Support the Writing Community

Writers Can’t Succeed Alone

Support the Writing Community

 

Writers Can’t Succeed Alone

You need encouragement, advice, and feedback from others to thrive in the publishing world.

But are you only taking from others…or are you also investing?

We want to equip writers to seek after the good of others, not just their own gain.

During pandemics and tumultuous years like 2020, needs in the writing community escalate faster than the words you type during NaNoWriMo.

But landing a publishing deal or selling a couple hundred books aren’t the only needs writers have.

Sometimes a note from a fan raving about their story is all an author needs to press on.

This 14-day challenge will help you take small, meaningful actions to build up fellow authors so that you can weather the difficulties of the writing life together.

Why Take Time to Support the Writing Community?

Great writers are born from communities. That’s why J.R.R. Tolkien had the Inklings, Samuel Coleridge had the Lake School, and Agatha Christie had the Detection Club.

God didn’t intend for us to sit in our writing corners and focus only on achieving success for ourselves. The first step toward cultivating a more vibrant writing community begins with you.

Will you commit to joining our mission to encourage and build up one another as storytellers?

A CHAT WITH AUTHOR EDDIE JONES

CAN Eddie Jones

 

“Hello from Marti Pieper! I don’t imagine it’s any hotter where today’s interviewee lives in North Carolina, either. I’ve known Eddie Jones for, well, a long time now! We first met when we were both teaching at the Greater Philadelphia Christian Writers Conference, and we’ve continued to see each other at similar events here and there along the way.”

Today, I want to welcome Eddie to the CAN blog!

 

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Frankenstein Lives!

A Peek Into the Birth of Book Six in the Monster Mysteries Series

Nick CadenMy name is Nick Caden. I’m fifteen and live in Savannah, Georgia. We moved to Savannah because a few months back, on Halloween night, a zombie snatched my sister. You might have read about it. It was all over the news for a while. The zombie who kidnapped my sister (not a real zombie – there’s no such thing) pinned me to a mud flat and waited for the tied to rise, but I held my breath long enough to escape.

When I am not in school or working at the boat yard near our apartment, I write for the Cool Ghoul Gazette. That’s a publication that focuses on paranormal and supernatural events. The Cool Ghoul is why I ended up solving a vampire murder, ghost town murder, and helped capture a werewolf. (Not a real werewolf, ghost, or vampire – there are no such things.) Which brings me to today’s “Breaking Noose” article.

The below news alert just arrived in my inbox.

“Hi. I am a Contract Specialist with the FDA. I am tasked with the purchase of tissues suitable for H.M. research. I would like to request a quote. Please review the Statement of Work and quote your pricing as outlined.

"fresh and never frozen"

Statement of Work

The supplier will provide human fetal tissue with the following characteristics:

    • Age range 16-24 weeks
    • Liver and thymus tissue from the same donor unless liver only is requested.
    • Tissue must be fresh and never frozen.
    • No tissues where the mother is known to be positive for HIV or for Hepatitis A, B, or C viruses.
    • No known chromosomal abnormalities.
    • Testing for HIV, Hepatitis B & C will be completed on maternal blood for all tissues procured and results provided when available.

Period of Performance

Twelve months from the date of award of the contract.

In order to expedite the services required please return your quote to me by 3:00 pm Eastern Time. If you do not wish to submit a quote on this requirement, I would appreciate it if you would let me know.

Please let me know if you have any questions. Thank you.

 

My editor wants me to investigate this human fetal body parts smuggling ring that is using human tissue to create a new species of . . . Well, that’s where the mystery comes in. We’re not sure what the biotech company, Enhanced Bioscience Regeneration, is up to, but I’ll find out and report back. – Nick Caden

Growing Up With White Privilege

Growing Up With White PrivilegeI grew up in a black neighborhood; I grew up in a white neighborhood. To the left of our house lived the Moore’s. Their small home sat on a rise overlooking the creek that separated the two properties. To the right lived Dwight, Mark, Pat and around the corner, where Mount Vernon Church Road met Six Forks, Yvonne. Four whites to the right, five blacks to the left.

The dads got together one summer and built us a bus stop at the corner of Mount Vernon and Six Forks. Walking to the bus stop became something of a parade. Today such an occurrence may be mistaken for a protest march but for us, in the mid 60s, we were simply eleven kids heading off to school.

After our stop, the bus would pick up Richard and Wilbert Dunn. The Dunns lived in a home that stood across from what is now Taylor’s Wine Shop (Taylors also sells fishing worms.) Next, also on the left side of Six Forks, we’d stop for the Holding kids. True story (as I remember it), Chester Holden was a short, muscular boy, a few years older than me. When I tried out for football in high school, Chester was already on the team. The players called him Tree Stump. Except because Chester’s legs were so short, each year when players were required to run—I forget how far it was—Chester failed to run within the time necessary to make the team. His legs moved faster than all the rest of us, but he didn’t run fast enough. Each year Coach Shirley would hold Chester back after practice and give him another shot. And each year, miraculously, Chester made the team.

During summers we would play pickup baseball in a field across from what is now New Life Camp. What was then Mount Vernon Church was a pop fly from the field. We’d arrive on bikes or foot and divide teams evenly to keep things competitive. None of us cared about the color of a boy’s skin. We simply wanted a good game of ball.

I played organized ball on Bayleaf’s Little League team. Later we became Six Forks, but changing the name did not improve our record. We were county boys playing city kids who drew from a larger pool of players. During practices Arthur Thompson would hit, catch, throw with us. Arthur was easily one of the best players at practice. His younger brother, Boo Boo, showed up at practice too, but Boo Boo was more of a cut-up and didn’t take things as serious. Given that we lost most of our games and Arthur could hit farther, run faster, and throw harder than most of the boys on the team. I once asked Dad why Arthur never played with us during real games.

Dad explained that Arthur was black. Like somehow that fact had escaped me. I asked why that mattered. I don’t remember Dad’s explanation. Only thing I recall is that whatever he said still made no sense. If you are getting trounced by K-Mart, Brentwood, Millbrook Church, the Teamster’s, St. James Church, Carter’s Seafood, New Hope Church and pretty much every other team you play, you want help. Arthur would have definitely made us a better team. But as I mentioned, he was black.

Once Mom, my sister and I were in the K-Mart at the corner of Six Forks and Old Wake Forest—the one that used to flood every time Crabtree Creek overflowed its banks. I spied Arthur and his family in the store, called to him, and Mom shushed me. Turns out it was fine to know Arthur on a baseball field but not in a store where people might see.

In first grade Eleanor Rodgers wore glasses. I wore glasses. She was black; I was white. When you’re called “four-eyes” in the first grade, you’ll be friends with anyone who keeps masking tape and Elmer’s glue in their desk. Eleanor and I were best buds.

My freshman year at Millbrook, Jeffry Harris kicked my butt outside a trailer as I was leaving English class. No kidding. He actually kicked my backside. He wanted to fight. I explained I didn’t want to fight. Had I fought Jeffry he could have not only kicked my butt, but probably broken my glasses and nose. Three years later, on the night we graduated at Memorial Auditorium in downtown Raleigh, Jeffry came over and shook my hand. We’d hardly spoken the four years at Millbrook. Only thing I could figure was, not fighting back had somehow let Jeffry know that I wasn’t his enemy.

I was not then; I am not now.

I grew up with the white privilege of having black friends — and I thank God for it.