
Which comes first, the characters or the plot? I have no idea in what order the people who populate my novels and the journey they undertake came to me. Honestly, my fiction writing was the result of an idle remark by a particularly kind and patient editor, Gary Terashita. I was attending my first ever writers' conference. I had a bunch of journal entries made after the death of my first wife and was struggling to find some way for something good to come out of that horrible event. Gary didn't have any interest in such a non-fiction book, although fortunately another publisher eventually did, and
The Tender Scar was published. Gary, on the other hand, wasn't in the market for that book, but there was time left on the meter, so we talked. He found out that I'd played some baseball. "Doc, why don't you write me a novel about a doctor who used to be a baseball player?"
As I thought about that suggestion, the first line of the story sprang into my head and has remained there, unchanged, through the three plus years that have intervened. The characters and the plot formed slowly, and eventually a novel was born. It's undergone numerous revisions, but the basic premise has remained unchanged.
My agent has the final version of the manuscript in hand. Soon it will be in the hands of editors--editors who, like the Roman emperors in the Coliseum, will give it either a thumbs up or thumbs down. I've had lots of help along the way: encouragement from critique groups and instruction from some giants in the Christian writing world. This last version has passed muster by the most stringent editor of all, my wife, who will accept nothing but my best writing from me. Now it's time to send my hero forth into the cold, cruel world. I hope he's up to the task.
So, farewell, Dr. Ben Merrick. Travel safely. Now I have to go back to the mantra I've been mumbling to myself for the past three and a half years: if God wants this novel to be published, it's as good as done. If He doesn't, nothing I can do will change that.
By the way, here's that opening scene. I hope you enjoy it. And thanks for stopping by.
* * *
Two out, top of the ninth, tying run on third base, winning run at second.
Ben Merrick pounded his glove. He balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to move in any direction.
He risked a glance to check the position of the sun. Here, in center field at Yankee Stadium, that deadly orange globe was a treacherous adversary for the home team and visitors alike, able at any moment to turn a routine fly ball into a triple.
Before he could refocus his attention, he heard the unmistakable crack of bat meeting ball. The flurry of motion by the players on the field barely registered in his peripheral vision. He strained his sun-blinded eyes for a glimpse of the white sphere arcing into the afternoon sky. At last he saw it off to his left, falling earthward at an alarming rate. He sprinted flat out toward it, dived with glove outstretched, and while still in midair he sensed the crowd calling his name.
“Ben, Ben, Ben …”
“Ben, Ben. Hey, fellow. Are you ready for me to pre-op the next patient?”
Dr. Ben Merrick blinked and found that his Yankee pinstripes had been transformed into a gray scrub suit. Instead of standing in the hallowed confines of Yankee Stadium, he was surrounded by the sea-green tile that covered the walls of Operating Room Number Four at Dallas Methodist Hospital.
Ben glanced toward the head of the table where the anesthesiologist, Dr. Rick Hinshaw, sat. "Sorry. Just thinking about something else for a moment. I guess my coffee level's a quart low. Yeah, go ahead and pre-op the next one. Thanks."
Ben felt a brief wave of embarrassment for his momentary lapse into what surgeons sometimes called a "sterile trance." But he knew that for many aspects of the appendectomy he’d just performed his hands could move on automatic pilot, going on with the actions learned through so many repetitions while his mind was a million miles away. Well, at least 1500 miles away, if his estimate of the distance involved was correct.
Any guilt that Ben felt quickly passed. He’d always thought that closing an incision was sort of like driving through Kansas: boring, monotonous, and you could do it in your sleep. But, to be sure, he ran his eyes over the subcutaneous closure he’d just completed. A neat row of violet-colored Vicryl stitches, looking like an illustration from Netter’s surgical atlas, held the deep tissue of the wound closed. He poked at it with the needle holder he held until he was satisfied that he hadn’t missed anything while his mind was busy elsewhere.
Rachel Burnett, the circulating nurse for today's cases, interrupted Ben's thoughts with a gentle, "Excuse me, Dr. Merrick."
Ben glanced up at her. “Yes?”
"Doctor," she continued, "when you're between cases, you have two messages. Please call Dr. Gates, and Nell at your office. Neither call is urgent.”
Ben grunted an affirmation. The call from Dr. Gates couldn’t be good. How long was this going to keep hanging over his head?