This is a long one, so brace yourself.
I suppose this is a bit of a continuation of my last blog. I said I wanted to keep morals and spiritual insight in my writing, but there also needs to be a healthy balance.
For the sake of being kind, I will leave names out, but I just finished reading a book that I have already read. I read it years ago--I was probably still in high school (I know, that wasn't THAT long ago, but still... at least 5 years). I don't remember feeling or thinking what I did just last night and today when I read that book.
Let me first give you some background. This book is "Inspirational Fiction." In other words, it's the kind of book that pastor's wives read in their women's Christian book clubs. The kinds of books that honestly, make it difficult for an honestly good Christian writer (one that is not afraid to challenge a few minds) to be taken seriously. It's the kind of writing that doesn't do much in the way of challenging someone who is already a Christian, and would not at all be appealing to an unbeliever.
Now, there is nothing wrong with Christian book clubs led by pastor's wives, or writers supplying (and making their living from) Christian books that are so over-ridden with Christianese and "if you'll just give your heart to God then everything will be fine and you'll all of a sudden be happy forever" speeches from the heroines of the book (because it's always the tender-hearted girl who leads the stern, rough man to Christ...).
I just want a little more reality. I want to see that Christians can struggle with more than just bitterness, and that it affects them in all aspects of their life. I want to see a man leading a girl to Christ--and keep that girl the heroine! Show them what it's like for a non-believer to be on the other side of the fence! We've seen enough of the Christian's struggle to witness to the people they love, but what about their side of the story?
As I was reading last night, I was thinking about this, and I considered changing one of my books. Yes, I considered changing the whole plot of a book that I recently finished (I finished it over Thanksgiving break), all because I am fearful of it falling into the category of "cheesy Christian romance with nothing more than a bunch of Christianese and the girl changing the guys' heart". I wanted to switch it--make the guy the Christian and show her struggles to decide whether or not she should start to follow Christ. In fact, that's what I had originally intended for that story (before I went haywire and wrote for four days straight and finally completed it). But I looked at the other plot changes I had made, and I saw that they couldn't work--I can't have it both ways; it wouldn't have made sense. Then came the thought of "guy who's lost his faith is reminded of it when an unbelieving girl starts to question it." But I wasn't sure if that's the dynamic I wanted. I wasn't sure if that's what their story really was.
But throughout all these decisions to be made and complicated plots to figure out, I have to remember my purpose. My purpose is to draw people in and bring them to Christ. And if they already know Him, then I need to challenge them. Our church, Ethos, has a haiku as our mission statement. Don't laugh, I'm serious. But one of the stanzas says,
"Challenge Each Other
Vulnerably Authentic
Christ is Relevant"
Challenge Each Other.
I should not be afraid to challenge others. I should not be afraid to challenge the church. Didn't Christ, Martin Luther, and (dare I say it?) even Chuck Smith do the same? I should not be afraid to challenge hypocrisy, false religion, immorality, self-righteousness and the blaspheming of the Holy Spirit. Yet, I must proceed thus in love. I must let brotherly love continue, and as much as is possible, I need to strive to live peaceably with all men.
Vulnerably Authentic.
I need to be realistic. I need to be open to criticism, leaving me vulnerable. Not everyone will appreciate my style of realism, and many more will not see the underlying allegories and symbolism. Yet, I must pursue it in the hopes that at least some will see. If I touch one person with my writing, I have done my job--even if that one person is me. I can't put on any pretense or false humility; I must be out-right with my beliefs, ready for the opposition, but I cannot be so blatantly arrogant in my beliefs as to look down my nose at those who do not share my beliefs. I cannot shove my beliefs in their face without at least trying to see where they're coming from. Jesus told of His kingdom with parables; how can we presume to discuss theology and "Christian" things without at least considering this way of explaining it? Sometimes we need a story to understand God's power. Sometimes we need to see the flip side of the coin--the not-so-pretty side of things before we can appreciate God's forgiveness. We need to remember that we have ALL sinned and fallen short of God's glory; yet there is hope. While we continue in our own sins of lust, hatred and hypocrisy, others are being truthful--they are being authentic and vulnerable, sinful as they may be. We must remember that we are in just as much need of God's grace and mercy as any other Joe Schmo off the street. We can't pretend to be anything more than the filthy, diseased heathens that we are.
Christ is Relevant.
Above all, I must keep Christ at the center. Even when using an allegory; even when His name is not mentioned, His character and His love for us must be apparent. He has sacrificed so much to be with us, and that is the best love story of all. It needs only to be told in a way that unchurched people are able to understand. Take, for instance, C.S. Lewis' classic fantasy series, The Chronicles of Narnia. When asked about the allegory, he said that he did not wish it to be a parallel or a picture of Christ's sacrifice, but he intended it to be a picture of, if, indeed, there was a place called Narnia, what would a great King like Aslan do in such a situation? He is quoted as saying, "It all began with images; a faun carrying an umbrella, a queen on a sledge, a magnificent lion. At first there wasn't anything Christian about them; that element pushed itself in of its own accord." Since he allowed God to have control of his writing, he was able to easily implement something that he held so dear to his heart (his relationship with Christ) into his writing without even trying. He didn't have to look up any scriptures or double check his theology; he needn't research and make sure that his allegories matched up. He didn't need to because the Great Author was writing for him. He allowed God to lead him where H/his heart desired (in that when we put our trust and our hope in God, His desires become our desires). His intention was not to make religion more accessible to children, but it did. His intention was to make a nice story to read to his grandchildren, and it served that purpose as well.
So what's my point with all this ranting? I really don't know. I just hope I sparked a few questions in your minds and maybe gave you pause for a least a split second to consider what "good Christian writing" really is.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Let's all hope I don't end up here.
My favorite author and mentor, Robin Hardy, has quite the sense of humor. I was looking over her site and found this. After having a good laugh at the parodies, the thought came to me: What if one of those books were mine?
No, this isn't a sermon on why we shouldn't make fun of people online... though I'm sure that's an important topic that should probably be addressed.
Ok, back to my point.
It has occurred to me on more than one occasion that while I may one day "hit it big" in the literary scene, it may not be what I now hope for. What if I do end up being picked up by a publishing company who wants to turn me into the next Jackie Collins or Nora Roberts? Not that I would mind their salary, but there is something to be said about dignity and quality.
Now, I have never read a book by either of them, but the fact that they are at the grocery check out line tells me that they must be those cheesy romance novels with a lot of sex scenes and not much else.
Anyone who has read my stuff knows that I try to stay away from the hot-n-heavy romance, though I do include a love story of some kind in all of my books (so far). Which then makes me wonder if I'll just be called the watered-down version of Danielle Steele.
There's nothing wrong with being a household name, or being paid well for writing. But churning out dozens upon dozens of books relating stories not of growth, maturity, spiritual insight and a moral compass, but of lust, one-night-stands and extramarital affairs....? That's enough to make me gag.
If I ever turn out to be such a writer, please... someone shoot me. I'll forgive you.
No, this isn't a sermon on why we shouldn't make fun of people online... though I'm sure that's an important topic that should probably be addressed.
Ok, back to my point.
It has occurred to me on more than one occasion that while I may one day "hit it big" in the literary scene, it may not be what I now hope for. What if I do end up being picked up by a publishing company who wants to turn me into the next Jackie Collins or Nora Roberts? Not that I would mind their salary, but there is something to be said about dignity and quality.
Now, I have never read a book by either of them, but the fact that they are at the grocery check out line tells me that they must be those cheesy romance novels with a lot of sex scenes and not much else.
Anyone who has read my stuff knows that I try to stay away from the hot-n-heavy romance, though I do include a love story of some kind in all of my books (so far). Which then makes me wonder if I'll just be called the watered-down version of Danielle Steele.
There's nothing wrong with being a household name, or being paid well for writing. But churning out dozens upon dozens of books relating stories not of growth, maturity, spiritual insight and a moral compass, but of lust, one-night-stands and extramarital affairs....? That's enough to make me gag.
If I ever turn out to be such a writer, please... someone shoot me. I'll forgive you.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
New Book!
Inspiration and a week off from work are two wonderful tools that allowed me to finish a book this week. It was an old story that I revamped and made mo' betta. It's a lot more interesting now. I even have a starting idea for a sequel. It needs a name, though, so if anyone would like to read it and let me know if you have a name for it, I'd appreciate that.
Here's a few key points...
Girl in college to be a journalist
Witnesses drug deal
Meets Narc. detective
All the while, she is becoming friends with a local band with drama of their own
In other words, it's a mystery/detective thing with a spin (this girl is into the local music scene and not your average reporter...)
Let me know if you're interested in reviewing it for me and maybe if you have a title...?
Comment or email me if you're interested.
Here's a few key points...
Girl in college to be a journalist
Witnesses drug deal
Meets Narc. detective
All the while, she is becoming friends with a local band with drama of their own
In other words, it's a mystery/detective thing with a spin (this girl is into the local music scene and not your average reporter...)
Let me know if you're interested in reviewing it for me and maybe if you have a title...?
Comment or email me if you're interested.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Another Sample
Here is another sample of my writing. This is all me--no co-writers. Please comment! Let me know if this interests you. I can email you the chapters I have so far. This book is almost done, but I need help deciding how it should end. Comments are welcome!
“Come, Duncan!” he called to his eldest, encouraging him to lead the others and hurry them along. “We’ve a lot to do, and not enough sunlight.” Why hadn’t he left the girls with one of the women at the dun? They were only a hindrance to him, and he knew they would do nothing but complain while out in the hills. They were further than they had ever been from home, and he knew the girls wouldn’t like that.
The children caught up on their animals, and went on to follow their father down the hill to a stream at the base of the hill. Earnan got off his horse and squatted down by the stream. He looked downstream to the wooded area and looked at some deer tracks in the grass.
“Duncan, Taran, Nevin! Look at this!” the father instructed. The boys got off their animals and squatted down near their father.
“What is it, Da?” the youngest of his boys, Nevin, asked. At four, he was eager to learn how to track and shoot. Nevin’s sandy hair fell into his face, hiding his bright blue eyes. He moved the hair out of his way and inspected where his father was pointing.
“A deer,” Earnan answered. “He’s headed into the woods.”
“Are ye sure it’s a buck, Da?” Duncan referred to the masculine pronoun his father had used. Duncan, sixteen, and his brother Taran, twelve, had been hunting and learning to fight for a few years now, but they still had much to learn from their warrior-Rígh father. They looked similar in all except height. Both were slender, but strong, especially for their age, with strong features, like their father. They also possessed the same sandy brown hair that Nevin had; again a trait received from their father.
“How old do you think he is?” Aileen asked, causing her brothers and father to look back at her in question. She was not there to learn to hunt. She was there to simply wait for them to come home. When she got no answer, Aileen raised her eyebrows at her family. Earnan rolled his eyes and sighed, turning back to the stream. Aileen took her two-year-old sister, Nessa, off the small mare they had ridden and set her on the ground before pulling her own bright copper hair into a bun, keeping it in place with a bronze decorated pin. She watched the males of the family go off into the woods with their spears and bows and arrows, feeling forgotten and useless. Nessa played with some leaves and sticks nearby, and Aileen simply waited.
At nearly sundown, the men came back, carrying a small buck, tied up with ropes. Aileen gathered her sister up in her arms and went to the horse. When the men were loaded and ready, she followed them towards home. There was not enough light to bring them all the way home, so they built a fire in the valley and set up camp.
Dinner was late that night, as Earnan had to prepare the buck with only a little help from Duncan. Aileen was pulling her bright red hair back into a bun again (since the previous one had been pulled out by Nessa) when Taran informed her that Da wanted her.
“Yes, Da?” she said, taking a seat on a tree stump near the fire where the deer was cooking. At eleven, Aileen was already quite the lady of the house. When her mother died giving birth to Nessa, she immediately had to fulfill the role of mother, helping her father to raise the younger ones as best she could.
“Aileen, your… question got me thinking,” Earnan began. Duncan, who was standing nearby, glanced up and listened.
“Aye?” she responded.
“You have quite a bit of responsibility on your shoulders, girl,” he continued. “But I also realize that you are able to handle a lot. You’re a very strong girl.”
“Thank you,” she said, wondering where the conversation was going.
“You ought to be strong, being Ríbhinn and all. Anyhow, this isn’t easy to say,” Earnan went on, shifting uncomfortably as he looked at his daughter’s small frame. “I think you should learn to defend yourself. We’ve heard of the Romans taking over whole towns along the border in the south, and we don’t know if they will continue to move north, towards us.”
“Da, that was years ago—”
“And it’s been going on in Alba alone for over ten years! Britannia was defeated many years ago—the Romans will be very hard to defeat!” Earnan exclaimed. “You are Ríbhinn of our tribe, Aileen. If something ever happened to your brothers and I, I want to at least give you a fighting chance at survival.”
Aileen hung her head at this morbid notion.
“And I want you to teach Nessa, when she’s old enough,” he added.
Aileen stared at her father blankly. What was she to say?
“You already have a curiosity for hunting and things outside the home, where your usual duties are, but I want you to learn more.” He paused, looking into her light blue eyes. “You deserve more of a chance than what you’ve got now.”
Alba, North of Britannia: 90 AD
Rígh Earnan of the Luirg tribe of Alba sat on his horse, waiting for his children to catch up. He looked at the group, following their father from a distance. The gods had blessed him with three sons and two daughters before his wife had died. He wanted to teach the boys to hunt, but the girls were much too young to be left alone. At the top of the hill, Earnan sighed and looked up at the cloudy sky. The overcast heavens above him nearly matched his gray head and beard, which he stroked thoughtfully as he looked down at the ground and spotted something of interest.
Rígh Earnan of the Luirg tribe of Alba sat on his horse, waiting for his children to catch up. He looked at the group, following their father from a distance. The gods had blessed him with three sons and two daughters before his wife had died. He wanted to teach the boys to hunt, but the girls were much too young to be left alone. At the top of the hill, Earnan sighed and looked up at the cloudy sky. The overcast heavens above him nearly matched his gray head and beard, which he stroked thoughtfully as he looked down at the ground and spotted something of interest.
“Come, Duncan!” he called to his eldest, encouraging him to lead the others and hurry them along. “We’ve a lot to do, and not enough sunlight.” Why hadn’t he left the girls with one of the women at the dun? They were only a hindrance to him, and he knew they would do nothing but complain while out in the hills. They were further than they had ever been from home, and he knew the girls wouldn’t like that.
The children caught up on their animals, and went on to follow their father down the hill to a stream at the base of the hill. Earnan got off his horse and squatted down by the stream. He looked downstream to the wooded area and looked at some deer tracks in the grass.
“Duncan, Taran, Nevin! Look at this!” the father instructed. The boys got off their animals and squatted down near their father.
“What is it, Da?” the youngest of his boys, Nevin, asked. At four, he was eager to learn how to track and shoot. Nevin’s sandy hair fell into his face, hiding his bright blue eyes. He moved the hair out of his way and inspected where his father was pointing.
“A deer,” Earnan answered. “He’s headed into the woods.”
“Are ye sure it’s a buck, Da?” Duncan referred to the masculine pronoun his father had used. Duncan, sixteen, and his brother Taran, twelve, had been hunting and learning to fight for a few years now, but they still had much to learn from their warrior-Rígh father. They looked similar in all except height. Both were slender, but strong, especially for their age, with strong features, like their father. They also possessed the same sandy brown hair that Nevin had; again a trait received from their father.
“How old do you think he is?” Aileen asked, causing her brothers and father to look back at her in question. She was not there to learn to hunt. She was there to simply wait for them to come home. When she got no answer, Aileen raised her eyebrows at her family. Earnan rolled his eyes and sighed, turning back to the stream. Aileen took her two-year-old sister, Nessa, off the small mare they had ridden and set her on the ground before pulling her own bright copper hair into a bun, keeping it in place with a bronze decorated pin. She watched the males of the family go off into the woods with their spears and bows and arrows, feeling forgotten and useless. Nessa played with some leaves and sticks nearby, and Aileen simply waited.
At nearly sundown, the men came back, carrying a small buck, tied up with ropes. Aileen gathered her sister up in her arms and went to the horse. When the men were loaded and ready, she followed them towards home. There was not enough light to bring them all the way home, so they built a fire in the valley and set up camp.
Dinner was late that night, as Earnan had to prepare the buck with only a little help from Duncan. Aileen was pulling her bright red hair back into a bun again (since the previous one had been pulled out by Nessa) when Taran informed her that Da wanted her.
“Yes, Da?” she said, taking a seat on a tree stump near the fire where the deer was cooking. At eleven, Aileen was already quite the lady of the house. When her mother died giving birth to Nessa, she immediately had to fulfill the role of mother, helping her father to raise the younger ones as best she could.
“Aileen, your… question got me thinking,” Earnan began. Duncan, who was standing nearby, glanced up and listened.
“Aye?” she responded.
“You have quite a bit of responsibility on your shoulders, girl,” he continued. “But I also realize that you are able to handle a lot. You’re a very strong girl.”
“Thank you,” she said, wondering where the conversation was going.
“You ought to be strong, being Ríbhinn and all. Anyhow, this isn’t easy to say,” Earnan went on, shifting uncomfortably as he looked at his daughter’s small frame. “I think you should learn to defend yourself. We’ve heard of the Romans taking over whole towns along the border in the south, and we don’t know if they will continue to move north, towards us.”
“Da, that was years ago—”
“And it’s been going on in Alba alone for over ten years! Britannia was defeated many years ago—the Romans will be very hard to defeat!” Earnan exclaimed. “You are Ríbhinn of our tribe, Aileen. If something ever happened to your brothers and I, I want to at least give you a fighting chance at survival.”
Aileen hung her head at this morbid notion.
“And I want you to teach Nessa, when she’s old enough,” he added.
Aileen stared at her father blankly. What was she to say?
“You already have a curiosity for hunting and things outside the home, where your usual duties are, but I want you to learn more.” He paused, looking into her light blue eyes. “You deserve more of a chance than what you’ve got now.”
The Troubles of Writing
I have always been a writer. Before I wanted it to be my career, I wrote for fun. My writing has matured (I hope!) from when I was a kid, and the struggles I deal with have also matured.
For instance, it is nearly impossible for a writer to get signed onto a publishing company without already being published. This means paying for a POD (Publish On Demand) or going to lots of conferences, or contributing to collaborated works, such as "Chicken Soup" books (like my former teacher and current mentor has done), or simply hoping and praying that someday, someone will get a hold of something I've written and suddenly say "I want this writer!"
Since a POD costs money (and let's be honest for a moment--I'm a teacher and my husband is currently unemployed. I don't have that kind of money), I can't really do that at the moment.
Also due to the monetary issue, I can't attend conferences.
And because of my stylistic preferences, I just don't want to be published in those compilations.
So I resort to finishing numerous books (I'm working on nine different stories, even though it was not recommended by one of my mentors), attempting to finish as much as I can and edit what I have finished (one of the nine), all the while still putting stories on the back burner of my mind. Stories come to me every day, and I can't help but want to write them. They all have flaws and they all need research and background for the characters, but still they come.
This is one of the problems I run into. I can't help but think of all these different stories, and since I don't want to forget, I start writing them, or at least jot down the ideas. This is all well and good, because when I do have the money to attend conferences and pay PODs, then I will have things ready. But it's not enough. I have stories, but no one to read them. Even here, no one reads what I write.
There's another problem. Discouragement. What if no one likes my work? What if I can't find publishers willing to sign me on? What if I'm actually terrible, and none of my friends are willing to tell me? What if I run out of ideas and the stories start sounding the same? What if I make a mistake in my research and my credibility is shot?
And here's another. My style. I like my style. That's why I write like that. It's simple, but I still throw in some poetry. Just not so much to be overwhelming. But not everyone likes that. And not everyone likes the content of my stories. It's not that I want to dwell on bad circumstances (like abuse, rape, and other varying sins), I just feel that they need to be addressed.
In one of my books which has received some criticism for its content, two of the main characters engage in premarital sex. Mind you, I'm not writing like Jackie Collins or Danielle Steele. In my opinion, it's tasteful. After "accidentally" reading Wicker Man (long story short, it was mistaken identity in regards to the author, and I kept thinking it would get better, but it didn't), I think those scenes were modest and quite frankly, incredibly symbolic. I did not glorify their sin, but I did shed light on it. It's an issue affecting the church and being hidden time and again because no one wants to think about it. Meanwhile, certain members of my family are getting pregnant at fourteen, revealing their sin, while others, friends of mine, had successfully hidden their sin, until they had admitted to it at a later time (to the shock of all, I assure you). My point is, it needs to be addressed, and all aspects need to be exposed to show how degrading and detrimental such sin can be.
In another book, the main character kills people--both before and after coming to Christ. It is all in self-defense, but it is still violence. In yet another book, a young woman is raped. I do not go into detail, but it is very clear what had transpired.
Should this content be condemned for its reality? Should it be condemned because, as some critics have noted, "Christians just don't want to hear about that!"
I have read Beverly Lewis and Lori Wick, and I enjoyed their books. But I am not them, and I am not aiming for the same reader base. I am looking for those who are on the verge--who need Christ. Who need to see redemption, even in the face of tribulation and despite the characters turning their backs on Christ--or possibly never knowing him in the first place.
I write other stories in allegories. While the characters never encounter Christ as we know Him, I pray that the meaning is not lost, and that the readers can see the significance of the story--the beauty of Christ taking us as we are and bringing us to a better life; the power of His abilities and the overwhelming intimacy we experience when we develop a real, lasting relationship with Him.
All this being said, I have writer's block. Despite there being nine stories that I can work on (although one is finished, dropping the count to eight... except I can always edit the finished one), I am stuck.
I used to be in training for Sign Language Interpreting and the sign for "STUCK" is a poignant one. The first and middle finger of your right hand form a "V" and you place those fingers at your throat and stick out your tongue slightly. "STUCK" is a clear picture of how I feel. My words stop in my throat (though in writing, they come out through my fingers, not my throat... but stick with me on this visual--and ignore the pun). My voice will not be heard for the choking of my windpipe. Why am I stuck? Why am I at a loss for words (despite the length of this post)? I certainly have enough material for me to play with, and more stories that haven't been written, because I fear that they will just sit on my hard drive for ages, untouched, like about five of my nine manuscripts. There are only a handful of those MS's that I work on regularly. Others I forget about until I finally have that moment of clarity, when I see, "That's what should happen!"
There are two that I believe I am almost done with. One, I simply cannot decide how to end it. There are a number of possibilities, but I don't know which one makes the most sense, and which one would work best to carry out a sequel. After nearly 300 pages of that MS, I have cornered myself and I can't figure out which way to go. The other, I have not yet figured out the mysteries I have set in place. How can I help my readers make sense of the mystery, when I myself have not yet figured it out?
This is the part where I ask my friends and family to read it and ask for ideas. But every time I've done that in the past, they forget or they are too busy, and I get no feedback. So in light of that, I suppose it's back to sitting and reading something else until an idea strikes me, or praying until my brain hurts and the Lord finally reveals to me His perfect plan for these stories.
Until next time... um, I was hoping to have a cute tag line here, but that didn't work out so well. I guess writer's block works for blogs, too, huh?
For instance, it is nearly impossible for a writer to get signed onto a publishing company without already being published. This means paying for a POD (Publish On Demand) or going to lots of conferences, or contributing to collaborated works, such as "Chicken Soup" books (like my former teacher and current mentor has done), or simply hoping and praying that someday, someone will get a hold of something I've written and suddenly say "I want this writer!"
Since a POD costs money (and let's be honest for a moment--I'm a teacher and my husband is currently unemployed. I don't have that kind of money), I can't really do that at the moment.
Also due to the monetary issue, I can't attend conferences.
And because of my stylistic preferences, I just don't want to be published in those compilations.
So I resort to finishing numerous books (I'm working on nine different stories, even though it was not recommended by one of my mentors), attempting to finish as much as I can and edit what I have finished (one of the nine), all the while still putting stories on the back burner of my mind. Stories come to me every day, and I can't help but want to write them. They all have flaws and they all need research and background for the characters, but still they come.
This is one of the problems I run into. I can't help but think of all these different stories, and since I don't want to forget, I start writing them, or at least jot down the ideas. This is all well and good, because when I do have the money to attend conferences and pay PODs, then I will have things ready. But it's not enough. I have stories, but no one to read them. Even here, no one reads what I write.
There's another problem. Discouragement. What if no one likes my work? What if I can't find publishers willing to sign me on? What if I'm actually terrible, and none of my friends are willing to tell me? What if I run out of ideas and the stories start sounding the same? What if I make a mistake in my research and my credibility is shot?
And here's another. My style. I like my style. That's why I write like that. It's simple, but I still throw in some poetry. Just not so much to be overwhelming. But not everyone likes that. And not everyone likes the content of my stories. It's not that I want to dwell on bad circumstances (like abuse, rape, and other varying sins), I just feel that they need to be addressed.
In one of my books which has received some criticism for its content, two of the main characters engage in premarital sex. Mind you, I'm not writing like Jackie Collins or Danielle Steele. In my opinion, it's tasteful. After "accidentally" reading Wicker Man (long story short, it was mistaken identity in regards to the author, and I kept thinking it would get better, but it didn't), I think those scenes were modest and quite frankly, incredibly symbolic. I did not glorify their sin, but I did shed light on it. It's an issue affecting the church and being hidden time and again because no one wants to think about it. Meanwhile, certain members of my family are getting pregnant at fourteen, revealing their sin, while others, friends of mine, had successfully hidden their sin, until they had admitted to it at a later time (to the shock of all, I assure you). My point is, it needs to be addressed, and all aspects need to be exposed to show how degrading and detrimental such sin can be.
In another book, the main character kills people--both before and after coming to Christ. It is all in self-defense, but it is still violence. In yet another book, a young woman is raped. I do not go into detail, but it is very clear what had transpired.
Should this content be condemned for its reality? Should it be condemned because, as some critics have noted, "Christians just don't want to hear about that!"
I have read Beverly Lewis and Lori Wick, and I enjoyed their books. But I am not them, and I am not aiming for the same reader base. I am looking for those who are on the verge--who need Christ. Who need to see redemption, even in the face of tribulation and despite the characters turning their backs on Christ--or possibly never knowing him in the first place.
I write other stories in allegories. While the characters never encounter Christ as we know Him, I pray that the meaning is not lost, and that the readers can see the significance of the story--the beauty of Christ taking us as we are and bringing us to a better life; the power of His abilities and the overwhelming intimacy we experience when we develop a real, lasting relationship with Him.
All this being said, I have writer's block. Despite there being nine stories that I can work on (although one is finished, dropping the count to eight... except I can always edit the finished one), I am stuck.
I used to be in training for Sign Language Interpreting and the sign for "STUCK" is a poignant one. The first and middle finger of your right hand form a "V" and you place those fingers at your throat and stick out your tongue slightly. "STUCK" is a clear picture of how I feel. My words stop in my throat (though in writing, they come out through my fingers, not my throat... but stick with me on this visual--and ignore the pun). My voice will not be heard for the choking of my windpipe. Why am I stuck? Why am I at a loss for words (despite the length of this post)? I certainly have enough material for me to play with, and more stories that haven't been written, because I fear that they will just sit on my hard drive for ages, untouched, like about five of my nine manuscripts. There are only a handful of those MS's that I work on regularly. Others I forget about until I finally have that moment of clarity, when I see, "That's what should happen!"
There are two that I believe I am almost done with. One, I simply cannot decide how to end it. There are a number of possibilities, but I don't know which one makes the most sense, and which one would work best to carry out a sequel. After nearly 300 pages of that MS, I have cornered myself and I can't figure out which way to go. The other, I have not yet figured out the mysteries I have set in place. How can I help my readers make sense of the mystery, when I myself have not yet figured it out?
This is the part where I ask my friends and family to read it and ask for ideas. But every time I've done that in the past, they forget or they are too busy, and I get no feedback. So in light of that, I suppose it's back to sitting and reading something else until an idea strikes me, or praying until my brain hurts and the Lord finally reveals to me His perfect plan for these stories.
Until next time... um, I was hoping to have a cute tag line here, but that didn't work out so well. I guess writer's block works for blogs, too, huh?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Burn the Excuses!
Ok, so I know no one is looking at this, but I just wanted to write something. Since I don't really feel like using Word and I want to feel like maybe someday SOMEONE will read this, here goes.
Fires have been raging for about four days now. If you don't know what I'm talking about, take a look at the news. Fires in San Diego have burned more than 500,000 acres, and nearly a million people have been displaced from their homes. That's a lot of people. More than Katrina, they're saying.
Now, I was one of the lucky ones who lived in the area that was not terribly affected (except for the smoke, of course). And I'll be honest. I'm not feeling enough. While I am glad people are volunteering, I myself have not been compelled to do so. I wanted to stay home--I wanted to stay out of everyone's way--and worst of all, I was glad for the days off!
I know this isn't confession, and I'm not even Catholic, but it got me thinking. How is it that we--as in me, er, I--can sit and watch these things on the news, know that a million people have been evacuated and are living in evac shelters, and not be affected? How can I sit here and be told that people are losing their homes--the homes that maybe they've lived in for years--and still not be affected? I mean, I care, of course. But am I volunteering? No. I'm sitting on my rear, watching movies and posting on blogs. I'm enjoying my fan, my cold iced tea, and my fresh salad for lunch, and I can't even go down the street and sort blankets for a while. Why is that?
It's all about excuses.
"They want to keep people off the road."
"They've been turning volunteers away--why go?"
"I'm allowed to have a day off, right? Don't I deserve it?"
"I should stay at home with my family... Just in case."
Excuses are stupid.
Now, here's the question: Now that I've had this epiphany, will I go out and volunteer tomorrow? Probably not. Why?
"They're already returning people to their homes. There's nowhere to volunteer."
In other words, I wasted my time and now it's too late. I missed my opportunity. Does this mean I lose brownie points with God, or that I'm a bad person?
I certainly hope not. Because if we're keeping points, I'm in big trouble. In fact, I think we all are.
Yet, even when we screw up royally--whether it's being a jerk to my friend or lying or hating someone or doing nothing when the occasion calls for me to do something--Christ's blood covers that. We mess up and we get forgiven. But it's easier said than done, isn't it? Because once we have the Spirit, we have a conscience. And then we KNOW when we do wrong. That's when we know and we feel bad about it. And we promise to do better "next time". But what if there is no next time? Or what if the next time, we still don't do anything? Does God say, "That's it. Strike two." or does he let it slide?
"Faith without works is dead." That's a verse commonly taken out of context. It's one that people claim to mean that we have to work for our salvation. But that's not what it's saying. You see, if we have faith but we don't act on it, what good is that faith? If we HAVE the faith of a mustard seed--the faith to move mountains--but we don't ever TRY to move mountains, what's the use of having that faith? It's dead.
I'm not even sure where I was going with that, but I felt like it needed to be said. **sigh** I suppose that's it for now. I've lost my train of thought. But at least I've given you (as in, me, because I'm the only one coming here) something to think about.
Thanks for your time. Maybe I'll post more later. :)
Fires have been raging for about four days now. If you don't know what I'm talking about, take a look at the news. Fires in San Diego have burned more than 500,000 acres, and nearly a million people have been displaced from their homes. That's a lot of people. More than Katrina, they're saying.
Now, I was one of the lucky ones who lived in the area that was not terribly affected (except for the smoke, of course). And I'll be honest. I'm not feeling enough. While I am glad people are volunteering, I myself have not been compelled to do so. I wanted to stay home--I wanted to stay out of everyone's way--and worst of all, I was glad for the days off!
I know this isn't confession, and I'm not even Catholic, but it got me thinking. How is it that we--as in me, er, I--can sit and watch these things on the news, know that a million people have been evacuated and are living in evac shelters, and not be affected? How can I sit here and be told that people are losing their homes--the homes that maybe they've lived in for years--and still not be affected? I mean, I care, of course. But am I volunteering? No. I'm sitting on my rear, watching movies and posting on blogs. I'm enjoying my fan, my cold iced tea, and my fresh salad for lunch, and I can't even go down the street and sort blankets for a while. Why is that?
It's all about excuses.
"They want to keep people off the road."
"They've been turning volunteers away--why go?"
"I'm allowed to have a day off, right? Don't I deserve it?"
"I should stay at home with my family... Just in case."
Excuses are stupid.
Now, here's the question: Now that I've had this epiphany, will I go out and volunteer tomorrow? Probably not. Why?
"They're already returning people to their homes. There's nowhere to volunteer."
In other words, I wasted my time and now it's too late. I missed my opportunity. Does this mean I lose brownie points with God, or that I'm a bad person?
I certainly hope not. Because if we're keeping points, I'm in big trouble. In fact, I think we all are.
Yet, even when we screw up royally--whether it's being a jerk to my friend or lying or hating someone or doing nothing when the occasion calls for me to do something--Christ's blood covers that. We mess up and we get forgiven. But it's easier said than done, isn't it? Because once we have the Spirit, we have a conscience. And then we KNOW when we do wrong. That's when we know and we feel bad about it. And we promise to do better "next time". But what if there is no next time? Or what if the next time, we still don't do anything? Does God say, "That's it. Strike two." or does he let it slide?
"Faith without works is dead." That's a verse commonly taken out of context. It's one that people claim to mean that we have to work for our salvation. But that's not what it's saying. You see, if we have faith but we don't act on it, what good is that faith? If we HAVE the faith of a mustard seed--the faith to move mountains--but we don't ever TRY to move mountains, what's the use of having that faith? It's dead.
I'm not even sure where I was going with that, but I felt like it needed to be said. **sigh** I suppose that's it for now. I've lost my train of thought. But at least I've given you (as in, me, because I'm the only one coming here) something to think about.
Thanks for your time. Maybe I'll post more later. :)
Thursday, September 20, 2007
"The Tide" Intro
I'll try to only post a small portion at a time so it won't be overwhelming. Enjoy. Comment.
Ceileah Maher’s appearance bespoke of her heritage in every way. Her long, curling, auburn hair told of journeys taken through thick woods, with ivy and ferns covering the twisted roots of all kinds of trees. Her eyes reflected lush green pastures, sprinkled with dew on misty mornings. Her freckles seemed to just fall onto her nose and cheeks, like snow on rosy petals. Not in hindrance of her beauty, Ceileah wore simple clothes of hand sewn brown cotton. She wore a gray coat over her dress, and had dull brown leather shoes on her feet, with wool stockings underneath.
Ceileah looked to her right to see her friends still sleeping. Jacob and Annie O’Brian, her friends since childhood, had been married for just about five years now. They were a bit older than her; Jacob, twenty-three, and Annie, twenty-two. Ceileah was only nineteen, and looked up to her friends, hoping she might one day have a marriage like theirs. Smiling, she nudged Annie with her knee.
“Too early,” Annie groaned, rolling over to bury her head in her husband’s shoulder. Annie’s sandy blonde hair fell onto her light face, covering it almost completely. You could see her thin lips through her strands of hair, and her curved nose that ended in a slight upward slope. Her active childhood still played a part in her features. There were scars on her forearms that seemed to follow up to her neck: proof that girls were not too afraid to face danger. She had always been the roughest girl Ceileah had ever known. Ceileah remembered climbing rocks and trees with Annie, and swimming in the chilly river not far from their home.
Jacob’s features were strong but gentle, just as he was when Annie was near. He was slightly tan from working on his father’s cargo ship, and had short, brown hair that seemed to go whichever way it wanted to. His eyes were dark from lack of sleep, though when fully rested, his eyes would give his gentleness away. His nose, casting a shadow on his long face, curved downward. His lips were thin, and his jaw square with short brown hair that sprinkled his face. He was a handsome man, being well built from years of hard work.
Ceileah frowned, desiring for someone to talk to and looked around again, wishing that if she would not be allowed to chat with her friends, then the sun would simply leave her alone, and let her go back to sleep.
There were many others on the boat, heading for America. Ceileah wondered if they were any closer to land. She had heard the captain the day before, saying that they would arrive today. Ceileah rose to her feet sleepily and looked out the window. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened, seeing Boston Harbor not too far away. Excitedly, she bent down to wake her friends. “Annie! Annie, get up! We’re here!” Ceileah said, her thick Irish accent permeating every syllable. “Jacob! Wake up!”
Jacob sighed, blinking groggily as he straightened himself against the wall. He sleepily ran his fingers through his short hair, making it even more of a mess. He scratched his jaw and looked up at Ceileah, telling her that he was too tired to care. Annie woke, feeling her husband stretching, her eyes shifting around the room, still sleeping, trying to remember where she was and suddenly coming to life when the excited words had sunk in.
“Are you sure?” Annie asked. Jacob smiled at his wife's absent-mindedness and kissed her gently. Annie smiled and stretched.
“I can see the dock!” Ceileah exclaimed. “Look for yourself!”
Annie got up, stumbling wearily as she looked out the window, her hazel eyes being pierced by the sunlight. Ceileah went to her left, gently waking the frail woman still sleeping on the floor. “Mum,” Ceileah said softly, shaking the woman slightly. “Mum, get up! We’ve made it! We’re here!”
“Unnhhh?” the mother muttered, trying to straighten herself. Sarah Maher had the same green eyes as her daughter, but they were fading with age and physical strain, not to mention the sickness that had overwhelmed her recently. Her graying red hair curled around her thin face, coming out of the thin linen scarf she wore on her head. “Are we there already?”
“Yes, Mum, we’re here!” the daughter repeated. Ceileah got up and headed for the door that led up to the deck. “Captain!” she called out, seeing the older man looking out towards the Harbor. “Is this Boston?”
“Yes, young lady, it is,” he answered, turning to face her. “A bit excited?” he teased. Ceileah blushed as she walked to the port side of the ship and looked down the shoreline.
“When can we get off?” she asked.
“As soon as the boat is docked,” he told her.
Remembering something, Ceileah rushed down the stairs again. She nearly knocked over a thin woman as she ran to where she had been sleeping. “Sorry!” she called out behind her, bending down to make sure all her things were packed in her small travel bag. Annie and Jacob were packing their things as well, talking quietly between them. Sarah sat up and began to double-check her bag, making sure everything was ready to go. When everyone was set, the four immigrants got up and went to the deck.
Sarah took a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing her eyes and raising her face to the heavens. “Dias—go raibh maith agat,” she whispered, thanking God. Indeed He was to be thanked. After all, He was the one who had led them here after Sarah’s husband died, and the one who had given them protection while on the sea.
At long last, they had arrived.
The sun shone brightly through the small window, onto her pale face. She squinted, turning her head away from the bright light. Her green eyes surveyed the tiny area around her, searching for another place to sit—where the piercing rays would not blind her.
Ceileah Maher’s appearance bespoke of her heritage in every way. Her long, curling, auburn hair told of journeys taken through thick woods, with ivy and ferns covering the twisted roots of all kinds of trees. Her eyes reflected lush green pastures, sprinkled with dew on misty mornings. Her freckles seemed to just fall onto her nose and cheeks, like snow on rosy petals. Not in hindrance of her beauty, Ceileah wore simple clothes of hand sewn brown cotton. She wore a gray coat over her dress, and had dull brown leather shoes on her feet, with wool stockings underneath.
Ceileah looked to her right to see her friends still sleeping. Jacob and Annie O’Brian, her friends since childhood, had been married for just about five years now. They were a bit older than her; Jacob, twenty-three, and Annie, twenty-two. Ceileah was only nineteen, and looked up to her friends, hoping she might one day have a marriage like theirs. Smiling, she nudged Annie with her knee.
“Too early,” Annie groaned, rolling over to bury her head in her husband’s shoulder. Annie’s sandy blonde hair fell onto her light face, covering it almost completely. You could see her thin lips through her strands of hair, and her curved nose that ended in a slight upward slope. Her active childhood still played a part in her features. There were scars on her forearms that seemed to follow up to her neck: proof that girls were not too afraid to face danger. She had always been the roughest girl Ceileah had ever known. Ceileah remembered climbing rocks and trees with Annie, and swimming in the chilly river not far from their home.
Jacob’s features were strong but gentle, just as he was when Annie was near. He was slightly tan from working on his father’s cargo ship, and had short, brown hair that seemed to go whichever way it wanted to. His eyes were dark from lack of sleep, though when fully rested, his eyes would give his gentleness away. His nose, casting a shadow on his long face, curved downward. His lips were thin, and his jaw square with short brown hair that sprinkled his face. He was a handsome man, being well built from years of hard work.
Ceileah frowned, desiring for someone to talk to and looked around again, wishing that if she would not be allowed to chat with her friends, then the sun would simply leave her alone, and let her go back to sleep.
There were many others on the boat, heading for America. Ceileah wondered if they were any closer to land. She had heard the captain the day before, saying that they would arrive today. Ceileah rose to her feet sleepily and looked out the window. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened, seeing Boston Harbor not too far away. Excitedly, she bent down to wake her friends. “Annie! Annie, get up! We’re here!” Ceileah said, her thick Irish accent permeating every syllable. “Jacob! Wake up!”
Jacob sighed, blinking groggily as he straightened himself against the wall. He sleepily ran his fingers through his short hair, making it even more of a mess. He scratched his jaw and looked up at Ceileah, telling her that he was too tired to care. Annie woke, feeling her husband stretching, her eyes shifting around the room, still sleeping, trying to remember where she was and suddenly coming to life when the excited words had sunk in.
“Are you sure?” Annie asked. Jacob smiled at his wife's absent-mindedness and kissed her gently. Annie smiled and stretched.
“I can see the dock!” Ceileah exclaimed. “Look for yourself!”
Annie got up, stumbling wearily as she looked out the window, her hazel eyes being pierced by the sunlight. Ceileah went to her left, gently waking the frail woman still sleeping on the floor. “Mum,” Ceileah said softly, shaking the woman slightly. “Mum, get up! We’ve made it! We’re here!”
“Unnhhh?” the mother muttered, trying to straighten herself. Sarah Maher had the same green eyes as her daughter, but they were fading with age and physical strain, not to mention the sickness that had overwhelmed her recently. Her graying red hair curled around her thin face, coming out of the thin linen scarf she wore on her head. “Are we there already?”
“Yes, Mum, we’re here!” the daughter repeated. Ceileah got up and headed for the door that led up to the deck. “Captain!” she called out, seeing the older man looking out towards the Harbor. “Is this Boston?”
“Yes, young lady, it is,” he answered, turning to face her. “A bit excited?” he teased. Ceileah blushed as she walked to the port side of the ship and looked down the shoreline.
“When can we get off?” she asked.
“As soon as the boat is docked,” he told her.
Remembering something, Ceileah rushed down the stairs again. She nearly knocked over a thin woman as she ran to where she had been sleeping. “Sorry!” she called out behind her, bending down to make sure all her things were packed in her small travel bag. Annie and Jacob were packing their things as well, talking quietly between them. Sarah sat up and began to double-check her bag, making sure everything was ready to go. When everyone was set, the four immigrants got up and went to the deck.
Sarah took a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing her eyes and raising her face to the heavens. “Dias—go raibh maith agat,” she whispered, thanking God. Indeed He was to be thanked. After all, He was the one who had led them here after Sarah’s husband died, and the one who had given them protection while on the sea.
At long last, they had arrived.
First Blog
First it was email... then a Geocities site (yeah, remember those?), THEN my cousin made me a myspace. Now, a blog. I don't even blog on my myspace. But honestly, I'm here because my former drama director, now author, who made quite an impact on me in my youth, recently started a blog here. She asked that we (her readers) comment on her blog. I honestly wasn't sure how, so I just started clicking things, and when given the option to create an account, I thought, "Why not?" After all, I'm a writer, too, and it may come in handy one day. In the mean time, I might as well tell you some things about myself.
My name is Grace. I'm 22, I've been married for 3 years and we have a dog named Allie. I'm sure I'll talk about her a lot. Currently, we live with my cousin, Julie (also a co-author with me; aka my "twin"), her husband, her sister, and another roommate. I work at Calvary Christian Academy as a Teacher's Aide and Performing Arts Director. I am also a Mary Kay Skin Care Consultant, and I work at our church, Ethos, as the Pastor's Assistant/Written Media Editor. Obviously, I'm a busy person. but somehow I find time to write, read, watch The Office, and poke around online.
Oh, and if you're wondering about the name... bink/binkel was my nickname when I was a kid (ok, I admit it still is...), so this is the Binkel... Link.... get it? Yeah, it's cheesy. Oh well.
Ok, I think that's about it. Next blog: intro to one of the books I'm writing. I would appreciate feedback. If people don't like it, people won't read it, and they won't buy it, and I won't get paid, and I won't be able to make a living doing what I love. So feedback is important. Stay tuned.
My name is Grace. I'm 22, I've been married for 3 years and we have a dog named Allie. I'm sure I'll talk about her a lot. Currently, we live with my cousin, Julie (also a co-author with me; aka my "twin"), her husband, her sister, and another roommate. I work at Calvary Christian Academy as a Teacher's Aide and Performing Arts Director. I am also a Mary Kay Skin Care Consultant, and I work at our church, Ethos, as the Pastor's Assistant/Written Media Editor. Obviously, I'm a busy person. but somehow I find time to write, read, watch The Office, and poke around online.
Oh, and if you're wondering about the name... bink/binkel was my nickname when I was a kid (ok, I admit it still is...), so this is the Binkel... Link.... get it? Yeah, it's cheesy. Oh well.
Ok, I think that's about it. Next blog: intro to one of the books I'm writing. I would appreciate feedback. If people don't like it, people won't read it, and they won't buy it, and I won't get paid, and I won't be able to make a living doing what I love. So feedback is important. Stay tuned.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
