Identity Theft--it's not just about money anymore

Before I got the kids off to school this morning I received a phone call. My friend said, "Shawna, you need to check your Facebook page, NOW!"

As it turned out, my identity had been stolen on Facebook by some random, vile hacker. Since we are in the middle of a move between homes, I had no internet access available, so I had no idea of the degree of deviousness this person was perpetrating in my name.

Luckily, the people who know me got busy online and defended me. Thank You. You know who you are. In a very short period of time this person hacked into my Facebook page and sent malicious, profane, and hurtful messages to friends, family, and acquaintances, changed my profile (including maritial status and sexual preference), and posted a "story" about my husband and me which was not only badly written, but sick.

The hacker then got into my gmail account and sent a disgusting message to a friend of mine. Luckily, this friend is both intelligent and stocked with a good sense of humor, so that mess was cleared up easily. What I don't know is whether or not my email address list was taken, if publishers and other industry contacts were contacted in my name (which could affect the future of my career--no one wants to be blacklisted!) or if anyone else has been contacted maliciously and unaware of the hack. The hacker also found his/her way into my page on the Edgy Christian Fiction Lovers website and changed my profile and posted a comment which was not only derogatory toward Christianity, but offensive to the Christian publishing community.

Now it's up to me to clean up the mess. It's been a busy day.

I encourage you to change your passwords often, and not from public access computers/networks. Using the public library's computer was, apparently, the root of this evil. (Okay, not the original root, but we know who that is.) So far my bank accounts are without damage and I pray that remains the same. But money comes and goes--you only get one reputation, and all it takes is a few words in the wrong ear (or across the wrong screen, as the case may be) before your character is called into question and your testimony is damaged.

Thanks, again, to everyone who stood up for me on Facebook, Edgy Christian Fiction Lovers, and in my community. It's not over yet.

Duking it out--through Self-editing and Revision

I do not want to go backwards--on... on... please, let me move forward!!!! But, alas...

Time to go back.

Ugh. Just when I've got my momentum going steady on my new novel I get three professional critiques back on the last one and... looks like I have to do some rewriting. What wonderful critics, though! Their attagirls outweighed their suggestions, bless their hearts. And Heaven knows I needed an attagirl! But EXCELLENCE is the name of the game, boys and girls and, since I'm heading to a conference in September to try and sell the darn thing, I guess I'd best get on it. Sigh.

But I don't wanna. (insert whining tone here). Stick a fork in me, baby (as an old DJ friend of mine used to say) 'cuz I'm done.

Except that... I'm not. I know I've blogged before about rewrites; stated how much "I love this part." And I do... it's just the diving into it that I'm not all that flipped out about at the moment. I'm so involved in my new characters, my new story, that going back feels like some sort of dream-sequence/deja vu. On past projects I've always edited in a fluid "finished with draft 46 and now moving right into draft number 47 now" sort of way. Now I've got to open up that closed book (which, by the way, was at draft number 317 or there about before I even sent it off to be critiqued) and dive in brain first.

But I want it to be excellent. Really, I do. I'm studying the craft, getting better, asking the questions, and sending it out there FOR CRITICISM--and now it has come; so get after it, I will.

Subjects and characters in this about-to-be-overhauled novel, Suspended in Disbelief, push the envelope of what is acceptable in Christian fiction. And I want it to. I don't want to pander to the legalistic, plastic, and just plain ICK pollyanna stereotype of the post-salvation feminine believer in Christ. I wanna show the blood and guts of duking it out--and sometimes losing a battle--with temptation. And the consequences. I truly feel called to show that side of life. Cuz it's my side of life.

So now I'm going to get in there and make it BETTER for them-- for the other Christian women out there who need a fresh picture of what Mercy looks like after Grace has been received. I'm gonna make that first scene pull them in and grab them harder. I'm going to make my conflict stalk through the story like a lion--roaring, sneaking, pouncing, and roaring some more. I'm going to take scenes which were little more than vehicles and turn them into device-obliterating MAGIC. And when I'm done with that, I'm going to take an ending that might just be too "neat" and make it a little messier. The gloves are coming off, baby--so stand back!

So there is my rambling blog for the day. Now I'm going to go beat the tar out of my manuscript and see who survives the day.

Obsessive Compulsive Mood Music Disorder

My kids are so sick of George and Ira Gershwin. And they don't even know it.

With every bit of fiction I write some sort of music speaks to me and fuels my creative process. For The Ryn it was a combo of Etta James, Celtic new age, Chris Tomlin, and movie soundtracks. For Suspended in Disbelief it was Barlow Girl, specifically the acoustic version of "On My Own", and SuperChick. Now as I write a flashback-heavy saga coming-of-age heartbreak I'm listening to the 1993 Sheena Easton album of classics (several by one or both of the Gershwin boys) entitled No Strings.

The album chronicles the birth, life, and, ultimately, the death of a romantic relationship. Particularly, the poignant lyric and haunting arrangement of the French ballad, If You Go Away (Ne Me Quitte Pas) written by Jacques Brel and Rod McKuen rips at my heartstrings. I play the song over and over as I write certain scenes. The song has taken on the life of a Muse; its practically writing its own scenes, just within my more contemporary-ish setting and with my characters. Former pop-princess Easton croons like a 1930s chanteuse, emoting the grief, pleading, and acceptance of the lyric so perfectly. I only wish I spoke French to be able to translate the remaining portion of the lyric.

My Amazon cart also includes a compilation album or two I plan to draw from--songs from the 80s which were such a huge part of my own heartbreaks. And Daughtry--oh, Daughtry. Loss, fear, and hope wrapped up in a song.

I know a lot of other authors depend upon music to fuel their writing. Stephenie Meyer loves the band Muse, James Scott Bell writes to instrumental movie soundtracks. I don't know if other authors are as obsessive about particular songs as I am... but I also don't know if other people are generally as obsessive about ANYTHING as I, in my warped state of mind, am.

Did I mention that Sheena is crooning "How Deep is The Ocean" through my laptop speakers right now????? It is a sickness, I know.

But the sun is shining, my girls just got home from school... 45 minutes ago... so I'm going to go outside and enjoy this new turn in Iowa's bipolar weather.

But I'll probably take my MP3 player out with me. You never can tell what new scenes the Muse will sing to mind.

Dreams from Atop a Dry Waterfall

I love to travel--so much so that a part of me is always planning my next escape... or the escapes that are so far in the future that I can put no date upon them. I dream about that cruise through the Mediterranean, stopping at several Greek Isles, the two-week sojourn through Ireland, the learn-to-sail vacation in the Florida Keys. I want to swim in the phosphorescently glowing sea at night just off the coast of that little island (Viejes?) near Puerto Rico. I love to dream of travel... new places, new people, new beaches, new seas.

But I also dream of traveling to places I've visited before.

I took a trip on Easter Sunday. It was a short trip. I got there by foot... and by memory. I went to THE WATERFALL just up the road from my parents' farm.

I was first taken to The Waterfall by my Grandma Vi. My Grandma was an adventurer--oh, I wish I had coaxed more stories of her youth from her when I had the chance. The youthful escapades which embarrassed her in her dotage would likely have spawned many a 1930s coming-of-age novel. But I digress... allowable in a blog; not so much in a novel...

Grandma took me to The Waterfall when I was a preschooler and she lived in the big white farm house just down the road from the creek. Later she and Grandpa John retired to Texas, though she often took me back to The Waterfall in the summer to catch tadpoles in the creek.

I was almost fifteen when my family moved into the old house on the farm. Without a driver's license, and eight miles from town, my social life was a random hit-or-miss at the whim of my older (and quite generous) brother. When he and his Camaro were unavailable, I was often found walking through the woods or sitting on the ledge of The Waterfall (somewhat of a misnomer for the ledge--the creek rarely ran with enough force water to push the water beyond the deep pool several yards behind the cliff.)

On that regularly dry ledge I discovered a stage; my personal, private amphitheatre. The trees were my audience as I acted out scenes from musicals and sang the myriad ballads composed within my own imagination. I had no real desire to be an actress, though I loved performing--but had nursed high hopes of a career as a singer/songwriter since I'd been given my first Olivia Newton-John 8-track at the age of 3.--so any vocal performance on stage captured my imagination.

Though some might think it juvenile of a girl in her mid teens to make-believe, my drive to create--to perform-- was not necessarily sanctioned by my family. My dreams of a career in the entertainment business was thought of as child's play and nonsense. And so I sought the relative privacy of The Waterfall to be the person I thought I was--or should be--and to talk to God about my dreams. At The Waterfall I would sing to Him... and let down the implied pretenses of my honor-student existence and pretend I could achieve the spotlight I yearned to capture.

Poetry and song lyrics poured from my heart to the page much more reliably than water from that oft-dry cascade. I often had pen and paper with me upon that ledge. I wrote stories for fun--songs were my future... or so I thought.

Things got a little crazy midway through my freshman year. Half a year later my heart was broken for the first time--and The Waterfall carried many of my tears to God. At a time when speculation and untruth tore my heart and changed the course of my life I found solace and sanctuary at The Waterfall. It become my Cathedral.

It still seems a sacred place to me.

As I grew older I was accompanied to The Waterfall by my dog, Babe--aka: The Best Dog Who Ever Lived. A champion-blood-line German Shepherd, Babe was my confidante, friend, companion, and protector on those walks. Babe chased snakes from their rocky perches and warning me of GIANT wolf spiders before my phobic self could be surprised by The Waterfall's creepier creatures. She listened to me rave against the injustices of life and panted that tongue-lolling smile when I belted Amy Grant's "Thy Word" to the sky. When I cried on the ledge, she leaned into my side as if she could absorb some of my grief. Oh, I miss that dog. For anyone who has never had a furry soul mate, the thought of sharing your hopes and dreams with a dog might seem silly, but for those of you who have been blessed with such a friend, you can understand the subtle reticence and certain bittersweetness I have at the thought of returning to The Waterfall without her now.

Due to a random line of inspiration which came to me recently while reading my Bible one morning (I tend to take those random moments a bit more seriously than others) I began fictionalizing My Waterfall. The story is taking shape as a young adult romance novel; though experience tells me it may evolve to something else before its done. I guess you could say I'm a "method writer" to borrow a term from The Actor's Studio. To write this novel I'm pulling out old scrapbooks, listening to old music, opening old wounds, and examining old heartbreaks--but all the while I am reveling in the hindsight which reveals the loving, sovereign hand of my God upon my life.

But with all my methodology, something was missing. Something only a 25 minute drive away.

I wanted... no needed to go to My Waterfall--to climb down the slippery clay creek bank and dangle my legs over that sacred ledge.

The memories pulled at my desire like the full moon grabs the tide.

So I returned there on Easter Sunday--with my camera and my daughter. I needed to see, feel, smell, & hear again that place so that I can better express it--almost as its own character--within this novel-in-progress. Although the sentimental side of me wished for no other companion but a long-gone dog, another part of me longed to share this special place with my almost-12-year-old Delaney.

Like me, Delaney loves to sing, loves to write, loves to create. Over the past several months she has become enamored with the story and music of the Broadway musical Wicked, spending hours upon hours blocking scenes to go along with the soundtrack she listens to incessantly. Along with her long-held dream of becoming a small animal vet, Delaney has become suddenly enraptured with the idea of being in a Broadway Musical someday.

I don't care what path she chooses--but I fully intend to support her dreams regardless--which is something my teen years lacked. My close friends will tell you that I didn't NEED any more daring--that when I headed off to Nashville on my own at eighteen that it showed my inner drive outweighed my family's opposition to my chosen field... but they also know how I struggled once I arrived. But that is neither here nor there... and we were at The Waterfall., now... weren't we?

Showing Delaney my amphitheater, singing with her there, I was taken back in time. The ledge was dry--as it so often was when I danced upon it. Delaney, in her adolescent self-consciousness, seemed a bit embarrassed by my performance, but she helped me sing "Defying Gravity" from Wicked--correcting me when I got the words wrong. Before the song was over, however, she'd slung her arm around a tree and pulled herself up the bank... away from the crazy Elphaba-ish woman on top of the Waterfall. Honestly, I think she was afraid for a minute that I was going to try to fly off the ledge, even without a proper broom!

So my little trip took me a bit farther than I originally planned--in two directions. All at once I visited both the past--and a possible future.

Who knows what dreams Delaney will dream before she strikes out on her own. Doctor? Baker? Candlestick Maker? It matters not. Even though it thrills me to see little pieces of the girl I was appear in this amazing, unique child, I refuse to be one of those mothers who lives vicariously through her daughters. Why should I? God gave me my own dreams and then, like the creative potter he is, reshaped them beyond my limited view. And I'm LIVING THEM now.

But, unlike my own background--my own well-meaning family-- I refuse to compromise my child's self-confidence by telling her she needs to have "something to fall back on" in case she's not good enough to make it on the path of her dreams.

I learned something in Music City and I intend to share it with my daughters as I encourage them to take risks, to go for it--whatever "it" turns out to be:

If you have something to fall back on... you will fall.

And it hurts to fall. It hurts so much... regardless of the cushion you've set below your backside.

But I will also admit to them that, regardless of confidence or success or failure-- God is still in the business of painting fresh dreams; of sculpting old dreams into shapes that fit more snugly around your ever-evolving heart.

I'll go back soon... maybe with Delaney... maybe on my own. Because God is sculpting a new dream upon the pages of my imagination... a dream he laid the foundations for twenty-one years ago...

Atop a dry waterfall.

Howling at the Moon: And Other Conspiracy Theories

DSFD: Daylight Savings Fatigue Disorder

The switch to Daylight Savings Time has totally messed with my groove. Honestly.

Rather than retreating to the safe harbor of my writing cave this morning, or the endorphin-producing activities associated with a trip to the gym, I headed back to bed as soon as I got child #2 on the big yellow bus. When I awoke, only moderately refreshed, I headed out to my back yard with long, yellow rubber gloves and a plastic bag.

Yes, I spent my first wakeful hours scooping dog poo into the bag. Our vet says it is the best digging deterrent for our dog. So I picked up the poo and placed stinky, rain-mushed clumps of it amidst the trenches my sweet Aussie Shepherd/Lab mix has dug in our newly landscaped back yard on her eternal quest for the MOLE. Wow. What a run-on sentence.

She's a great mole-hunter, our Vivvi. Last year she unearthed and rid our yard of more than fifteen of the creepy little critters. But while Vivvi's tactics are both effective and enthusiastic, they are also somewhat, ahem, destructive. It was Vivvi's digging which necessitated the new landscaping, the expensive grass seed mix, and the hours of planning which resulted in last Autumn's verdant carpet in our back yard. But alas, the moles have returned. And Vivvi is determined to annihilate them.

And I am determined to save my yard. So onward my gloved hands!

And really, why not? Since Saturday night's dreaded clock switcharoo, my creative juices haven't start officially flowing until around noon, anyway. I figure may as well scoop poop as write it, eh?

Maybe it's the full moon. Maybe it's PMS. Maybe it's a conspiracy between governmental calendar dudes, the lunar cycle, and the Greater Council of Pituitary Hormones; a conspiracy of evil intent engineered specifically to freak me out.

Or not.

The good news is, while I'm not getting my writing groove on until afternoon, my reading groove is going steady. Dean Koontz's No Fear is excellent--I'm almost finished. Read it. I can't believe it took me so long to discover Mr. Koontz--so thanks to James Scott Bell for pointing me in a master storyteller's direction.

I'm also about half way through digesting Sailing Between the Stars by Steven James and about a third of the way into I'm Fine with God... It's Christians I Can't Stand by Bruce Bickel and Stan Jantz. Both nonfiction titles. Both funny and thought-provoking, even in my brain-mushed state of DSFD.

And my kitchen floor still needs a significant amount of scrubbing. And there are dirty dishes in the sink. And every bed in my house is yet unmade. Have I even showered today? Hmmm....

It must be a funk of the moon--although I'm still not convinced against the conspiracy theory idea.

How is it that just one lost hour on Sunday morning has turned me into an ADHD reader and a poo-scooping vigilante against moles and digging dogs alike?

It must be the full moon. It's tonight. But I'm too tired to howl. maybe I'll go take a nap.

Wait... I already did that.

Coffee time! And nothing goes better with a cup of coffee than a little bit of fiction. Maybe my coffee break will be just long enough to finish No Fear... if not, I may just have to stay up late enough tonight to howl at that blasted moon.

Reading Your Way to Fitness

Stick with me, I've been fighting with this post for an hour trying to get spaces between paragraphs. I'm losing AT LEAST HALFthe battle, however, so I think I'll just throw this baby up on the board and hope for the best. here goes...

I joined a gym in November. I've started drinking more water (one large glass for every cup of coffee. Believe me, the carpet on the stairs between my writing cave and my bathroom is wearing thin.) and lifting weights and downloading upbeat music onto my MP3 so I can get my groove on. But the greatest thing I've discovered at the gym is the recumbant, stationary bike.

Because I'm not going anywhere, I don't have to keep my eyes on the road. I'm sitting comfortably enough that I can hold a book in my hands and be exercising my body as well as my mind. Since I rediscovered this amazing piece of fitness machinery, (the last time I was on one was back in my days at Belmont University in Miss Betty's Lifetime Fitness class) I have looked forward to my workouts more than ever before.

Together, the unseen Dean Koontz and I have pedaled through Intensity. While I held my elbows up to keep the book from bouncing, James Scott Bell taught me some interesting writing techniques in Plot and Structure. Christa Parrish helped me forget about the burn in my thighs while I went Home Another Way (a CBA title with a snarly, realistically messed up protagonist! Go Christa!)' and later today I'm taking Dean with me again, but this time I'm starting No Fear. Truly, this is exercise a bookworm could get used to!

Yesterday I pedaled for 30 minutes and sweated 10 whole miles while reading a bit from Steven James's musings in his poetry-filled/anecdotal/thoughtful rant Sailing Between the Stars. This is a great book that I picked up from the (wince) bargain bin of my local Christian book store. (sorry, Steven.) One of my favorite lines (and there are many which I've highlighted in neon yellow) is:

"Imagination dwells at the heart of Christianity.

It's a worldview of wonder."

This of course hits my "YES! Preach it!" button like the strong man mallet at the county fair.

I love wonder. I love mystery. I love that God can't fit in a neat little box, no matter how many bullet points make it into tracts and sermons and books and talkshows and songs. I love that he's wild and uncontainable. As Steven James writes,

"Theology is our attempt to capture God in the butterfly net of our minds. But, of course, he's too wild for that....Christians all too often try to break him down into bite-sized pieces that fit neatly into one-page doctrinal statements and three-point sermons. We call it systematic theology, but the problem is, theology isn't systematic. It's narrative. God isn't a subject to be studied; he's a Person to be encountered. That's why the Bible is the story of God and not the lesson about God.... You can never experience the full flavor of a story by dissecting it; you experience it only by devouring it with the wide-open mouth of your soul."

Yummmmy.

So yesterday, when I heard of a friend whose experience in reading William P. Young's novel The Shack was subtly dimmed by a fellow Christian who has "serious theological issues" with the story, I just wanted to SCREAM, "Yo! It's fiction! Don't get your knickers in a bunch--just see what God has for you within the story and lift your face to see if you can sense his breath on the page! Save your theological criticism for nonfiction expository writing and just enjoy the freaking story already--what he has for you might open up a new picture of Himself in your heart!"

Okay, I'll admit it. Those are not the words I screamed in my internal monologue. But this is a family show.

As a writer I'm continually amazed at the amount of criticism lobbied against fiction, both secular and Christian. Some things I've heard recently:

"Don't read Twilight, because Vampires are demonic."

Um, last time I checked, vampires were, ahem, make-believe.

Or (run on sentence alert) the other critical comment about the Meyer series that makes me laugh with the ridiculousness of it's postulation by people who probably promote those bonnet-driven CBA titles with vomitously perfect Christian men as their romantic leads:

"Twilight gives young girls an unrealistically high expectation of male behavior."

He-llo-oh! I want my daughters to have an unrealistically high expectation of male behavior--I want them to date guys (when they're 25, of course) whose hearts are filled with romantic thoughtfulness! Puh-leeze! Since we've already established that vampires are fictional creatures, I have to say that if my daughter brought home a young man with the upstanding moral fiber of Edward Cullen I would most heartily give my blessing! Granted, Meyer's books aren't timeless classics or great literary wonders--but they've captured the hearts of a generation (and some of that generation's mothers!) with a sweet love story overlaid with strong moral themes defining the story's core (like the importance of family, waiting for sex until marriage, loyalty, friendship... the list goes on.)

But I digress. I was talking about criticism, wasn't I?

Or how about the old standby of the Mouthy Moral Police which is sure to come back into play this summer when Movie Number Six makes its way to the theatres: "Harry Potter is a wizard teaching children to be disrespectful occultists!" (um, right. Give me a break. Unless someone has made it through Platform 9-3/4 and hasn't told me yet, I believe Harry is, also, fiction.)

Sometimes I'm just so grossed out by religion-biased criticism... (notice I said 'religion' which, to me, is a life emboldened only by rules and regulations and fingerpointing rather than a relationship that interacts with both the Divine and the Culture in which they've been placed.) I wish religious critics would remember and value the beauty of mystery; the beauty of story. I wish they would remember that a mirror shows only one dimension of an object while the object itself is multidimensional.

Fiction Mirrors Truth.

So, as I finish my second cup of coffee today, I'm thinking of this afternoon's workout; wondering if No Fear will have the same can't-put-it-down intensity as, well, Koontz's Intensity. I'll have to let you know. Or if instead, I'll get so into my writing project that my visit to the gym will fade into the "oops, time's up!" category of my day.

So next time you go to the gym and get on some demon treadmill (long story--involves me going through a wall. I no longer use treadmills.) go ahead and check out the recumbant bikes. And while you're there, look in the mirror--not the muscle-boy flexing mirror, dear; the mirror of fiction. Breathe in, breathe out... and fog up the glass--then use your finger not to point, but to carve your intials on some piece of the story. Because Fiction Mirrors Truth.

"CLEAR!" kah-chuhnk!

That's my version of an E.R. doctor using a defibrillator. (Hang in there; you'll get it later. maybe.)

On Sunday the sermon touched briefly upon the meaning of "inspiration", referencing the literal application as "God breathed"--a sentiment I have always adored.

Using 2 Timothy 3:16-17, the concept was expanded upon.

"All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the man of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work."

What struck me later was that as Paul was writing these words, he wasn't thinking of them as "scripture." He was just writing a letter to his buddy, Tim. When Paul spoke of Holy Scripture, he was speaking of the Old Testament.

I've often wondered what Paul would have thought at the time if someone told him his letter to Timothy would end up being considered "Scripture." The same goes for all his other letters, and the writers of the Gospels. Would they be shocked? Maybe; maybe not. Maybe the Spirit compelling them to write was so profoundly clear in His intentions that they just knew.

Regardless of the writers' reactions to the present-day placement of their accounts and letters, these books are, indeed, books of Holy Scripture. They are books written--inspired-- by the Breath of God.

The beautiful thing about the New Testament is how it can be held up to the prophesies in the Old Testament and proven true. This is how it is Holy Scripture. And because of that proof, we can hold our own writing and reading up to the glass and test it for the breath of God.

But so often we forget that God is still breathing. God did not breathe out a revelation to the disciple that Jesus loved and then cease inspirating and expirating His heart into the hearts of His people. Our Omnipotent Lord, the Creative Force who originated this epic saga we call 'life' does not need CPR or a crash cart. God is still breathing.

As a writer, there have been priceless moments when my fingers fly over the keys and my imagination explodes with such ferocity that I know it is from another Source--because I don't have the ability to store that sort of passionate imagery within me. It's those moments that I see the fog of God's breath upon the page and I go back and reread what I barely remember imagining--and I weep--because He has revealed to me something new and fresh about Himself. He loves me so much!

Don't get me wrong here, I've no desire to blaspheme! I'm not at all saying that what I write is anything close to something which would be considered "Scripture" --heavens, no. Honestly, I write a lot of useless crap; my best editing efforts still carry an aftertaste labeled with the imperfect flavor and scent of words filtered through my weak human brain. Everything I write still has too much of me in it to ever be considered so TRUE. However, there are rare, golden moments when a single line, a scene, or a paragraph carries within it the pure, sweet overscent of Truth like a reflection in a pond on a windy day.

I smell this aroma upon the pages of so many of my favorite authors, many of whom claim no faith in Christ but who are being used of Him just the same. When it's great, fiction writing contains a clear picture of humanity's core need for a Hero; and without our admittance of that fundamental need, we are lost.

Although often in our stories we allow human or fantastic heroes to serve the purpose of that "little h" character of the hero, it's the "BIG H" Hero who breathes through the little hero's actions; it's the Big H Hero who shows Himself as a whisper following the wind. It's this perfect, sacrificial lamb; this flame-eyed, sword-mouthed, undefeatable Hero who saves the day, whether we acknowledge Him or not--when Fiction Mirrors Truth.