What Death Taught Terrence - Book Tour and Giveaway

What Death Taught Terrence
by Derek McFadden
Genre: Inspirational Fantasy 

LIFE IS A JOURNEY. SO IS THE AFTERLIFE.

At the end of his life, Terrence McDonald must discover its meaning,
or he’ll be banned from the afterlife forever, and his soul will cease to
exist.
Join Terrence–
and those who love him–on a poignant and
unforgettable journey through a life at once wonderful and harrowing.
Learn what Terrence learns. See what Terrence sees. By this provocative
story’s end, readers may even learn a thing or two about themselves.

***

The TV is on, and I’m on the couch, leaning as far back as I can. My heavy, indecisive brown eyes—their lenses blurred ever since my tumultuous, too-soon entrance into the world—flutter between open and shut. I am half-watching half-listening to a football game on a Sunday afternoon. Was that the doorbell?
“Who is it?” I call out, expecting to hear my daughter, Megan’s, voice. These days, she is the one person who visits me. The only person who knows I’m making my home in this little oasis fashioned from wood felled by my own hand.
“Terry, it’s Mom. I’m here to help you move.”
My mom? That’s not possible. She’s...
Wait. To help me move? Oh, God.
I rise from the couch and glance back at my lifeless body.



PRAISE FOR What Death Taught Terrence

“What Death Taught Terrence offers a powerful, painful, and poignant look at the life of a man rarely encountered in fiction. Derek McFadden’s writes with an insight few can match.”
— T.F. ALLEN, author of The Night Janitor and The Keeper

“A good story allows the reader to experience life as another person, and McFadden made me do so on a deeply personal level. If you like the works of Mitch Albom, I think you’ll find What Death Taught Terrence a worthy addition to your library and the reading of it a lifeaffirming journey.”
— BRADLEY HARPER, Edgar-Award Finalist, author of A Knife In The Fog and Queen’s Gambit

“In What Death Taught Terrence, Derek McFadden builds a world that satisfies both our desire for imagination and our need for personal introspection. I found this (story) immediately immersive, and it stuck
with me long after I finished. McFadden is doing something rare in today’s fiction—exploring the limits of what we will believe to form a better understanding of who we are.”
— ALEX DOLAN, author of The Euthanist and The Empress of Tempera


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​  ​If anyone believes,
Erroneously,
 That God, who is to have brought forth
Heaven and Earth--
While His angels sang
An untouchable harmony--
Birthed them by mistake,
May I, with an implement
I hope will never shy
From my truth,
Humbly advise:
Let a prayer be sent,
From this poet’s pen,
For all who wish it meant
For them;
Anyone who requires proof.
Up into the universe’s
Roofless expanse.
 
That those who have yet
To discover their gifts,
Given out of love,
Not by chance,
Shall have the option to
Call for help from up above
When their lives seem rent
Or devoid of direction.
Knowing that call will be met with:
“Do not fear life.
There is no such thing as perfection.
I am with you.
You might feel alone,
At times even crazy.
But you are safe,
Under my protection,
And nothing can be accomplished
Without faith.
Like your parents before you,
And theirs before them,
You come from a God who is many times
Mistaken.
Yet you are so far from a mistake.”
 
-



Death, Part 1
 
                      
Terrence McDonald is 55. The year is 2045.
           
The TV is on, and I’m on the couch, leaning as far back as I can. My heavy, indecisive brown eyes—their lenses blurred ever since my tumultuous, too-soon entrance into the world—flutter between open and shut. I am half-watching half-listening to a football game on a Sunday afternoon. Was that the doorbell?
“Who is it?” I call out, expecting to hear my daughter, Megan’s, voice. These days, she is the one person who visits me. The only person who knows I’m making my home in this little oasis fashioned from wood felled by my own hand.
“Terry, it’s Mom. I’m here to help you move.”
My mom? That’s not possible. She’s...
Wait. To help me move? Oh, God.
I rise from the couch and glance back at my lifeless body. Five-foot-eight standing up, but now it’s slumped over, grayish-blue. A few stray locks of the hair I inherited from my father, still mostly pepper-black, spill over into my unseeing eyes.              
Shit. I still had more I wanted to do, damn it! Was it my cerebral palsy? We’ve co-existed forever. Has it somehow—in its slow, indirect way—finally done me in?
I turn back around toward the TV, and I see my mom materialize in front of me, a concerned look on her face.
“Are you okay?”
“No, of course I’m not okay!” I scream. “So... is that it then? I’m dead, just like that?”
She doesn’t say anything, but her silence says everything.
“How? How did I die?”
Mom puts her hand on my shoulder like she always did when I was a kid and I was upset and needed some time to calm down. “You don’t remember?”
“No, Mom, I don’t remember. If I remembered, why would I ask?”
She is silent for another beat. “If you don’t remember… then it’s probably best if I stay quiet for now. My job is to take you Home.”
“I am home,” I shoot back.
“You don’t understand. Where I’m taking you… this is a different kind of Home. This is the place where you’ll find out what happens next.”
“Is there any way around this? Any way at all?”
These words are as close as I’ve ever come to arguing with my mom. That’s because arguing with her does not come naturally to me. And, considering the life I have, I never thought I’d hear myself plead for it.
“No, Terry. I’m sorry, but there’s not. You know that, if there were a way, I’d tell you what it was. But this has been decided.”
I pull away from her. Am I frightened? No, not exactly. But I am… disheartened.
Before I can go too far, she takes my hand. “Come with me, Terry. I love you.”
It’s been so long since Mom said those words to me--I love you--that I’d forgotten how true and convincing they sounded in her voice, and how much I missed them… and her.                   

 
Without warning—and without the white-light-emitting tunnel I experienced as a kid— we’re not in the cabin anymore, and I find myself in a house so familiar I am comfortable in seconds. The smells are familiar. The floorplan. The art on the walls. This is a replica of the home I shared with my wife, before she got sick and I moved into the cabin.
“See, it’s not so bad,” Mom says. “I picked it out and furnished it myself. Just for you.”
It is a nice place. Much nicer than I’m used to these days, that’s for sure. Not that I have anything but a vague idea where we are.
Now that I’ve calmed down some, it isn’t just this new house I’m appraising. I’m also getting my first real good look at Mom in twenty years. Hers is a face looking as youthful today as it appeared in the photograph announcing her entrance into womanhood—taken in her eighteenth year. I remember seeing this picture in a family album decades ago.
“You’ve got all the comforts you’re used to,” Mom explains. “Along with a couple you might have forgotten about.”
“So this is where I’ll be living now?”
The frown on her face hints at the fact that things aren’t that simple. “Well, that depends on your appointment, but I sure hope you will. Your father and I are just down the street.”
“Dad’s here?”
“Yes, he made it.” She smiles. She’d told me as much before. Years ago, on her final day. She’d said it twice, in fact. I’m not sure I’d believed her either time.
“My appointment?”
“Everyone has an appointment when they first get here.”
“What happens? Who is the appointment with?”
“I can’t tell you, Terr.” Mom takes a seat in the first of three chairs arranged in front of my large television screen. This is the only liberty she’s taken in the design. The original home had two chairs in front of this television, because two was enough for Mattie and me, but I sense Mom gave me the extra seat in case I should have company over. “Those who have been through their own appointments, like me, are expressly forbidden from sharing any details with newcomers, like you. Each appointment is different based on the soul and the life it concerns.”
“Ah.” Now I’m nervous. And not just because I get the feeling at this moment that Mom is spouting some section of a well-rehearsed monologue. I wonder if, at this appointment, everything in a person’s life is considered.
“Yes, everything is considered,” Mom says.
I shoot her a confused glance. Did she just read my mind?
“Oh, I’m sorry. We don’t often use spoken words or languages here. I mean, we can. And we will, especially in cases when explanations or announcements need to be delivered to a large number of people. God prefers spoken language Himself.  But it’s more common, for those who have been Home a while, to communicate telepathically. I thought that was what you were doing.”
I shake my head.
“Well, in a few days, once you’re feeling acclimated, let me know. You can call me on this.” Mom produces what looks like a cell phone. “That’s a direct line to me and me alone. When you’re ready, I’ll come and pick you up and take you to your appointment.”
“Okay.”
But first, she thinks, get some rest. You look terrible.
I am a little tired, but what do you expect? I’m dead.
“You’re getting the hang of our telepathy already.” She laughs, gives me a hug.  “I've gotta get back to cook your father’s pot roast, or he might go a little nuts.”
Sounds like Dad. A hungry Carl McDonald means an irritable, hard-to-deal-with Carl McDonald (I was going to say hard-to-live with, but the word doesn’t fit).
Mom pats my shoulder and disappears. This new Home is going to mean some big adjustments for me.              
                                                           
                                    ***
 
I’m going to guess it’s taken me the better part of three days spent resting and recuperating from life—to convince myself I’m really dead and, secondly, that I’m ready to face whatever might be in store for me. I have to guess at how much time has passed because, as it turns out, this new home of mine, furnished by my mom, does not include a clock. Not one. I only discovered this flaw after she departed, so there was no way to readily remedy it. Stores specializing in timepieces aren’t plentiful in the afterlife.
Wait, that’s not true. Maybe they are. I don't know what lies beyond these four walls yet. I’ve barely moved since I got here. But I am as prepared as I’ll ever be for my personal appointment, so I pull out the cell phone Mom gave me—an older model ubiquitous in my childhood—for just this situation. It doesn’t require dialing. My connection to her is immediate.
“Terry?” she says.
“Hi, Mom.”
“You’re ready for your appointment?”
“I guess.”
“Okay.” She pauses, a bit too long for your run-of-the-mill pause. Something’s bothering her. “Okay, I’m glad to hear it.”
“What’s wrong? You’re gonna pick me up, right?”
“I was planning on it, but it looks like your Grandpa Jack needs to be picked up today.”
“Oh, you mean he’s-”
“Yep.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. Boy, he lived forever, didn’t he?”
She laughs. “Pretty darn close. I’m just glad he got to go out the way he wanted; peacefully, in his sleep. Anyway, your dad and I have to be there for him, but I’m sending your old friend Charlie out to you. He’ll get you where you need to go, no problem.”
Charlie. How nice it will be to see him again. It's been a long time. This isn’t the only thought I have upon hearing Charlie will be here soon, but it’s the only thought I feel comfortable sharing, in case Mom can read my thoughts through the phone as easily as she could standing in the same room.
“Okay, thanks. Tell Grandpa Jack I say hi.”
“I will. And you call me when you and Charlie get to your appointment. Otherwise, you’ll have me worried.”
“Sure thing.”
We hang up, and I wait. There’s the sound of tires churning gravel and then a knock at the door twenty minutes later… I think. I answer it.
“Charlie Ewell’s limousine service.” He smiles and nods toward a jet-black vehicle closely related to a town car that’s parked nearby.
I step back. Blink. Once. Twice. He’s still there. My mind doesn’t know how to make sense of this.
It really is Charlie. Well, of course it is. Mom told you he was on the way. Yet despite my mom’s assurance, there is this part of me that snickers at most religions, labels them NOT FOR ME, and I never warmed all the way up to the idea of Heaven. Therefore, even after seeing Mom again, I doubted my old friend Charlie would show up. You’re telling me Charlie will be here! Charlie? Yeah, right.
Just like I couldn’t bring myself to argue with her--Charlie can’t possibly be on his way, Mom! --I can’t deny it now.
“It’s you,” I say.
“Sure it’s me,” Charlie says, as though he’s just shown up to my most recent--and last?--birthday party, cheer on his face, a gift in his hand.
“Like, really you.”
“Yeah. It’s really me.”
“How?”
“I know it’s a lot to take in when you’re new,” he says, “or when you’ve just come back. I was so glad when your mom called and asked me if I would pick you up. I’ve missed you so much.”
“Same here,” I admit. The initial shock of seeing Charlie is ebbing slowly, like adrenaline leeching out of my bloodstream after an earthquake.  
“It’s so good to see you, Charlie.” We enfold each other in a backslapping, how-have-you-been hug.
When we’re apart again, he says, “And you, Terry. It’s just now dawning on me how odd this circumstance is.”
“True. But under what other circumstances would we see each other?”        “Good point. In one of your dreams, maybe. You ready to get going?”
“Sure. Is there a set time we have to be there? My mom always said it’s better to be early than late, no matter what the occasion.”
Charlie throws his car keys in the air, catches them, as we make our way down my temporary home’s front steps.
“Don’t worry about time anymore,” he reveals. “Time is a human invention. It is seldom kept here.”
“That would explain the lack of clocks.”
“Which always throws newcomers off. And don’t be nervous. Sure, no one who’s been through an appointment can tell you what your appointment will be like. That’s because appointments are unique to each soul, but they aren’t to be feared. Your appointment is a place where you will get the chance to ask questions and learn.” Charlie flashes a quick grin. He opens one of the back doors for me, and I see that in the car rides an elegant woman. “Terrence McDonald, this is my wife, Patty Ewell.”
Patty turns in her seat, puts out her hand. “It truly is a pleasure to meet you, Terrence. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I give her my hand but can find no words. I’ve never met Patty before. She passed away the night I made Charlie’s acquaintance.


​

Derek McFadden is the author of the novel What Death Taught Terrence, available in February of 2020 wherever fine books are shelved. Other works of note include the well-regarded Prose From A Grandson To A Senior Fellow.
Born with a mild case of cerebral palsy, his is "a voice for those whose voices have yet to be heard," according to the online publication Audacity Magazine.


Website * Facebook * Twitter * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

​

How did you become an author?
The writing bug bit me early. Growing up in a house where my father also wrote stories, it was not a long jump to my own tales. Though I did not become a writer because he was a writer, Dad’s support was invaluable.

What is something unique about you?
I was born with a mild case of cerebral palsy, a brain injury which occurs at–or just after–birth. For years, I learned as much as I could about palsy, while I also fought against the idea that this was my unique trait. I’m a writer, I told myself. That’s unique enough, right? People don’t need to know about my palsy. This, I discovered, kept me clear of confrontation or tough questions, but it hurt my soul not to be talking about my palsy and my unique life experience. Beyond that, it has been my experience that the handicapped are misrepresented in literature. They’re either too saintly–telling the able-bodied how to live while suffering–or too broken to matter. In writing What Death Taught Terrence, I hoped to share something both unique to me and universal. All of us have issues, even if they aren’t quite as visible as a halting walk, a foot perpetually turned too far right.

What are some of your pet peeves?
I read books all day with/for a literary agent, and I love it! But some of my pet peeves do involve this work.
-When an author is so convinced their book is beyond wonderful that they won’t listen to constructive criticism. There’s no faster way to turn an agent or their readers/assistants off.
-Writing that is too exposition-y. Tell us as much as you can in dialogue. This was the way Hemingway wrote. He let the characters and their circumstances tell the story. BUT if your dialogues reads as false, so will your story. For example:
“There’s Joe,” Jane said. “It’s so good to see him. It’s been over a year since he had his heart attack last 4th of July. I hear he’s lost some weight, too.” No one talks like this, literally ever. Do not make readers suffer through this. It is much easier to put down a book than it ever was to write it. If you’ve convinced a reader to crack open your book-baby, don’t give them any reason to shun it.
-Not using the “personal address” comma
Commas are important. In fact, they could save lives.
One basic writing-rule that some authors need help remembering or putting into practice at all is that of the “personal address” comma.

Example:
Correctly written.

In a conversation with your friend Tom, the correct way to greet him would be:
“Hello, Tom.”
Notice the comma.
The incorrect way to greet good ole Tom would be:
“Hi Tom.”
Notice the decided lack of a comma.
I can hear you out there, yelling at your computer, asking, “What does it matter if I put in the comma or if I leave it out? It’s a grounded apostrophe, that’s all!”
Didn’t I tell you earlier it could save lives, that comma? Here’s how.

You’re inviting your grandmother to dinner.

“Let’s eat, Grandma,” you say. How nice of you to extend such a well-meaning invitation.
And now, without the comma:
“Let’s eat Grandma.”
You’re a cannibal, plain and simple.
Use the comma. It. Saves. Lives.


Who is your hero and why?
This question has a simple answer, but every time I get into it, I’m struck by “the feels” all over again. My grandfather, Richard Dale Kenbok, was a fine, upstanding man. A soldier in the Korean war. A railroad switchman for forty years, he worked two jobs–the other as a short-order cook–to support our family. The thing is, while my dad and my uncle quite accurately called him Dad, theirs was not a biological bond. Their bond with him–and mine and my brother’s connections with him, too–came from the love he showed for us all, and his extraordinary effort to treat us all as his own.
We were his kids and grand-kids, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.
For all he did for us, Papa Dick, as we call him, is my hero, even a decade and a half after his passing.

What Inspired you to write this book?
To be perfectly honest, this story was banging on the inside of my head, yowling to be let out into the world. It was simply a matter (though it wasn’t a simple matter at all) of putting it down on paper and executing.

Why did you decide to indie-publish?
The choice to indie-publish wasn’t easy at first. I wanted what I think any writer who’s being honest with you would admit they want. A book that sells, maybe the kind of book deal that means the author doesn’t have to work anymore. Their talent rescuing them from a life of corporate drudgery. But as I learned more and more about the business of writing and publishing, I understood such monumental deals are few and far between. I’m sure someone like Lee Child never needs to work another day in his life. Stephen King. J.K. Rowling. But such authors are the exception, far from the rule.
After years and years of writing and editing, and then additional years and years of querying, I knew what I had in my book, but few agents did. One, whom I would call my “dream agent” read the book, and their agency loved it. But, as publishing my novel might conflict with another of their clients, the client that drew me to their agency in the first place, they declined to move forward.
Make no mistake about it: even if you know what you have as an author, rejection is painful. It got to the point where I’d done everything I knew how to to do for my book, to get it noticed by the agents ad/or publishers who might give it a traditional home. At a certain point, it became clear that my creativity was being stifled because this book that meant so much to me still was nowhere beyond stuck in my computer. Friends and colleagues alike challenged me to put the book out.
Between the time I began writing What Death Taught Terrence and its publication twelve years later, the publishing landscape has drastically changed. It used to be that truly the only way you could indie-publish was through vanity presses, and the only people who would do so were inexperienced authors who feared the query gauntlet.
These days, though, an author can produce–with the help of great editors, formatters, and cover-designers–a book that looks as good or better than those produced in the traditional model. A bonus: my book is exactly the book I wanted to put out, with no outside influence from any industry professionals who might not understand what the story means to me!

What is your favorite part of the book and why?
Each of What Death Taught Terrence’s chapters is fronted by a poem meant to hint at the coming plot points. My favorite part of the writing of this book was coming up with the poems themselves. Each poem usually came about only after I knew what it’s corresponding chapter would cover.

Did your characters seem to hijack the story, or did you feel you had the story’s reigns?
I think this answer changes draft by draft. It did, for me, anyway. In the first draft, I was just trying to get the story down, whatever it was. I let the characters guide me. As I became more confident in the story I was telling, I took the reigns and guided them. By the end of the process, I’d say I did so quite assuredly.

Who designed your book cover?
Stewart A. Williams (stewartwilliamsdesign.com). I could not recommend his work more heartily! It was unbelievable, and he was so easy to communicate with, too!

Convince us why your book is a must-read.
Society’s push-and-pull on authors is interesting. According to society, anyone with talent (be they an author, an athlete, an actor) should also be humble. People love humility. But if a talented person isn’t willing to allow their ego some leeway, they likely won’t be paid what they deserve for what they do.
So just know that this is the kind of personal dilemma I find myself in as I come to you, dear reader and say, Yes, beyond a doubt you should read What Death Taught Terrence. Do you like love stories? Terrence has one. Do you like to feel uplifted by books? Terrence will uplift you. Do you like to feel a little bit changed by a book? At the risk of sounding hyperbolic, I truly believe Terrence will do this for you, too. Do you have a book club and you’re not sure what to read next? Terrence is bound to spark great discussion! Do you love books that make you think? Then Terrence is for you, too!

What did you edit out of this book?
Bad writing. *Grin.* Scenes that didn’t move the story forward.

Top 10 favorite authors:
Harper Lee
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Earnest Hemingway
Mitch Albom
Richard Paul Evans
Audrey Niffenegger
W.P. Kinsella
Bradley Harper
Lois Lowry
Gary Paulsen

What book do you think everybody should read?
That’s an easy one. To Kill A Mockingbird. (Ignore Go Set A Watchman, if you can. It was Mockingbird’s first draft and should never have seen the light of day.)

How long have you been writing?
Since I was six years old. In grade school, I wrote stories about The Berenstein Bears. I hope Stan Berenstein doesn’t mind! *Grin.*

Do the characters all come to you at the same time, or do some come to you as you write?
As I write. Characters come to me as plot reveals itself. In Terrence, my main character had a daughter very young. I did not know her name was Megan–or anything about her–until I realized I needed to know her.

What do you think about the current publishing market?
As someone who reads for–and works closely with–a literary agent, and also as an author myself, it is my firm personal belief that traditional publishing is far too narrow these days. Most first-time authors are not allowed to cross genres, as doing so might not sell, in the eyes of publishing as a whole. Just write a straight-down-the-middle-type book. We can sell that. Do not deviate too far from genre norms.

Do you prefer to write in silence or with noise?
I need silence when I write. Makes it easier to think and to compose.

Pen or typewriter or computer?
As a man born with cerebral palsy who was lucky enough (thanks to those who came before me) to be given a “normal” education in the public school system, one of the first things I was introduced to in public school was the computer. The computer allowed me to show my intelligence, to find my place in the world, and to write.

Describe your writing style.
My writing style is (hopefully) intelligent but accessible, by turns emotional and humorous. I love dialogue because I love letting my characters tell their story.

Advice for new authors:
If a story isn’t working, don’t be afraid to set it aside and come back to it at a later date. You’ll see it with fresher eyes if you do this.
Don’t be afraid to eavesdrop. I find it the best way to discover how people talk. Learning how people really talk will inform and better your dialogue.
If someone tells you to stop writing and you think they’re right that you should, writing probably isn’t for you. Creatives will be told no way more times than they’ll ever hear yes. If someone tells you that you should do something other than writing, try your best to tune them out.
At the same time, if someone offers you constructive feedback/criticism, hear them out. No one will ever love your story more than you, and maybe your love for it is blinding you to flaws in the narrative.

If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?
You don’t know everything. There are going to be better writers than you in the world, and that’s okay. But there shouldn’t be any writer who works harder to get your stories out into the world.

Do you believe in writer’s block?
I do, but I also believe anyone and everyone is capable of overcoming it. For me, the best way is to read or watch something that sparks the mind. Also, know this: You will write nothing if you write nothing, so it’s best to write something, even if you feel blocked. You can make it better later. Just get something down first.

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