Author Charles Martin - Blog

My Grandfather’s Eulogy

2013-05-03T19:12:08+00:00

This morning we buried my grandfather, Tillman Cavert. I was asked to give a portion of the eulogy, so I did. I think he would have liked it. Several who heard it asked for a copy -- I've included it here.

New Video—An Excerpt of Unwritten

2013-04-29T21:43:53+00:00

Unwritten releases a week from tomorrow, May 7th. Two new videos for you. Here's the first:

The Truth About My Doctor

2013-04-19T16:14:01+00:00

August, 1991. Florida State University. Christy’s apartment. I was starting my Senior year. Christy, her junior. We, along with her roommates and a few other folks, were cooking spaghetti. I think Christy was standing over the sauce pot stirring. The phone rang. Christy picked it up,. Her face lit. “Oh, hey John.” Followed by about five minutes of silence and a growing look of genuine concern. Enter John Trainer. The Trainers and Christy’s family have been friends since Christy was a kid. They’d vacationed together. Holidays. Dinners. In the three years that Christy and I had been dating, John and I had never met (they lived in North Carolina) but I’d heard bits and pieces about him. Christy spent five minutes on the phone. Listening. Nodding. I couldn’t hear what John was saying but I could tell from the verbal barrage, that he wasn’t pausing or coming up for air. He needed a friend. Christy looked at me and shrugged. Finally, she said, “John, I don’t know but here...talk to Charles.” She handed me the phone. “Hello?”  (continue reading...)

Beautiful Reader Mail

2013-03-27T20:21:15+00:00

This note brought me to tears. Good tears but tears, nonetheless. I asked her permission to share (absent her name) and she kindly agreed. When folks ask me what I hope my books accomplish...I can't really say it any better than this.

Laughter at My Expense

2013-02-07T18:26:17+00:00

If you'd like to laugh at my expense -- watch this video of me working out. Note: One of my favorite things to do is a workout called Fightfit. When all the words start running together here, I'll push back, run up the road and work out. Sweat is good for the soul and not a bad tonic for the stories either...

An Open Letter to My Boys regarding Technology (and their use of it)

2013-01-09T18:17:15+00:00

Christy and I have had a love-hate relationship with our kids' use of technology. Still do. It's been a bumpy road. So, I wrote them a letter. It follows:

My Black Belt

2012-10-05T15:27:58+00:00

Six years ago, my three boys and I started a process which culminated this weekend with the earning of our Black Belts in Taekwondo. You can see the pictures here. Now before you make too much fun of the old guy, i.e. me, just remember that I'm 43 and what you see me doing is pushing the limits of both my flexibility and equilibrium.

First Day of School

2012-09-14T17:24:55+00:00

Peeling away the cobwebs, this is a memory from one of my first days of grammar school.

Advice on Getting Published

2012-09-13T13:45:59+00:00

Readers ask me quite often, "Any advice on how to get published?" In truth, I'm no guru at this. Have no monopoly on the process. But I do have a few thoughts. So, if you're asking the same question, consider this my letter to you.

Teaser from “Unwritten”

2012-09-12T13:11:28+00:00

A few of my favorite lines from "Unwritten" due out next April. -- Of the six million species on the planet, only man makes language. Words. What’s more—in evidence of the Divine—we string these symbols together and then write them down where they take on a life of their own and breathe outside of us. Story is the bandage of the broken. Sutures of the shattered. The tapestry upon which we write our lives. Upon which we lay the bodies of the dying and the about-to-come-to-life. And if it’s honest, true, hiding nothing, revealing all, then it is a raging river and those who ride it find they have something to give—that they are not yet empty. Critics cry foul, claiming the tongue is a bloody butcher that blasphemes, slices, slanders, and damns—leaving scars, carnage, the broken and the beaten. Admittedly, story is a double-edged scimitar, but the fault lies not in the word but in the hand that wields the pen. Not all stories spew, cower, and retreat. Some storm the castle. Rush in. Stand between. Wrap their arms around. Spill secrets. Share their shame. Return. Stories birth our dreams and feed the one thing that never dies. This is true for all of us—even those who hide behind masks, carts, and names that do not belong to us. --