In a candid interview, S.R. Carson, author of “Blue Shadows,” offers a refreshing glimpse into the realities of modern publishing and the delicate balance of maintaining dual careers. Working with Defiance Press, Carson praises the company’s
skilled team and editorial support, though notes the unexpected challenge of selecting from many talented narrators for the audiobook version.
Carson’s forthcoming work, titled “Ollie,” features a character who has already cultivated a following through the author’s blog. While keeping many details under wraps until publication, Carson teases readers with one cryptic piece of advice: “Always respect the beer.” Curious readers can find snippets about Ollie at www.SRCarson.com.
When discussing the writing community, Carson takes an unconventional stance, choosing to forgo writers’ groups. With characteristic wit, the author observes that while writers are pleasant individually, group dynamics can turn competitive: “they will eat their young if they have to.”
As both a practicing physician and author, Carson offers unique insight for aspiring writers. “Quit your day job or retire first,” Carson advises, acknowledging the tremendous time commitment required for both writing and marketing. However, the author personally refuses to choose between medicine and writing, stating, “I enjoy both saving lives and writing, so I will continue to stubbornly do both.”
Carson emphasizes the critical role of marketing in a book’s success, noting that quality alone doesn’t guarantee visibility. The author embraces Hemingway’s approach to the craft, albeit with a caveat: “Drink when writing, but not when editing – in moderation of course.”
Marketing efforts for “Blue Shadows” began before its release, with Carson employing a mix of traditional and humorous approaches. Beyond radio interviews and word-of-mouth campaigns, the author jokes about telling potential readers to “buy it or cousin Guido will find you.” Carson also notes that book signings tend to be more successful when complemented by wine.
Readers interested in following Carson’s work can visit www.SRCarson.com, follow @shockdocwriter on Twitter/X, or reach out via email at [email protected]. With a new book on the horizon and a continuing medical practice, S.R. Carson demonstrates that with enough determination, it’s possible to pursue multiple passions simultaneously – even if it means defying conventional wisdom about career choices.
Read Blue Shadows
PROLOGUE
No, Daddy, don’t say anything!” The young boy knew his father would never renounce his faith, no matter what, but the words blurted out anyway.
Unfortunately, the ten-year-old child’s panicked entreaty would not be heeded by his missionary father. After his father handed the bearded men the ransom envelope,
he ensured his fate with his devout words: “Repent of your sins and be baptized all of you in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior!”
Having paid the ransom, he thought he’d secured his kidnapped son’s freedom from the Jihadis; he thought he’d avoided any violence and his missionary team would be allowed back into the field to work with the medical missionaries at the community center in the mountains east of Kabul. He prayed silently that they would show mercy on their benevolent mission. But to his horror, he saw the kidnappers push his wife to her knees directly in front of him and then place a black hood over her blonde head.
“No! Please no!” cried the missionary. “In the name of God and all that is sacred, please spare her and take me! She’s an innocent school teacher, here to help your children learn.”
The translator said something to the bearded man with the knife, and then, it was decided there would be no mercy. Instead, the wealthy Swedish businessman-turned-missionary watched helplessly while they cut off his wife’s head directly in front of him. Then, it was his turn to fall on his knees, receive the hood, and suffer the same fate as his wife.
The killers saved his son. They had grandiose plans for the young Swedish boy who wailed and fell to the ground after witnessing his parents’ gruesome death, screaming, “Where are you, my God? Destroy these devils!” The kidnappers laughed, then watched as the young boy ran as fast as he could down the dusty, unpaved road until he fell exhausted, and one of the lower-ranked warriors came after him, beat him, and took him back to the compound, now a prized possession.
“Death to the infidels!” The kidnappers shouted in unison.
The young missionary child was now theirs.
CHAPTER 1
Wyatt Barton, MD, loved being in the OR, cutting to cure. Especially now, because there were no explosions booming outside, and he no longer needed to bring his M-4 into the operating suite. But the calm shattered quickly when that damn recurrent nightmare decided it was time to play like a loud movie in his mind, in the middle of the operating suite, clearly uninvited. This time, the nightmare was triggered by the smoke from the Bovie electrocautery tool that efficiently cut and burned through human tissue, but it wasn’t always burning flesh that caused the visions to resurface. Sometimes other events would decide to trigger them—a code blue announcement on the public address system, a lunch tray clattering on the floor of a busy hospital cafeteria, or even a loud door slam. No matter when the dark nightmare decided to play, Wyatt knew it would probably occur at the absolute worst time possible—at least that’s what they told him would happen. But what he dreaded the most, was that if it decided to present in a way to attract the most attention, the dark scenes in his mind would gladly punish him with a brief tremor and facial flushing, accented by glazed eyes filled with a distant rage of fire, bringing him back to that day ten years ago and seven thousand miles away.
After exercising a deep cleansing breath, Wyatt closed his eyes for a millisecond, allowing his mind to return to the OR, concentrating on Mr. Jensen’s bowel resection. His eyes ventured away briefly and met the curious gaze of the scrub nurse who was scanning him, and he realized that she probably witnessed something strange. He felt the surging flush on his forehead that was only partially hidden by the pale blue surgeon’s cap, and he realized immediately what she had seen.
“You okay, Doc?” she asked.
“Couldn’t be better, Carrie. Just like eating cheese on a Ritz, lying on the beach, waves licking my parched pinkies.”
Wyatt imagined she smiled after that quip, because he saw the middle of her surgical mask suck in and out quickly several times, and there was a glimmer in her eye but no sound. He experienced the flashbacks more often now, and his ability to hide them grew more effective with each event, he thought. And yet, he knew he couldn’t show any weakness to the medical staff because they looked up to him and it could be embarrassing. Surgery and saving lives in the OR turned out to be his calling, or at least the calling that he wanted to protect as his final career. He had mastered the technique of hiding these dark scenes within his soul so that no one would be aware they existed.
Using a diagnostic laparoscope, Wyatt found the abscess cavity contained in Mr. Jensen’s mesocolon. Since he couldn’t enter it with a laparoscope, he opened the abdomen, mobilized the lateral sigmoid colon, and divided the colon with a stapler. He ligated the mesenteric vessels with zero silk ligatures, resected the segment of the colon involved with the abscess, and then completed the primary anastomosis.
Suddenly, a young OR tech tripped on some suction tubing on the floor and almost knocked the corrugated ventilator tubing off the patient’s breathing tube. The anesthesiologist at the head of the operating table quickly secured the breathing tube, then tore into the tech like a hungry wolf. “If you can’t be careful and do your job without messing up the operation, then get the hell out of my OR!”
Her face looked like it was injected in both cheeks with red dye. It was clear that she bit her lip, because the surgical mask ended up in her mouth, caught between clenched teeth. She then quietly said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Turner.”
Dr. Turner, the anesthesiologist, was a bulky 6’7” oak tree, five inches taller than Wyatt and fifty pounds heavier. He completely ignored the embarrassed tech’s apology.
Wyatt stopped closing the abdomen and stared at the oak tree with blue eyes that made cold steel shiver. “First of all, it is not your OR, Dr. Turner. It is the hospital’s OR. Accept her apology now, Jim, or it’s you who will be sorry.”
Dr. Jim Turner remained stony silent while monitoring the ECG rhythm and pulse oximetry connected to the patient. The only sound in the OR was the in-and-out whooshing sound of the ventilator breathing for Mr. Jensen. No one dared to take a breath until Wyatt decided to break the silence and thus allow adequate breathing for the staff again. Wyatt looked up at Turner, this time with a slightly louder voice. “The tech simply tripped; she didn’t harm anything. Now maybe you didn’t hear me the first time, Jim, but I’m asking you right now to accept her apology or you may find your face on the unforgiving concrete of the physician’s parking lot, begging for an apology to me.” The breathing in the room stopped again for a few seconds.
Dr. Turner hesitated for a few moments, looked up briefly to the ceiling, and back down to the patient, then said, “Yes, sir, I will.” Jim decided to accept her sincere apology, then said to the tech,“I appreciate your excellent work.” Wyatt expected the oak tree’s icy glare, and after he received it, he smiled and went back to closing the abdomen as if nothing had happened.
So much for physician collegiality, and Wyatt knew, as the new surgeon at the hospital, all eyes studied him closely and likely this event would cause him to be summoned to the chief medical officer’s office, or the principal’s office, as the doctors said, but he couldn’t have cared less. It was the principle of the damn thing.
Wyatt Barton, M.D., had limited tolerance for bullies or people without integrity, even stately oak trees. He thought the OR tech would’ve been in her right to say to Dr. Turner something like, “Sorry Dr. Turner, but I was filled with admiration as you did such a great job of passing gas that I temporarily lost my coordination. Thank you for correcting my blunder, your highness.” Wyatt knew that wouldn’t happen in the medical hierarchy, but he always believed that they must respect all members of the team, no matter what their rank. He made sure that he protected those who couldn’t protect themselves from soulless people who preyed upon them. Occasionally, even stately oak trees in a forest fire needed protection as well, regardless of their character, and he would be there when called to save a single tree in the forest, no questions asked, no matter the size of that tree.
