Book Review: DRIFT

Title: DRIFT
Author: Sharon Carter Rogers
Publisher: Howard Books
Release Date: April 2010
ISBN-10: 1416566538
ISBN-13: 978-1416566533
Price: $13.99
Pages: 337
Format : Trade Paperback


Drift is a unique novel. One I could not put down. This was partly due to the tale told, and partly due to the way the tale unfolded. Sharon Carter Rogers has a crisp writing style. Taut chapters, crisp dialogue, and developed characters kept me page turning, anxious to see what would happen next.


To write this review a reader needs to understand what makes up a Drifter. A Drifter is neither an angel, nor a demon, but someone who is always here. Divinely possible, and perfectly flawed, Boy is attached to a tether for a time. Some times last longer than others. Some are short—lasting days. And what is a tether? A person. One who can see and hear and touch the drifter, while others cannot do any of these things.


A Drifter, once out of sight is soon forgotten, both by the tether, and also to the Drifter. If prematurely separated, the Drifter’s existence crumbles. It slowly, and painfully kills the Drifter without the relief of death.


Again. Unique.


In Drift, Baby Doll was adopted, or stolen really, as a child. Her deceased father—Charlie Murphy—held a high position in a mob-like organized crime syndicate. His title—The Executioner—carried with it all the power the name suggests. His suspicious death leads Baby Doll to Boy—the Drifter. Or maybe it is the other way around.


Bonded by an invisible link, the two are tethered to one another. And like any relationship, relies heavily on give and take. Boy needs a favor from Baby Doll. A simple task. He’d left something important at the home of his last tether. Unfortunately, he can’t remember where it was his last tether lived, and more importantly, he isn’t sure he can trust Baby Doll to help him.


Baby Doll needs tether’s help for a more primal cause. To stay alive. With Murphy’s death comes the threat of anarchy within the syndicate—a tipping of balance that Baby Doll set into motion. In order to ensure the demise of the syndicate Baby Doll needs what was stolen from her, or else order risks being restored and her involvement behind the scenes of the turmoil could cost her the very life she’s been trying to save. Her own.


With the syndicate growing more suspicious about her involvement, and the police certain she knows more than she’s told, Baby Doll is torn by questions that spin like a whirlwind inside her head: What to do next? Where to go next? And why in the world has she been tethered to Boy?

The tension in Drift builds and builds, chapter by chapter, page by page and word by word. With unexpected twists, crazy turns, and nail-biting action—Rogers’ book will thrill readers. Touch them. And force them to remember the story for a long time.


--Thomas Phillips, author of The Molech Prophecy

Book Reviews For Shroud Magazine

I am going to be writing book reviews for Shroud Magazine. I will also be posting the reviews here -- allowing for a little extra exposure for the talented authors.

My first post ....

Title: Hiram Grange: The Chosen One
Author: Kevin Lucia
Publisher: Shroud Publishing
Release Date: June 2001
ISBN: 978-0982727508
Price: $7.99
Pages: 165
Format : Trade Paperback

The sad thing about having read the novella, The Scandalous Misadventures of Hiram Grange: The Chosen One, is that I did not read the previous three books in the series. I love that it is a stand-alone story, however, now I am itching to read the rest!

In Kevin Lucia’s debut novella, we find ourselves immediately immersed in a world of black magic, demons and fairies. We learn it’s all about balance. Without it, nothing works. Unfortunately for Hiram, he is the man tasked with the unearthly job of ensuring balance ensues.

When treacherous beasts are summoned, the fate of six women is at stake. Hiram must find the talisman housing the monsters and destroy, or find the one doing the summoning—and destroy him. Worse case, he must kill the one woman destined to replace Queen Mab when the time is right, or – the alternative – she will destroy the world.

With non-stop, page-turning, giddy-up-and-go action, Lucia uses the taut confines of a novella to unfurl, with dead-accuracy, a story that can’t help but pull the reader in, shake him up, spin him around, and toss him here and there until the explosive – and unexpected ending.

Because of Lucia’s story telling skills, I am forced, no-no, compelled to go back and read the others in the series!

And as a side note, while I could not find any mention of an artist responsible for the cover, or the illustrations throughout, I cannot, in good conscience, let such wonderful talent go unrecognized. The book cover, and illustrations are simply spectacular.

I look forward to more Hiram Grange, and will most definitely be looking forward to more work by Kevin Lucia! His novella has allowed for an impressive way to crash onto the scene of horror writers!

--Thomas Phillips, author of The Molech Prophecy

I Don’t Have Time for Patience

This particular blog seems entirely relevant as I impatiently wait to hear from the City of Rochester on a potential new position working as a 911 Dispatch Operator...

“But when the Holy Spirit controls our lives, he will produce this kind of fruit in us: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,” Galatians 5:22 NIV

Having patience is easier said than done. I don’t know how many times I’ve become impatient waiting for a bag of popcorn to pop in the microwave. Or during the times when I’ve pulled up to order at a drive-thru only to become impatient sitting for at least a full minute at the pick-up window waiting to pay for and collect up my food.

Ever feel impatient while driving? I get that way all the time. There’s been a few times (ah-hmm), when I’ve felt almost trapped behind some car traveling at some speed that has to be below the limit. So what do I do? I pass him. Then while stopped at the next red light what do I see in my rear view mirror? It’s the guy I just passed pulling up behind me. He looks calm (and smug), while I have a white knuckle-grip on the steering wheel waiting for the horrendously long lasting red light to turn green.

I love all aspects of the life of David. As a young, lowly shepherd, Samuel told David that he would be the next King. Over the years he became best friend’s with the king’s son, and was welcomed into the king’s home as if he were family. Of course as the Lord blessed David, the young shepherd continually did amazing things. As he earned the respect and love of the people, Saul, the king, became increasingly jealous. Eventually Saul decided that he had to kill David, despite the fact that David had been nothing but loyal to Saul and the people.

When David realized he was a marked man, he and a handful of allied troops fled the land and hid, holed up in a cave. One day, Saul, tracking David with an entire army, came to rest just outside the particular cave where David and his men were hiding.

Needing to use the “facilities” (go to the bathroom), Saul entered the cave alone. David’s troops told him that God had brought Saul, and placed him in a most vulnerable position, and that David should take advantage of the situation and kill Saul.

Obviously killing Saul would solve David’s immediate problem of being hunted down by the king and his army, but instead, David let Saul go. David knew that when God’s time was right, even though years had passed, he would one day be king as God promised. He just needed to be patient. And patient he was. And eventually, David became king.

The Bible says that as Christians we are to be patient (2 Timothy 2:24; 1 Thessalonians 5:14; James 5:7-8; Romans 2:7). Why do you think learning to have patience is so important? I think one reason might be because God works using His own timetable. Not mine. (2 Peter 3:8-9). And if I really think about it, it’s only fair considering how patient God has been with me.

Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy

Is The Payoff Worth The Gamble

“If you try to keep your life for yourself, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake and for the sake of the Good News, you will find true life.” Mark 8:35

If we played the word-association game, what would your first thought be if I said, “Gamble?”

I admit, more than a single-associated thought pops into my mind.

When I see or hear the word gamble, my head fills with a flood of images—very defined images. I see shiny red and white dotted dice bouncing along a decorated green felt table. I hear the clickity-clack of a spinning, checkered black and red roulette wheel. I see a deck of playing cards being expertly cut and shuffled. I can feel the growing sound of thunder as the pounding hoofs of horses round the last leg of a race, as kicked up clouds of dirt linger along the trail. To top it off, all these images I visualize behind flashing Vegas-style neon lights.

Okay, I have a bit of an over-active imagination, but I’d be willing to bet (no pun intended) many of the things I described above are similar to thoughts that pop into your mind when you hear and see the word, “Gamble.”

Believe it or not, whether we realize it or not, we gamble every day. We gamble with our lives when we get into a car; we gamble with our health when deciding what food to eat; and we gamble with our spirituality when we choose a certain way to live our lives.

Many years back I worked as a freelance writer for a local paper. I covered human-interest stories throughout Rochester. I loved meeting and interviewing interesting and intriguing people.

One night I covered an event at a party house where volunteer firefighters were being specially recognized for achievements throughout that year. I listened to one particular captain talk about a fireman under his command. Without using a lot of adjectives to try and make his story more interesting, he spoke in a simple, matter-of-fact way, which I believe had an effect bringing the rendition to life.

Goosebumps scaled my arms as I listened to the details of a dangerous rescue. That winter a child had fallen into a body of icy water and went under. The first volunteer fireman on the scene dove into the water, searching for the child. The temperature outside was frigid, but the temperature of the water was deadly. The fireman was in just as much danger of drowning as the boy he hoped to recover. After a seemingly impossible amount of time had passed, the fireman swam to the surface, the unconscious boy in his arms. After performing CPR and other life-saving techniques, the boy regained consciousness and lived.

When the captain called front-and-center the fireman up for this courageous award, I was a taken aback because I not only knew the man, but worked with him as well. He was an attorney-by-day at Kodak. Never in all of our dealings together did he once mention that he was a volunteer fireman. Never once did he mention that he had saved a child from drowning.

Mark 8:35 talks about the risk of only living for oneself. The rewards from God come when we deny self, pick up our cross and follow Him. Living for others, serving others, helping others is clearly Jesus’ reoccurring theme throughout the Gospels and the New Testament. Don’t misunderstand me, good works will not get you into heaven, if that were the case, then Jesus’ death on the cross was pointless. (Salvation is a free gift to those who accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior and invite Him in to their hearts, to be the center of their life). But as a Christian we should want to live our lives doing for the benefit of others.

I am not a volunteer fireman, but metaphorically speaking, I do know many people who are drowning in some pretty icy water. The question I often ask myself is, will I just stand where it is safe with the rest of the onlookers—hoping help will arrive in time, or like my friend the attorney/fireman, will I dive in and attempt to make a difference . . . one person at a time?

Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy

Monday Tidbit: Do Rivers Run ... Up?

One day when my father and I were walking the pier at Charlotte Beach, where the Genesee River dumps into Lake Ontario, he looked at me and said, “Isn’t it amazing that this river flows into the lake?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. “What’s so amazing?”

“The river,” he pointed out. “It runs south to north.”

South to north? How was that possible? Rivers can’t run ... upwards.

Standing on the pier, knowing that Lake Ontario was north of Rochester, and that the Genesee River was indeed flowing from Rochester up into the lake, I couldn’t rightly disagree.

Still, I didn’t believe my father. Instead, when I got home, I did research on the Internet.

Know what I found? My father was right. Additionally, the Genesee River is one of many rivers running south to north.

I learned that the Niagara River is another south to north running river.

Imagine that, one of the Seven Wonders of the World---Niagara Falls--is a waterfall that actually falls south to north. It falls, if you will, up.

Now I’m just being silly, but it is true that both the Genesee River and Niagara River, including Niagara Falls, are rivers that run south to north. But this is all based on perception.

North, south, east, west . . . these are directions.

North isn’t really up.

South isn’t really down.

The earth is spherical. It is a ball. There is no up or down when it comes to north and south.

The simple scientific fact is that water only flows from a higher point to a lower point, regardless of if the water is traveling in a northern, southern, eastern or western direction.

Makes you wonder though, how many things in life do we miss out on because we perceive things incorrectly, without getting all of the facts?

Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy

Inspitation III: Daddy's Little Girl

I'm one of those people who hates birthdays. Not celebrating birthdays for others, love that, but when it comes to my own, not so much. Is it that I fear, or loathe getting older? Could be. If I had to pin down a reason why birthdays bother me, I'd have to say it has more to do with attention. I don't like the attention. I don't want gifts. Don't want people spending money on me. I don't like cake (prefer a hot slab of homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, if you must know. And now you do. So make note of it...)

As I re-read the above paragraph, I sound like the Grinch. Or Scrooge. Or my great-great grandmother on my father's side. Either way, I speak the truth. Not a birthday person at all.

There's one reason why when that time of year rolls around I celebrate. My kids. I do it for them. No other reason.

A friend of mine, Abs, has a different reason for not liking her birthday. Eleven years ago her father, Sanford, passed away on her birthday. She was the classic, stereotypical "Daddy's Little Girl." Losing her dad was, as one can imagine, is still difficult. Sanford's ashes were taken out on a boat and poured into Lake Ontario. And then Abs jumped into the water and swam with her father one last time.

On her birthday, the anniversary of Sanford's death, Abs goes down to the lake. It's not her birthday she celebrates, not anymore, but her father's life. The man drank Beefeater's with Lime. Armed with alcohol, she either walks the shoreline, or the pier, and pours the drink into the water as the two spend time together.

This year, as I'd said, Sanford's 11th anniversary, a few of us joined our friend for the evening. We toasted Sanford's memory at The Pelican. Listened to stories. And took pictures as our friend poured her father's drink into the water.

Where are the pictures?

Well. Abs' daughter, Danielle, and her daughter's friend, Dre, joined the rest of us. Dre is a mountain of a person. Too much muscle for one person's skin to hold. We grouped together for a photo. Dre picked up the camera. It looked like a Matchbox car in his beefy hands. And then the camera fell. The protruding lens bent trapping photos inside the camera.

Anyway. We decided to head down to Durand. Abs wanted to swim. Mid-September. But understandable.

Durand was far from deserted. It being only 9:00 PM. A warm evening, with few clouds in the sky, it was not that dark. The stars were out. Shining. The moon set high. Bright. A gentle breeze came in from the North, but did not cause a single ripple on the placid lake. The water resembled glass.

Maybe for only ten minutes, Abs went into the water. Alone. And walked around. Her legs and feet disturbing the calm.

When the night ended, Abs was grateful. Where she normally spent most of her birthday alone, this year she was surrounded by family and friends who refused to let the birthday pass unnoticed.

I do, at times, ponder my own immanent demise. Suppose we all do. And as a father of three amazing kids, one of which is clearly, and undeniably "Daddy's Little Girl," I would hope that when I go, my kids will carry on. I would want them to remember me. I like how Abs honors the memory of her father. But I also hope that my death would not take away from the joys my kids can still extract from their life. As their father, I would not want them to be sad after I am gone. Maybe it's easier said than done. My parents are both still alive. Sadness may be inevitable, is inevitable. But as a father, I would not want my kids to mourn forever. Abs celebrates the life her father lived. And that is exactly what I would want my kids to do, too.

As I spend more time around more people, I am touched by the stories that make-up a person's life. Naturally curious, I find that non-fiction is far more profound than fiction. Guess I've always known that. For far too long I've lived life mostly inside my own head. Rarely venturing outside my family to see what life is really about.

The more I do this, the more people I meet, the more I learn.

Maybe because I married young, started a family immediately, and then spent most of my time working, I missed out on things going on around me? I do not regret those choices, getting married and starting a family. Things may have not turned out the way I planned. Life rarely does. If I'd not of met and married my ex-wife, I would not have the three wonderful kids I have. So no, no regrets.

What I take away from this experience, is what I have always known--but, again, on a larger scale. Life is about family and friends. About being there for each other. And about moving forward. One day at a time.

Thomas Phillips
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
(Click on the above link to order your copy today)

Inspiration Comes From Living II: Outsider Looking In

Lions and Elephants and Jacka--Donkeys, oh my!

Yesterday evening a friend asked if I wanted to attend a party. The Admiral was running for Rochester City Council, again. Votes would be in around nine. And the campaign people, and supporters were huddled away ... no, not in Rochester, but in a close friend's beautiful condo in Brighton.

I'm not political, don't follow politics. I vote on school budgets, and for presidents. I'm Conservative. But this blog, it's not really about politics. Sides. It's not about Democrats and Republicans. It's about Observing and Reporting, as if I were a security guard.

I'd never been to one of these...parties. Seen them in movies. Most memorable was Primary Colors, where John Travolta portrayed Governor Jack Stanton -- who bore a considerable resemblance to the legendary Bill Clinton. So, going in, I had some idea what to expect.

I thought.

Walking up to the condo, I was introduced to a handful of people who stood outside on the stoop. It's a condo. Wouldn't call it a stoop. I am, though. It works. My friend told people who I was and that I was a professional writer. Not to be confused with just any old writer. But a professional. Hard not to stand a little straighter after an intro like that.

"Are you with the D&C?" I was asked.

Shook my head. Felt my shoulders lower some.

"What paper?" Someone else asked.

"I, um, write thrillers. Fiction."

The glow and gleam in their eyes glazed over to dull, lifeless marbles. Deflated, I shrugged. "But, I was brought here tonight to blog about the experience." Clearly unimpressed with the credentials of a fiction writer, I made a last ditch effort to maintain some of that "professional writer" status. "But I'm here to blog about the experience!" The second time I said it was as impressive as the first, apparently.

One lady clutched her wine glass with two hands, and smiled. "Oh, how nice."

Felt like I'd just handed her a torn page from a coloring book, and she now felt obligated to stick it on her 'fridge with a watermelon magnet.

I pressed on. Ignoring myself. Blog? Did I really tell these people I was going to blog about the experience? The word alone sounds so, so, so uncouth. Go ahead. Say it out loud. Blog...It's like an onomatopoeia for puking. Great.

Inside the condo, thankfully, I was shown around. Faced more introductions, but missed names, while I concentrated more on not using the word blog, possibly ever again. At first I'd wished I'd brought a pen and pad to capture everything fresh, as it happened. Good thing I hadn't. I would have had to explain what I was doing over and over, no doubt. Of course, knowing me, I'd of stayed away from telling people I was blogging, and would have simply lied. Made up some paper I was covering the story for. Like Fletch. Would have been easier. And funnier.

"Who are you?"

"I.M. Fletch Fletcher. Never Irwin. I write a column under Jane Doe. Maybe you've heard of it?"

"Who are you, again?"

"Dr. Rosenpenis."

"Who?"

"Dr. Rosenrosen."

"Dr. who?"

"Dr. Rosen. Where's the records room?"

Ah, but I digress . . .

Okay. So, then I met The Admiral. I put it in italics for effect. Want you to feel the intimidation I felt. I'm only 5'8". The Admiral, was a towering 4'something", but power didn't come from her stature. No. I learned that right away as I shook her hand and wished her luck. The power shot from her eyes. She wore glasses low on her nose, I assumed, on purpose. This allowed her to look up over the frames and at you. Into you. Through you.

In the living room and dining area were two groups of people. Each group hoovered over a person whose sole job was to man a laptop. The city website provided up-to-the-second results from polling booths. The laptop operator thumbed the Refresh Page button with casual vigor, like that kid at the skating rinks who never skated, but dropped an endless supply of quarters into a Galaga arcade game and thumbed through level after level, and, of course, slapped in initials for all the high scores at the end of each game.

Turns out, the guy in the dining area was the Admiral's son, Mitch Rowe. He had more responsibility than I'd first realized. He was the Admiral's campaign manager. And an apparent Blazing Saddles fanatic. I caught at least two regurgitation's of movie lines (his thumb never stopped hitting Refresh, as he offered them up, either. Talk about multi-tasking). The lady in the living room was the Admiral's daughter, Vickey Wehbring. Poised. Elegantly dressed. But very, very serious about hitting the Refresh button ahead of her brother, and shouting updates from room to room. That split second lead, I could tell, gave her an edge she was not easily willing to relinquish.

Thankfully, Abby, my friend--although still introducing me as a writer (which at some point, the professional aspect was dropped from her vocabulary)--refrained from mentioning I'm Republican, but, however, insisted on calling me a newbie.

The Admiral promised she'd be gentle with me because of this newbie status. And for a brief moment, I felt calm and at ease. (No military pun intended ... or was it).

Unfortunately, the race was not that intense. Carolee Conklin (a.k.a. The Admiral), was in second from the moment we walked in. With a nice, cushy lead, to boot. (To boot? Who says that? Aside from me. Just now.)

However, this lead allowed for a good-natured, light and free atmosphere. Jokes flew. I caught a few. Can't repeat them. Not without blushing, or washing my mouth out with soap. (Or, since I'm typing, without washing my hands. But that's not a bad thing, hand-washing. Not with swine flu running amok, now is it?)

Turns out, aside from his elected position as City Clerk, Dan Karin moonlights as a stand-up comedian. You can catch him on weekends at Daisy Dukes in Webster. He wears a disguise and uses a different name. Protect the innocent and all that. From me, he gets props.

When the General of the Army from the board game Stratego walked in, I had to do a double take. I didn't realize the board game was based on actual characters. Turns out I was wrong. It wasn't the General of the Army, but Chief of Staff for Council--Bill Sullivan. Whew. I was somewhat relieved. If the actual General of the Army was really out on the streets, that meant so were the no-rank spies. And that would just be creepy!

In the kitchen, I met Dan Greene. He was running for Sheriff, something or other. Luckily, he didn't come alone. He had a bodyguard. Tough looking guy, dressed in black. I felt safe, despite being Republican in a condo surrounded by Democrats. They were also with a woman. Don't know who she was. No introductions were made. I did tell her, however, that the finger foods she'd been munching on, were made by me. She lit up. Told me they were wonderful. Of course, feeling guilty for having lied, I explained that I did not make them, and that in fact, I could not cook at all. She told me she absolutely believed I had made the food, and that I had a career in politics. It's something to think about.

No real surprise, Carolee Conklin won. Again.

A real reporter called, already asking for a real interview. Which made me feel like a real fraud.

Regardless, a convoy was assembled outside. Matthew's on East Avenue was the party-to-be destination.

It is both important and relevant at this point in the story to point out that Abby recently (like last week) underwent major back surgery. She wore a steel-plated brace, like a chastity belt that didn't quite cover what needed covering. Made me think of that scene in Space Balls. But that's neither here nor there.

Why is this important? Because I went from...professional Blogger, er, um, writer, to personal body guard. Had no idea all the Democrats in the city, all 55 of them, were going to be at this downtown bar. (Was that a dig I just made? Um-yepper. It was. Sorry. Couldn't resist). The hugs, and handshakes, the hoots and hollering every time someone new walked in the door made anyone, everyone feel special. Even me. And you can't beat being made to feel special. Can you? Maybe. I'll think about it.

I did my best to stand behind Abby as politicians and friends banged their way through the crowd to race toward the back room at Marshall's where news stations (more professional journalists) had photo journalists covering the results-in, and interviewed the candidates. I may have stumbled in the line of fire on accident, or purpose a few times. Would have mouthed the words "Hi, Mom" but that would have been plain silly. And this was a serious occasion. Silly would have been uncalled for.

Regardless of my attempts to have my friend's back--literally--it was Mitch, Abby's brother who got past my defensive position. I saw him get down in a three-point stand. See, Mitch played football. Once a football player, always one, I suppose. Someone said, "On two." I heard, "Hut, Hut." And Mitch sprang up. Arms shot out. Wrapped his sister tight. Maybe he was celebrating their mother's victory. I'm not sure. I thought I saw Mayor Duffy drop back and throw something across the length of the bar. It was late. I might just have been seeing things. Who knows for sure? Not this blogger.

All in all, a good experience. I ended the night hitting the drive-thru at Taco Bell. Add a little indigestion in for good measure.

And, oh, by the way? I charged it all to Mr. Underhill's credit card ...

Thomas Phillips
Author of the suspense novel, The Molech Prophecy

1408 -- My Life

A while back I rented Stephen King's 1408.

At the time, I lived alone. Studio apartment. It was late at night when I started the movie. The beginning was creepy. Made my skin crawl. I had to shut the movie--figured I'd never get to sleep, not with the lights off, anyway.

The next day, when it was still light out, I finished the movie. And although it continued to creep me out ... something else happened.

The secondary story became more apparent. That's what a good movie, a good book contains. A secondary story. 1408 had one I did not expect.

See, the movie is about this writer. He visits haunted hotels, and sleeps in haunted rooms, and writes books about the experience.

When he is more or less dared to stay in a New York hotel, specifically in room 1408, it is the first time he ever encounters anything truly paranormal. Usually his writings uncover fakes and frauds. But this time, in room 1408, all of that changes ...

What the "ghost" does, however, is show the writer flashes from his own past.

And it was this writer's past that just wrecked me emotionally.

(MOVIE SPOILER--Don't keep reading if you don't want to know what happened in the film).

The writer was married. They had a young daughter--this pretty little girl, maybe ten.

Without much detail, we learn that the young girl is sick, dying, and eventually, died.

This guilt of not being able to do more to save his daughter, ruins the writer's life.

He leaves his wife. He buries himself in his work.

But the haunted room brings clips of his daughter to the forefront.

And at one point in the movie--she is there, in the hotel room with him. She tells him she loves him, that she wants to be with him and with mommy.

I kept expecting her to change into some horrid creature.

That never happened.

Instead, he hugs his daughter, tells her everything will be all right. He assures her that this time, this time, they can stay together.

And then she dies in his arms.

She goes limp. Lifeless...

He lost his daughter a second time.

The point of this blog is personal. I'm divorced. Didn't want to be. But there was nothing I could do. There was no saving the marriage.

I have three kids. They are my life. My world. My everything.

And though I live only a handful of miles away from them, and though I get them every other weekend, and one day during the week, and see them at school and sports events ... I can't help but feel, sometimes, like they have died. Or that I have.

The loss I feel is that great. The pain is that powerful.

And what is worse, at the end of each visit with them, when I take them back to their mother, I feel like they are dying on me a second time, or that I am. Every time.

It never gets easier.

Can't imagine it ever will.

I was that writer. John Cusack's character. Helpless, as I watched my kids slip out of my life. Lifeless am I each time I take them back to their mother ...

So, as I watched this writer in this movie writhe in agony over the loss and second loss of his daughter -- I was overcome with emotion.

I cried. I sobbed. It was uncontrollable. It lasted for what felt like forever.

It was a horror movie. Supposed to be scary.

And instead, to me, it was the saddest movie I'd ever seen. The realest movie. The rawest.

There is no real point to this blog.

Just that, to overcome the gloom and depression I feel, that sometimes sinks in, I thought I needed to write out my feelings.

If you read this, if you pray for people, please consider praying for me. Pray for my kids.

Divorce is awful. But when kids are involved, it is down right evil.

I know that God fills us when we are empty.

But at times, I feel more empty than ever imagined, than anyone should ever feel.

God bless,

Thomas Phillips
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy

Inspiration Comes From Living (Panorama/Pineapple Jacks)

As a novelist, I am often asked the question: "Where do you get ideas for your stories?"

The short answer is, the ideas just come to me. And that is the truth. I don't dream them. I don't struggle to come up with plots. I just, all of a sudden, have an idea and then grab a pen and pad (or napkin), and scribble out the basics of the idea.

However, that new story idea, is just that, an idea. The work I put in comes from fleshing out the idea to make it three-dimensional. Plausible. Believable.

A key to good storytelling, is realistic characters. Crisp dialogue. And plenty of action, regardless of genre. Action is what keeps readers turning pages.

Last night, I was overwhelmed with inspiration.

See, I posted on Facebook that I was headed down to a local watering hole to watch the Yankees/Orioles game. A good friend said she'd see me there. It was "Girls' Night Out" and I was invited to intrude on the get-together.

Most of the women going, I knew. Most I had not seen in 20 years. Not since high school.

I arrived at Pineapple Jacks a bit before seven. Found a place at the bar and ordered a drink. I paid with a twenty. The barmaid, always chatting up patrons, forgot to give me change back. I tried not to get anxious. But twenty bucks for one drink ... it was hard to not fidget on the bar stool.

When she came back around, the guy next to me held out money. She took it as he said, "This isn't my change."

She Oops, and goshed, and gave me the change I waited for. I bought the guy next to me a bubble (next-drink-on-me-kind-of-thing), as kind of a reward for returning a lost wallet idea. We shook hands, he thanked me, I thanked him. In return, the barmaid gave me a bubble. Karma?

My friend Mindy showed up. Said she and her friends had a table out front. I followed. The only guy among eight women. Not a bad night, eh? No. Not at all.

We spent an hour catching up. Turns out most of the women hadn't seen each other since school, either. Cell phones with pics of kids and husbands were passed around. Memories shared. An abundance of laughter ensued.

Unfortunately, I smoke. Bad habit. Filthy. But I do. So did a few of the women. Four of us entered the smoking section at the bar. (One of the only bars I know of in Monroe County that has a smoking section, part of why I love going there to watch games).

While Mindy went to the bar, Abby, Kim and I went to a table. Mindy was harassed by a large man while waiting for a glass of water. The guy, apparently was rude, and obnoxious. His comments to vile to post on a public blog.

When she came back to the table, so did he. Mindy, tough like she is, told the guy off in equally obnoxious language.

See. I'm the guy. There's an obligation to stand up to the man, and put an end to the situation.

So I did. I turned to the guy. He sat next to me. I said, "Look, you're upsetting my friends. We're just here to hang out. I'd appreciate it if you'd leave the table."

Don't think he expected me to stand up to him. He looked at Mindy, who wasn't listening to him, and said to me, "She's got nerve." (Nerve wasn't the word used, but I use poetic license here to get the point across). Then he turned to me. "And so do you."

But he stood up. Was ready to leave. Mindy missed the exchange. So she started in on him. Insults flying from her mouth so fast and furious, all I could do was cringe. I said to Mindy, "Dear, I handled it."

She wasn't listening. Kim and Abby tried to tell Mindy, it was over. That I'd handled it. But Mindy was on a roll.

I expected a chair over the back of the head, or a sucker punch to my ear.

After all, this guy wasn't going to hit a girl. He was going to hit me. Right? Of course right.

Kim, who'd just told me a story about a fight she'd been in at Roller City, had used one of her roller skates to pound her adversary, and assured me--had a bru ha ha erupted, she had my back. Abby, who'd also shared some fight-stories from her youth, let me know she was ready to use her chair to smack the guy across the back of his head if necessary--despite having just undergone back surgery. And Mindy--no doubt--was ready to duke it out.

Eventually, we finished our cigarettes and made our way to safety, er, ah, um, I mean back to the other half of the bar outside of the smoking section, where we joined our other friends.

Of course, we recapped to the other ladies what had just taken place in the smoking section. Everyone laughed. Apparently at my expense.

"If Kim had a roller skate with her, I'd have felt a lot more prepared," I'd said. This, for some reason, made everyone laugh ... more.

My imminent doom seemingly caused much delight.

What I took out of the event?

Emotions. They'd surged. Anger, that some guy would continually insult my friend. Fear (not for me, mind you, for the obnoxious guy. I don't think he knew the hornet's next he'd stirred was buzzing and ready to sting, relentlessly). Courage, for not having backed down. Inspiration, because I knew I'd get a blog out of the deal, and some character attributes to store away for use in future writings.

All in all. It had been a great night, with many, many inspirations tucked away.

Had I of stayed home, on the sofa, in jammers, and watched the Yankees game on TV, I'd have missed out on all the free inspiration oozing at Pineapple Jacks.

You want to write? You have to live. No way around it.

--Hey? Did the Yankees even win? I missed the whole game!

Until next time ....

Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
(Click the link above to purchase a copy of my novel)

Write About What You Know.

I have been writing since I was fourteen. Grew up with a reading disability. Hated books. Did all I could to never read. In seventh grade when our teacher assigned S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders, everything changed.

I not only became an avid reader from that point on, but since have worked hard at writing. Born a storyteller, it only made sense that I work to get my ideas down on paper. My first writing instrument was a Sears electric typewriter. Uh-huh. I remember saving money up to buy it, and cringing everytime the ribbon (with corrective white tape) ran out.

I spent hours in my room pounding out stories.

My first real short story, I Made It, was published when I was a freshman in the Cardinal Mooney annual literary magazine. (I have copies stored away). You write about what you know. My parents never had much money. They worked hard. Just never seemed to catch up. I really wanted to go to Cardinal Mooney High School. I got a job at the end of eighth grade, and worked all summer to pay the tuition. My job was as a busboy at a party house. The Diplomat.

Well. I was hired as a busboy. But what happened was, new hires had to "earn" the right to bus tables. I worked weekend mornings. Cleaned up after parties the nights before. Vacuuming, setting tables, cleaning bathrooms, sweeping and mopping floors. Soon, I worked nights, too. Washing dishes, scrubbing pots and pans. And eventually, I worked parties.

My first day of work was a Saturday. Like any business, communication was terrible. When hired I was told I needed to wear black dress pants, black shoes, a black vest and a black bow-tie, as well as a white dress shirt. Standard busboy attire, right?

So, Saturday morning I showed up to work all decked out in new duds. The "head" busboy, Gary, looked at me, shook his head, and said, "Lose the tie." I spent the next seven hours breaking my back cleaning party rooms--wondering how everyone else there knew to wear jeans and T-shirts.

And this ... this true-story became my first published piece. It told the tale of how I went from showing up to work ill-dressed, to getting the call one night to come in (on a day off) and to bring my bus-clothes.

I'd made it.

Key point of the blog, write about what you know. Remember, fiction still needs to be factual!

Ta-ta!

Thomas Phillips,
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Life Interrupts The Day

Has it really been two months since my last blog? I am so sorry.

I have been very busy. As a midlist author (which means, not a best seller), I still need to work a full time job. Writing does not pay the bills. It barely covers enough to Super Size at McDonalds, these days. But I am not complaining.

I thought about this the other day. If I never sold another thing, I'd have nothing to complain about.

In 1995, I sold my first short story. It was a western that took place in Rochester, NY. That was what the editor liked about it. It was called, Eye For An Eye. The magazine, Western Digest, was a new Canadian publication out of Alberta. I'd found a listing for them in Writer's Digest. I'd never written a western. I'd also never been published. But I set out to write and sell a short story, and did exactly that.

My tale concluded at 8,000 words. I was paid a penny per word. Canadian. Got a check for about $45 dollars (U.S.). And I actually did take the family to McDonalds -- and spent the whole thing!

After that, I went on to sell over 75 short stories to an array of publications. In February 2000, my first novel, MIND PLAY, was released by Dry Bones Press.

Dry Bones was actually a non-fiction, medical oriented publishing house in California that wanted to expand into fiction titles. I was one of the first signed fiction authors.

Here we are in 2009, and I've sold not just 75+ short stories, hundreds of articles, six mystery/suspense novels, and two books for young readers, but I have done hundreds of interviews (TV, Radio, Print, On-line), hundreds of book signings, countless speaking engagements, attended conferences, and have been recognized as "the author" enough times to make me feel a little special ...

How could I ever complain if I never sold another thing?

The good news, I do have some publishers now considering some of my completed manuscripts. So I am far from down and out. And in the waiting-time, I am hard at work on a Mafia thriller, and have completed a rough outline for a supernatural thriller, as well.

Also, I continue the hunt for a new literary agent. Seems they are as hard to find as a solid publisher. But I have not given up!

I will be back -- hopefully with good news about signing a new contract for another novel soon!

Until next time, have a wonderful day!

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy

A Saturday Morning Rant

It's been nearly two months since my last post. Sorry. Been busy.

Last time I blogged, I wrote about some not-so-great news. A large publisher had been been considering my vampire novel for a series, but then did not offer a contract due to the ongoing suffering of the economy.

Since, I have been working hard to re-work some of my manuscripts. With three completed works stored in my computer, I have recently begun doing two things:

1. Soliciting agents for some of my works, and for others
2. Sending queries to publishers

People may not be spending hard earned dollars on book buying right now, but that hasn't stopped me from writing. In fact, I am writing more now than I have in a long while.

The goal is to land a contract with another large press, like Whitaker House, who published The Molech Prophecy in July 2008. However, I am not opposed to signing a contract with a smaller press. Not at all.

My first short story was published in 1995. It was a western, sold to a magazine out of Calgary. I'll never forget the feeling of seeing my work in print for the first time. It had been amazing. Over the years I've sold more than 100 short stories, six novels and two books for children. I've done hundreds of book signings, been interviewed on TV, radio, magazines and on-line. If I never sold another piece, I have nothing to complain about. Nothing.

But I can't stop now.

Won't.

I still have stories in me that need telling. Stories worth telling.

And I believe as long as I can find an outlet -- large publisher, small press -- I will keep plugging away!

So why stop?

Why quit?

Makes no sense. Not to me.

I accepted long, long ago that I may never achieve my dream of bestseller.

I'm good with that. Not a problem.

Midlist writer is just fine with me.

The Molech Prophecy has sold more books than any of my other novels combined. And for that small miracle, I am both thrilled and thankful. The book is carried in stores across the country. That fact alone humbles me.

So I may not have a new book coming out in 2009. As long as I keep at the hunt for an agent and/or publisher, I am confident that by next summer a new Thomas Phillips novel will be available on bookshelves once again.

Don't give up on me as a writer. Keep following my blog.

There is more to come.

I promise.

Have a great Saturday!

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Back To Square One

In my earlier blog posted, February 27, 2009 blog, Suffering Economy Hurts Book Sales, I talked about the overall decline in book sales, and more specifically how a publisher considering my vampire novel was putting new acquisitions on hold until summer. Unfortunately, I -- and other authors currently with this particular publisher have received word that, basically, new books will not be placed under contract at this time.

What does this mean? I need to either begin a search for a new literary agent, or attempt to place the manuscript with another publisher on my own.

This is not news I take personally. The manuscript, I was told, is what they were looking for. They liked it. Publishing it at this time, however, is too risky for them -- financially.

It's a set-back. No doubt.

I have been knocked back down to square-one, but not down and out.

When I think about my writing career, I know I have nothing to complain about. It's never been about money. Never have I expected to hit bestseller lists, or to make it rich writing.

Since 1995, I have sold more than 100 short stories and articles. I have had six novels published, and two books for middle grade readers.

I have been interviewed on TV a few times, numerous radio interviews, and endless print and online interviews. My books have received glowing reviews, and I have had countless best selling authors endorse my work.

With all of that success, how could I ever complain?

Couldn't.

Won't.

Rejection, for whatever reason, comes with the territory.

What I would like to do is bring all of you along on the journey ... from query letter, proposal, and submission ... as I hunt for a home for my vampire novel, Pulse of Evil.

Sound like fun?

Uh-huh. We'll see.

So. Stop back regularly to check in on the progress as I compile a list of agents and publishers and work toward receiving a contract for publication ...

Have a great day!

Thomas Phillips

Nightmares About the Ex (Part II)

After writing, and re-reading my post (Can Nightmares About the "Ex" Inspire Writing, 3/5/09), I realized I talked a bit about the importance of keeping a journal for both aspiring and established writers, but left out something equally as important.

Writing exercises.

Like the body, the brain needs a work out. I belong to two creative writing groups. One meets on the second Thursday of each month at the Barnes & Noble in Greece, while the other -- one I co-lead with the talented and award winning humor columnist, Joanne Brokaw -- meets on the third Tuesday of each month at the Barnes & Noble in Pittsford.

At these writing groups, we do a variety of warm-up writing exercises. They get the thoughts flowing, and work to help writers get ... in the mood for writing.

My previous blog was about a detailed nightmare I'd had the night before. I explained how I jotted down emotions and information from the dream to use in later writing pieces.

However, I think -- or the more I thought about it -- that writing out the scene with as much detail as possible would serve as a wonderful, independent writing exercise. Being sure to include dialogue, description, and setting.

It is quite possible a nice short story could appear. If anything, it would provide an opportunity to sit and do some writing, especially for the not-so-disciplined writer.

Anyway, I felt like the previous blog was only half written, and wanted to stop by and complete the thought with today's posting.

So:

1. Keep a journal
2. When you have lucid dreams, write them out as a writing exercise

And again, maybe tomorrow I will blog about People Watching. A pastime I enjoy :-)

Thomas Phillips

Can Nightmares About the "Ex" Inspire Writing?

Can nightmares about the "ex" inspire storylines, and plots and tension, fear and anger?

Hmmmm. Absolutely!

Although my ex-wife and I have been apart for years, I often dream about her. They are always odd dreams, like ... we're together in the dream, but I know that just can't be right. Or, sometimes, we're together again and it's weird like -- were the last two years really the dream, and us still being together is real? Very peculiar, let me tell you.

But once in a while, like last night, I had a nightmare where my "ex" was involved. (It's not unusual for me to have nightmares. It's rare if I don't. The unusual-ness is when my "ex" is part of the nightmare).

Let me run down the nightmare. (I'll keep it short. I know when people tell me what they dreamt the night before, it bores me to death, lol).

It was Christmas Eve. My "ex" and I were at my parents' house. My whole family was there. My kids. The "ex" and I were talking in the kitchen. I have no idea what the conversation was about. I was at the sink. When I turned around, she was gone. Vanished.

The phone rang. I answered it. It was one of her closest friends, wanting to know if she should come over and help round up a search party.

"No," I said. "It's Christmas Eve. I don't want to spoil this for the kids."

"Have you called the police?" the friend asked.

"Not yet. She's been gone minutes. Police aren't going to race out here to look for her. Not this soon."

The "ex" had been gone minutes, but like her friend, I knew something was wrong.

People at the party began noticing she wasn't there. I kept coming up with excuses. "She must be in the garage getting more chairs," or, "she's downstairs getting soda from the fridge."

Inside, I was beginning to panic. Where was she? What happened?

One thought kept coming to mind. What do I tell the kids?

I realized, in the dream, that I needed to call my "ex's" boyfriend to either tell him what was going on, or to see if he knew what might have happened.

The thought of calling this man made my stomach sick.

Part of me thought it was the right thing to do.

Another part -- well, we'll leave that alone now, won't we ...

Even now, while awake and blogging, I am aware of the emotions that ran through me last night.

Although I will not use this specific scenario in an actual story, the thoughts, and feelings I felt while dreaming can be stored for later use. Will be stored and called upon in the future.

Like most writers, I keep a journal. In this journal, I record information to refer to when writing. In the journal I jot down:

1. Possible book titles
2. Great names for characters
3. Memories, or events that invoked emotion
4. Story outlines, and plot ideas

The journal comes in handy when faced with writer's block. (If you are a writer and don't keep some kind of journal ... I'd strongly suggest you reconsider!)

Even though my dream provided no resolution, no climax, I woke this morning itching to get everything down in my journal (and to blog about this as a writing tip, as well).

The point? Ideas come from all over. Inspiration, for me, is derived from daily interactions with people, dreams, nightmares and plain old imagination. Without my journal, good ideas would be lost, or forgotten, or compromised.

I think for my next blog, I'll talk about heading to the mall with the journal and doing some serious people watching. A little creepy, I know. But fun. Good times. Good times.

So, until next time!

Thomas Phillips

Suffering Economy Hurts Book Sales

Hello faithful readers!

Not too long ago I posted a blog about my vampire novel, Pulse of Evil. I explained how a publisher was considering it as part of a three book series, and was just waiting for the contract -- certain it was a heartbeat away from being offered.

I received word that all new title acquisitions were on hold until summer. The publisher needs to wait and see how new releases in the winter and spring do before signing on any other new projects.

The good news is, although they gave me the opportunity to shop Pulse of Evil out to other publishers, they asked me if I'd consider waiting. They really liked the manuscript and felt, if sales go well over the next few months with their other titles, they'd be in a better place to talk contract come summer.

I have decided to wait until June and see what happens. Publishing is all about hurry up and wait. I respect, and admire the publisher considering my work. I would love to see my vampire trilogy with them. June is right around the corner. And the way I see it, I can spend the next several months getting the second and thrid manuscripts under way.

The bad news is, if I sign in June, or July, the first book won't be out until June or July '10. That's a long, long ways away, you know?

My current publisher, Whitaker House, is also still considering a suspense/thriller manuscript, as is another publisher for a YA novel I wrote called, Sounds of Silence.

I have many burners in the fire. (Nice cliche, eh?)

Keep checking back. As I get news, I'll be sure to share it.

Have a wonderful weekend!

Thomas

Clouded Clarity

The worst time to blog for me is late at night, after driving all day, and not getting much sleep the night before. But it is often at times like this -- near exhaustion -- that clarity imposes itself on my, otherwise, cloudy mental state.

I don't know about regular people, but this writer spends many days lost in a haze. I sometimes believe my ideas for stories are born from the fuzz of my consciousness. Not trying to sound deep, but am merely trying to explain something about myself.

In most of the blogs I write, I talk about writing, or craft them in a way that makes me appear to you, my readers, like a writer.

At times like this, I sometimes just want to write. Or share. Maybe it's that I want to open up.

I don't do that often. If ever. Not for real.

I'm good at breaking off relative insignificant bits of my heart and passing them off as soul-bearing. But it's really bits. Always bits. Morsels that wouldn't, shouldn't satisfy anyone listening. I feel like a magician when this happens. They way I talk, act -- behave -- it's convincing. You believe it's me your hearing about. You believe I'm the me that's being displayed.

I write dark thrillers. Pretty much always have. And even now, writing Christian suspense, they're still dark.

It's always about darkness.

The difference is, when I write, I am in control. I can create a world where, in a sense, I am God. I know what's going to happen before it happens. I am in charge of who says, and who does, what.

That, let me tell you, is satisfying.

Do I really think I'm God? Let's not be silly. Of course not. He has a job I'd never want.

If you read my books. If you know me. You will see a piece of me in each and every character. From the dumb dry sense of humor, to the ... well, to the I'm not really sure what else, aside from the dumb dry sense of humor.

But I'm in there. Me.

I have no idea who it was that said, "Writing's easy, all you need to do is open an artery and bleed ..." Or some such thing. You get the idea. It's blood that goes into writing for most writers. A manuscript is like a baby. One we writers have given birth to.

And I'm straying. I'm off topic. Because this isn't a blog about me the writer, as much as it is supposed to be about me. The person behind the writer.

Write about what you know. That's a rule many writers are taught.

It couldn't be any more true. When I was fourteen the first story I wrote was about a teenage dishwasher who becomes a busboy. I was a dishwasher who became a busboy. At fourteen, that's what I'd accomplished in life. That's what I wrote about.

My writing has matured, I believe, along with me. I've done more. Experienced more. Felt more. Saw more. And as a writer, I try to capture events and snapshots of my life and use them in the characters I create to make the story I tell more ... relate-able. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, not so much.

It seems like more and more I focus on my failures, and fears, and hesitations, and short comings, and spill them out into my fiction. Fiction is factual. Has to be. And finding the words and scenes and emotions needed to fill an empty page is not something I struggle with.

No one has led a perfect life. Life is not meant to go your way all of the time.

It's just that sometimes, I'd like to see the pain, the misery and the anguish of life let up a little. Just a little. As a person, a human, I need a breather every once in a while. I need to be let up from out of the deep depths for even a chance to fill my lungs with oxygen.

I'm laughing right now. I've taken a moment to go back and read the rambling rant I've written. And the truth of what I said at the beginning continues to hold true.

This is merely a morsel. A bit I've broken off from my heart and am now attempting to feed to you, my readers. But what insight have I given you?

That I'm in pain?

Who isn't? Everyone is in some kind of pain. Headed for some kind of pain. Or just getting over something painful. Again, that's life.

I've heard people say that artists (if you wish to call me an artist) can create art because they are a tortured soul. (This is yet another quote, or saying that I am badly messing up. But it's past midnight, and I'm in no mood to research the Internet for more accurate accounts. Not now. Not tonight).

So why write this blog, anyway?

I have no idea. It was in me, though. I thought about it on my drive back from Binghamton tonight. Three and half hours alone in the car, I had time to think. Time, for me, can sometimes be nothing more than an enemy.

Sympathy is not something I am looking for. Or empathy. And I am not trying to cause anyone concern. I'm actually just trying, and not succeeding, to open up. To share.

One reason I believe my marriage failed was centered on this very point.

I love to say that the leading cause of divorce is marriage. (That quote, I got right).

But I've heard the stats. Communication is key to successful relationships. And when it comes to communicating, ironically, I fall short. Every time. I fall very short.

There has got to be a bright side to this blog. I'm trying to look at it like a story. I'm writing it. Therefore, I am in control of the blog's outcome. Putting a positive spin on the despair I've just "penned" is within my power.

And yet, as I look across the room at my bed, I realize that getting sleep -- me falling to sleep right now -- is the highlight, it is the only positive outcome. The day is over. Half the night, too.

But, hey. There's always tomorrow.

I'll end this with something I always say. One day at a time. It's all we can do, all we can be expected to do.

Thanks for reading.

Have a great night and God bless.

Thomas Phillips

Booksigning in Binghamton

I was contacted months ago by a friend, author Kevin Lucia , about doing the third annual Broome County Catholic Schools Barnes & Noble Book Fair.

It is an honor.

Aside from me, I will be sharing a table with critically acclaimed YA novelist, Claudia Gabel.

This will take place on Saturday, February 13th, at the Barnes & Noble in Vestal, NY ( 2443 Vestal Parkway East, Vestal, NY 13850. 607-770-9505).

The event raises money for Catholic schools in the area.

There will be events and activities all day long, from open mike for poetry written and read by students, as well as some contests, and -- of course -- book signings by Claudia and myself, which begins at 5:00 PM.

If you know anyone who lives in the Binghamton (Vestal) area, feel free to share the information. The more people that come out and buy books, the more money the schools will raise. It's a good, worthy cause. Support is essential!

It's a long drive. 172 miles one way. I'll take prayers for wonderful, sunny weather. Those who know me -- know what I drive -- know that my roller-skate of a car needs dry pavement to keep all four wheels on the road at all times :-)

Again, feel free to share this information with friends and family in the area!

Take care!

Thomas Phillips,
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Who Doesn't Love A Good Vampire Story

I am not one to count chickens before they hatch. Eggs, maybe. Chickens, never.

Recently, after networking with a fellow author friend (at this point, I will not name names), I was asked to submit a proposal to a very prestigious publisher.

See. I am a huge fan of horror. And before ever realizing there was a Twilight epidemic, I'd begun writing the vampire novel I call, The Pulse of Evil. Unfortunately, vampires and Christian fiction are not seen as a great mix. However, the vampire's natural enemy has always been God. So I felt confident I might be on to something. My current publisher passed on the proposal. Thought it was too edgy. This is unfortunate. Whitaker House is an exceptional publisher with a long list of phenomenal authors, many best sellers, and a staff that is so friendly and helpful and responsive ... (But I hope to continue my relationship with them -- just not with the vampire books!!)

After looking at the proposal, the editor asked to see the entire manuscript. Which I sent. Breath held.

Staying current on books being released in my "field" or genre, I saw that Eric Wilson (I am a huge fan of his work), announced the release of a vampire series. Field of Blood. Wilson is one of the best Christian suspense writers I've ever read. (He is also the best selling author of the novel versions of the movies Facing the Giants, and Fireproof).

Anyway, timing is everything in publishing.

With the new found thirst for vampire novels (Stephanie Meyers, Eric Wilson, Charlie Huston, etc.), the publisher reviewing my submission scheduled a phone conference with me in early January. This, a good sign.

Although, to date, no contract has been offered, the editor and I have continued to discuss the idea of getting The Pulse of Evil into print.

Just today, just moments ago, we emailed. It looks promising, is all I can say. And the sales/marketing team at the publisher are interested in a three book series, where the book covers will be pre-designed to keep each in sync with the other ...

If they are talking cover designs at this point, and still talking to me, I can't help but feel hopeful. (I am praying about it, too. Night and day).

One thing I proposed was that Pulse of Evil be the series name, and that each book have its own subtitle. For example:

Pulse of Evil: Book One: Confession
Pulse of Evil: Book Two: Surrender
Pulse of Evil: Book Three: Redemption

At least, that's what I pitched.

Again, still praying.

I promise once a contract is signed, I will give you so much more information. For right now, know that I am hard at work trying to bring my next book to print. And know that the publisher considering my vampire tale is a quality press, with some extremely talented authors under them -- authors that I would love to be counted among, and some day be worthy to be alongside of!

Hey--thanks for listening. Enjoy the day! (In Rochester it is a sweltering 32 degrees and sunny!)

God bless,

Thomas Phillips

One Day At A Time

I meet a lot of people who, once they find out I write books ask, how in the world do you write a book? It baffles them.

If I am absolutely honest, most days, it baffles me.

I didn't start out writing novels. Not really. At fourteen, I wrote a horror novel about zombies trapping people inside a party house. I wrote that on an electric typewriter. Imagine.

But, at fourteen, I also wrote my first short story. It was about a busboy (working at a party house). It was published in the Cardinal Mooney High School magazine. I have a couple copies stored away, and right now the name of the publication escapes me.

From there I went on to write and sell short stories. Honed my skill as a writer, and slowly built a publishing portfolio.

I grew up with a reading disability. Hated reading. In 7th grade we read The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton. That turned me around. After that I became an avid reader. I gobbled up books. I finished reading the other novels by Hinton (That Was Then This Is Now, Rumble Fish, Tex, Running Star), and then moved on to Stephen King, and Dean R. Koontz. Robin Cook and John Saul. Robert Parker and James Patterson. David Morrell and Joseph Wambaugh.

I had set a goal at fourteen, that by the time I turned 30 I would be a published novelist.

I worked on several book length stories. Most came in at around 50,000 words.

It was difficult making the transition from short-story writer to novelist. Whereas with a short story, you have between 1,000 and 5,000 words to tell your tale, a novel needs to be over 65,000 words.

When I was 29, I'd completed and submitted the manuscript of Mind Play, to more than 100 publishers and agents. And I'd received back as many rejections. Or so I'd thought.

Feeling a bit discouraged and like a failure, I accepted that I might not be cut out as a writer. I decided to quit. Step back. Re-assess my goals.

In the fall of 1999, I received a call from the publisher at Dry Bones Press. Jim Rankin. He said he'd been in a recent move and just came across my manuscript. Rankin explained that, over Sunday breakfast, he sat down and started reading Mind Play. He did not get up from the table until he'd finished the entire story. If it was still available, he'd like to publish it.

When I finished crying, I told him, yes. He could publish it.

Mind Play was released February 2000. That June, I turned 30.

While I still wrote and sold some short stories, my focus as a writer altered. I concentrated my efforts on novel-length works. In 2001, Tenth House was released by Dry Bones as well. Also in 2001, Third Ring was published by Barclay Books. And in 2002, Johnny Blade. In 2003, I got my first contract for a hardcover novel from Quiet Storm Publishing, and a deal for a Middle Grade reader series. Adverse Impact was a legal thriller. Hardcover. And Jay Walker: The Case of the Missing Action Figure, were both released that year.

(I wrote the Jay Walker book using the pen name, Grant R. Philips).

When I think about it, it has been a long, slow, but exciting career.

My first short story was published in 1984. My first novel in 2000. And here we are in 2009, and I'm still plugging away.

But the funny thing is, since 2003, I have not been able to write a short story.

So when I meet someone who writes short stories, I am baffled, and tend to ask them, how in the world do you write a short story?

It's all relative, isn't it?

Hey--have an awesome day and a wonderful and safe weekend!

God bless,

Thomas Phillips