time the house was a bustling home of activity and commerce.

It sat next to Neely’s Ferry and travelers heading north and south out of Burkesville would pass over the ferry in a stream of commerce. No doubt riverboat traffic also stopped at the house.

A bridge has long since replaced the ferry, and riverboat traffic has been replaced by the railroad or the interstate – neither of which came to Burkesville. Today the house is nothing more than a relic, and a symbol of the slow decay of a heritage.

The geography of Cumberland County Kentucky gave it a distinct personality. The hills and bluffs broke up any continuity and isolated small groups and families. The Cumberland River gave it life, and at the same time also divided, and destroyed. The misty woods provided an ambience of mystery. The winding roads slowed the pace of life and change. Because of the geography, small semi-isolated communities with distinct personalities like Black Gnat, Judio, Big and Little Renox, popped up within a few miles of each other. They were usually centered around a one-room schoolhouse and a simple church. Independence and interdependence were a necessity of life.

A danger lurks at every corner. A danger we may not recognize or even know exists. It comes to steal productivity, damage our free time, and interrupt our hard earned rest. I’m talking about that notorious verb – to dink.

The verb dink (as I prefer to use it) comes from the sport of tennis and refers to a soft shot that drops just over the net. It isn’t a power shot that rockets the ball towards the opponent, or a cleverly placed volley shot that skips just inside fair play and then bounces out of reach. If you dink the ball, you hit it lightly over then net with little energy barely keeping the ball in play. This, of course, forces your opponent to rush forward and struggle for a shot before the ball is dead. Somewhere in the 1930’s this verb became symbolic of light action, or action without purpose.

Dinking means to fiddle around at unimportant things or waste time with light purposeless action. Dinking isn’t work, because work, by definition, is the effort expended with a specific purpose or result. Dinking isn’t rest, because rest, by definition, is the act of refraining from work or activity. Dinking isn’t exercise or sport (unless you “dink” the ball during your tennis game), because sports have rules and objectives. Dinking is not a hobby, because hobbies are something done during leisure time for pleasure. Dinking does not fit any of those definitions. Dinking is dangerous because it does not further our work, enhance our rest, or improve our exercise. It simply dinks.

Thanks to a variety of electronic devices, we have become professional at the art of dink in our day. We sit in front of the TV with no particular show in mind, pick up the remote, and began changing through the innumerable channels available in search of something captivating. Usually we find changing the channels more captivating than the content on the channel itself, so we dink away our leisure time without actually doing anything of leisure.

The computer is the perfect dinking tool. These marvels of technology come loaded with superfluous games to while away the time in between answering meaningless emails. When we are done racking up a new high score on World of Witchcraft or Somewhereville, we can dink the day away answering emails about free credit scores, magazine offers, regrowing hair, electronic cigarettes, and online sites to help our love life.

Of course the Internet is the ultimate dinker’s paradise. Online videos, chat rooms, blogs, games, social networks, twits, forums, misinformation, editorial content, and various other free sources of infotainment combine to form a veritable dinker’s black hole that pulls you into its grasp never to release you until your productive time has long been spent.

Earnest Hemingway said, “The time to work is shorter all the time and if you waste it you … have committed a sin for which there is no forgiveness.” Of course I found that quote while I was dinking around on the Internet with no intended purpose. I guess I will seek forgiveness in the next life.

Now, what are you doing dinking around on my blog? Get back to work!

The day after Christmas 1986, Marine Corps pilot Dale Puhle walked for the last time. Decked out in his Marine Corps dress blues, he strolled over to a waiting military vehicle and climbed in. It was the last time he walked, and the last time he piloted an aircraft until Feb of 2011.

Dale had just finished his initial flight training along with his basic officer training. He was two weeks from being a commissioned officer and moving on to advanced flight training. A driver on drugs and a bus had other plans.

His impaired military driver sped through an intersection in Oceanside, California, and collided with a bus. No one was seriously hurt, except Dale. A police car, not far behind the speeding vehicle, was on the scene immediately. The officer pulled Dale from the wreckage and finding no pulse, resuscitated him. He died again in transport, and again at the hospital. Each time he returned to the land of the living.

Dale spent seven months in a coma. They operated on him multiple times. When he woke up, he was in a military hospital in Minnesota. He couldn’t walk, talk, or handle even the basic daily functions, but he was still alive. After more surgery, and four years of rehab, he was medically retired from the Marine Corps.

The sky was a crisp blue as we drove to Falcon Field in Mesa, AZ, so blue that it hurt to stare at it. The winds were light out of the southeast, and the nearest cloud was hundreds of miles away. At seventy-five degrees, the weather was perfect for taking a hop around the valley of the sun.

My friend Derek Miller met us at the gate and escorted us to the awaiting Cirrus SR-20 aircraft. I parked just off the tarmac, and Linda, Dale’s saint of a wife, pulled the van close to airplane. Linda helped him into his motorized wheelchair as Derek began the preflight. As soon as he got into his chair, Dale scooted over to the bird and started helping with preflight. He inspected the tail, the ailerons, and the prop as I helped remove the tie downs. He was anxious to get airborne.

“I want Starbucks on this flight,” said Dale in his unique manner of speaking. He relearned to speak, but he has to exhale the words from his mouth with force. We laughed and asked if he knew of a fly-thru Starbucks. He looked at me, the airline pilot, pointed his finger and demanded with a grin, “I want peanuts too.”

With the preflight finished, we took a few pictures and prepared to climb in and slip the surly bonds. We lifted him onto the wing, slid him over to the door, and then hoisted him into the seat. The excitement on his face was visible, and he gave me the universal aviator’s thumbs-up sign.

I strapped him in, got his headset situated, and climbed into the back. Derek settled in and began the preflight checklists as Dale watched and cajoled us even more about the Starbucks and peanuts. When Derek checked the CPAS (Cirrus Airframe Parachute System), an onboard parachute to be used in emergencies, Dale asked, “Where’s the ejection button?” He turned and looked at me, “For you!”

When the motor sprang to life and the prop began to turn we all felt that moment of reverence and revelry that all aviators feel at the sound of a healthy engine. We finished our checklist, called for taxi, and added power. It was my first time in a Cirrus aircraft. The visibility was impressive, and the flat panel displays with electronic checklists made me jealous. (I still fly 737 300/500’s with round dials.) Dale must have also been impressed because he stopped busting my chops and gave his full attention to the operation of the aircraft.

After our run-up, we were cleared for takeoff from 4R. We taxied onto the active runway, pushed up the throttle, and accelerated down the runway. We were airborne at 75 knots, and lifted nimbly away from mother earth. I looked at Dale and could see that he was engrossed with the sensation of being airborne, at the controls of an aircraft, for the first time in over twenty-four years.

You don’t understand the concept of freedom unless you have flown. Taking your craft into the blue and feeling the three-dimensional ability to move is an exhilaration that you never grow tired of. The elevated perspective breathes life into a tired soul, and you feel more godlike as the horizon expands in front of you. I imagine that after twenty plus years bound to a wheelchair, the feeling for Dale must have been euphoric.

His silence ended after we leveled off. He showed us that he still remembered his flying training when he asked about our groundspeed and the winds. His left hand doesn’t always work the way he would like it to, but in the right seat of the Cirrus, he could put his rind hand on the control stick. He placed his hand on the controls and forced out the words, “I want to fly.”

Derek and I had discussed safety precautions specific to Dale’s condition. He didn’t have complete control of his legs, so we made sure that his feet stayed clear from the rudder pedals. I sat behind Dale, prepared to restrain him from interfering with the controls if necessary. I hesitated when he asked. Derek glanced over his shoulder. We didn’t want Dale’s first flight in twenty-four years ending in tragedy because we failed to take important precautions. Finally, I responded, “Why don’t you put your hand on the controls and follow along?” Derek nodded in agreement. Dale stretched out his right hand and grabbed the control stick.

Understanding history is not always easy, especially if you are in the thick of things as it is being made.

I entered pilot training for the USAF in January of 1989 as part of UPT class 90-04. We would become the last of the cold-war warriors, but of course at the time we didn’t know it. We were a mess of egos and testosterone. The air of the flight room was thick with competitive vibes beating like the drum of a marching band. Unyielding. Dominant. Constant. We were competitors, peers, and wannabe warriors in the fight against godless communism. During the course of the year we lost half of our class. Some quit. Some were medically disqualified. Some couldn’t learn fast enough. We all started with hope and promise, but in the end the grinder made meat out of all of us.

We graduated in January of 1990, and headed out for follow-on training in our respective aircraft. During the summer of 1990 the cracks in monolithic Soviet Block expanded from tiny fissures to full-blown fractures. On August second 1990, Sadam Hussein invaded Kuwait, and the world would never be the same. By the time I reported to my duty station in September, the Berlin Wall was coming down.

The conflict I had trained for was irrelevant. Tactics became obsolete. Maps changed like the weather. I felt like I was all dressed up with nowhere to go. When the shooting started in the desert, I watched it on CNN from England and Germany.

In July of 1991 I deployed to Incirlik Turkey in support of Operation Provide Comfort. Our mission was to patrol Iraq north of the 36^th parallel and provide some relief for the battered Kurds. We were instructed to “…fly so as to make your presence known.” To a fighter pilot, that is an invitation to buzz Main Street. So, that’s what we did.

We launched our A-10’s from Incirlik with a combat load and flew the hour plus to the northern border of Iraq. We would hit the tanker and airborne refuel, and then push into the Area of Responsibility. We would fly around checking on villages, outposts, and the remnants of the dreaded Republican Guard. Then we would leave Iraq, hit the tanker again, and make our way back to the ‘Lik.

During my three months there, things were quiet. I never fired a shot, or dropped a bomb. I began to feel like the entire thing was a waste. On several occasions Turkish fighters would get gas from the same tanker we used. We would fly into Iraq to “protect” the Kurds. They would bomb the Kurds just across the border in Turkey. Same tanker. Same day. Same Kurds. Maddening.

All I wanted to do was go home to my wife and son.

In my search to find a purpose in my efforts and risks, I began to notice things. Crops were being planted. Homes were being built. Villages were growing. Roads were being repaired. Lives and communities were moving forward.

There in the cockpit of an A-10 over northern Iraq, I began to see the fruits of my efforts grow and ripen. It was small and difficult to see, but our efforts were making a difference. We had given some reprieve to a weary people, and they were trying to put their lives and communities back together.

Years later in a supermarket in Dallas, I noticed that several checkout clerks and bagboys were speaking a foreign language. Being the curious type, I asked them where they were from. They were all Kurds that had escaped the violence and made it to the USA while I was patrolling the skies overhead. We shared stories. We shook hands. I left with the feeling that maybe I had been a part of helping someone else find freedom.

Today we are in the midst of dramatic changes. We face a stateless enemy whose ideology counters the core values of our republic. We have difficulty understanding why they want to kill us. We struggle to find our way through this conflict, both collectively, and individually, because it has affected us all in some way. After almost ten years, we cannot claim an overall victory.

Understanding history is not always easy, especially if you are in the thick of things as it is being made. Sometimes it is years later before you understand and appreciate the history you were a part of and the lessons learned from the experience. I hope I live to learn the lesson of today’s history.

BTW, I'm the A-10 on the left.

The best training I ever did for writing a book was running a marathon. Both require long lonely hours of training and preparation. Both require discipline and sacrifice. Both can bring elation, and pain.

But writing a book is like running a marathon without mile markers or a watch.

You slave away at your computer trying to put words on the page that make sense, words that move the story forward, and words that captivate. Sometimes a scene flows from your fingertips like electricity. Other times its like squeezing blood from a turnip.

When you run a marathon, cheering crowds line the racecourse and encourage you along. Nobody cheers for you when you fiddle for hours with the opening sentence of a scene until you can’t see straight. No one is there to shout inspiring words to you as you grapple with plot structure. Writing is an art form that is both created, and enjoyed, alone.

But there comes a point where you have to get the manuscript out of the house. Your hours of effort need validation, even if comes in the form of negative critical feedback. Like the cheering crowds on race day, you need someone to say, “Keep going! You can do it!” (Or maybe, “Stop you idiot! You look like you are about to die!”)

So, here I go…

I am posting the tagline, the back copy, and the first few paragraphs of my manuscript, Donor’s Club. I WANT FEEDBACK, even the negative kind if you are so inclined. I am only giving you the first few paragraphs, because more likely than not, that is all an agent or editor will read before passing judgement on a manuscript.

The main question is – would you keep reading? Feel free to post below, or email your comments to brockbooher@cox.net. All I ask is that you speak up, and let me know that I’m still in the race.

Tagline

Julio fights to survive and care for his brother in the slums of Lima until a mysterious foreign benefactor comes to his aid. Then, the struggle to stay alive begins.

Back Copy

What is the value of a life?

Julio promised his dying mother that he would take care of his brother. In order to survive on the streets of Lima and fulfill his promise, he chooses to accept the help of Isak, a mysterious foreign benefactor. His life is transformed, but in ways he doesn't expect. He soon finds himself in a fight to survive, and must decide on the value of a life.

I woke forty minutes before my alarm went off. It was the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice, and we were going to celebrate it on the field of battle.

Since it was the shortest day of the year, we watched the sun come up during the drive. The sky was cast in a brilliant orange and red as we left the house. We were all dressed in old military fatigues and armed with the latest weapons. The conversation buzzed with excitement and statements of bravado. We were going paintballing!

Somewhere along the way, the game of tag has evolved into a much more sophisticated, and expensive, game called paintball. You run around among the bushes and trees in some designated area and try and tag each other with a hurtling ball of dyed soap encased in a thick pliable shell. When you tag someone they are out of the game until the next round. When you get tagged, it can sting a bit, and sometimes leaves a welt. The measure of pain keeps you sharp and on your toes, keeps you honest, and sends the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

The morning was brisk when we got out of the truck, perfect for keeping us cool in the layers of clothing and protective headgear. Our designated spot sported some small trees, several thick bushes, and a few bunkers made of tires.

We dropped the tailgate of the truck and began gearing up for the fight. The air was filled with the hiss of compressed carbon dioxide as the tanks were attached to the guns, the sound of the paintballs plinking against the plastic hoppers as the guns were loaded, and the dull ratatatat of the weapons being test fired. It was mingled with the active conversation about past battles and future boasts.

After everyone was kitted up and ready to play, we chose teams. For the first two games, the five members of my family were pitted against the other five. A family that fights together, stays together… or dies together. We stayed together – and cleaned up the opposition without a loss!

With the adrenaline rush of the first game starting to wane, we continued to pick teams and fight. Shouts of warning and shouts of pain were mingled with shots of paint hurtling through air searching for a mark. I got nailed in the leg. I shot my son between the eyes. We laughed. We screamed. We argued. We encouraged. We had fun!

With the compressed gas and paintballs all spent, we nursed our wounds and our pride. We boasted of our prowess and our courage on the field of battle. We laughed at our blunders that ended with the sting of paint. We cleaned up our guns, gathered our trash, and with broad grins on our faces, we climbed into the trucks and headed home.

Most sports are a microcosm of life. Entering a non-lethal field of battle with my kids taught us to work together, watch out for one another, and stand shoulder-to-shoulder against an enemy hell-bent on our demise. If I could only convince them to apply those principles when the time comes to clean and sanitize their bathroom…