Fiction Mirrors Truth

Book Review: Rabbit: Chasing Beth Rider by Ellen Maze

2011-08-08T06:58:00.000-07:00

Although vampires have appeared (sparingly) in Christian fiction over the past year, author Ellen Maze, was one of the first brave souls to dip her quill in this blood-sucking sub-genre trend.

*Disclaimer: I received this novel for free, from the author, for the purpose of an honest review... a long time ago. Now I am finally getting to it, with my apologies for the delay. The good news? If you like it, there are two more books in this series now available.*

Here's the scoop:

(From the description at www.amazon.com)

Whoever thought writing a bestseller could be so dangerous?

Author Beth Rider's second vampire novel has hit number one and she is flying high on her new-found fame, but at a fated book signing that runs late into the night, Beth is confronted by an evil she'd only experienced in nightmares. Jack Dawn, a supernatural monster belonging to an ancient race of bloodthirsty immortals known as the Rakum, vows to track down and kill the young writer because of the vile redemptive message her book is bringing his people. The Rakum have spread evil among mankind since the Beginning, growing in strength and influence with every passing century.

Jack's proselyte Michael Stone was brought up from his youth to be strong, sensible and oftentimes, brutal. But when he stumbles upon the beautiful and apparently innocent Beth Rider, he is instantly smitten, despite the fact that a few seconds later he realizes that she is the target of his Elder's fury. Puzzled by Jack's unreasonable condemnation, Michael takes it upon himself to protect the lovely author from the limitless lust of his brethren.

Facing the most terrifying trial of her life against creatures known only in fables, one simple woman will unintentionally threaten the very existence of a powerful and accursed people. In the climactic mêlée, it is a race to the death, or if Beth has her way, a race to the life-of every Rakum who makes the choice.

I enjoyed reading this book. I really liked the fresh, original take on the vampire fiction trend. This is not a romance about glittering hot guys who happen to be bloodsuckers; this novel follows a group of cursed men and women "living" without hope; surviving and thriving only by the further negation of their humanity; entertaining themselves through the countless years by inventing heinous games against mortal humans.

Ms. Maze has drawn very visible characters, each physical description clear enough to seem almost photogenic. She does a credible job of ratcheting the tension, (specifically Michael Stone's as he becomes more and more dissatisfied with his eternal existence) and her world-building skills -- all within the world we know -- are well played.

But.

Here's what bothered me: I was expecting Beth Rider to be the protagonist. I really was. But she, in my opinion, was not the main event. This was Michael Stone's story more than Beth's. His character was clearly defined, clearly conflicted, and, even as a vampire, more easily identified with than squeaky-clean, faith-like-a-rock human (?) Beth Rider. I liked Michael. I believed in him and his struggle. And I wanted him to win.

Conversely, I didn't believe in Beth. And, actually, I had a hard time liking her at all. I'm all for strong women of faith, but Beth's acceptance of fiction being fact, of death chasing her, of having withstood torture that would, in all likelihood repeat itself was, (and this is my opinion only -- this book has gotten some RAVE reviews!), not believably portrayed. She was a little too (to borrow Joyce Meyer's words) "Sister Super Christian" for me to even... gulp... take her seriously.

But I liked Michael Stone. And I even "liked" (should I say appreciated?) many of the bad guys who suffered from doubt, power, and a whole bevy of misinformation.

I enjoyed the book and thought it was a fun reprise from the direction most Vampire Fiction was headed (although the trend seems to be playing out, somewhat, now.) With some unexpected twists, turns, betrayals, and allies, Rabbit: Chasing Beth Rider is a worthwhile read.

But.

I'd like to give this novel 4 stars for its author's originality of conception and attention to detail, but I think I have to knock one off due to my Beth issues. So, I'll cringe at the possible backlash from the many readers who found this book five-star worthy (and they were many!) and give 3 Stars to Rabbit: Chasing Beth Rider by Ellen Maze

Keeping Promises

2011-07-30T18:07:00.000-07:00

It's pretty sad when you haven't posted at a particular blog in so long that you almost can't remember how to log in. Good thing Blogger is fairly friendly to the not-tech-savvy among its bloggers. Still, I had a little moment of near panic staring at the beautiful (if I do say so myself) page of this blog and thinking, "So how is it, again, that I get in here?" but -dah-da-dah-dum! I got in.

I guess you could say I'm awesome that way.

Or not.

Regardless of your opinion concerning my awesomeness, I'm BACK after what turned out to be another prolonged absence while I worked building name recognition for that "other" person who shares my face. But why? you ask? Why come back to this beautiful but sadly neglected blog? Surely all your regular readers jumped ship a long time ago!

Um, well, true.

So I guess the only answer I can give you is: I missed myself.

I've been working so hard to build the platform of my alter ego (that's way more super-hero sounding than pseudonym, don't you think?) that I've lost a bit of touch with me, S. R. Van Ness, the gal behind the tricky initials.

So here's what I'm up to.

I'm planning a come back, sort of like Debbie Gibson and Tiffany, but without the catchy pop tunes and the Broadway/Playboy stops in between tours. (huge sigh of relief)

Sure, I've stepped away from my name for a while, worked on building name recognition with another name in another genre, but while "she" (is it creepy to talk about my alter ego in the third person??) is doing her thing over there, I'm going to keep laying lines here. From time to time I'll drop by and practice setting the sails, preparing for that blessed day when I can carve my name on the mast of the WIP ship, hoist anchor, and catch that fantastical wind that drives the deepest heart of my writing life.

(By the way: my alter ego doesn't write fantasy. She writes romance.--- Oh, stop it. Not that kind of romance, silly. There's no Fabio, no Old Spice Guy -- there are real stories to be told in contemporary romance and I've -- er, she's -- got a few to tell. But she's leaving the fantasy to me. Which is awesome.)

I wrote 6000 words in my YA fantasy WIP this week, and that made me happy. Plus, my other self read and reviewed 2-1/2 books. Which brings me to a very uncomfortable subject.

One. Particular. Book. Review.

Well over a year ago I agreed to read a book for review. The author sent me the book, she even inscribed it to me and... I still haven't published my review. The reason? I was a novice at reviewing books and wasn't sure how to write about the things that bothered me about the book without sounding negative to this generous and talented author. And I didn't want to hurt her feelings.

However.

In the interim, while developing the platform for my pseudonym, I've become an avid reader of others' book review blogs and I've read and reviewed dozens of YA and romance books under my "other name." Of course, not all these books perfect and some (like one I'm reading now) were downright wastes of time. I've had to develop skills in diplomatic, but critical review. And I have. But always, niggling in the back of my mind, is the unfulfilled promise to review this one book.

This book has taunted me, really. It's whispered "You're a liar! You're a procrastinator! You're a poser!" in the night. (And a lot of the characters are vampires. That's not creepy.)

Okay, it doesn't really taunt me. Not audibly, anyway. But it probably should. Because I said I would review it, and I didn't.

Yet.

But the time has come. I feel I have a better frame of reference for discerning a writer's vision and qualifying the story against the writer's aptitude in his or her chosen genre than I did a year and a half ago. Therefore, one of my goals for this coming week, is to FINALLY publish the promised review for the first (but surprisingly not the last) Inspirational Vampire Novel (yes, you read that correctly) that I've had the curiosity and opportunity to read.

I hope I follow through. I hope you'll hold me accountable. And I hope I do a lot more with this bee-ooo-tiful (if I do say so myself) blog in the coming months. But---.

But I'm not promising anything, because honestly: after reading this post, would you take a promise from me seriously?

Exactly.

Now go read a book or something.

Have you missed me????

2011-05-29T16:52:00.000-07:00

So I've been away for a while.

Working on a different platform, under a different name.

So there it is.

I haven't even checked in at this blog in like, forever.

Sorry. I feel kind of guilty when I scroll down to the Cluster Maps icon and see that someone out in the middle of the ocean actually looked at my blog and... it was all old news.

Thanks for stopping by.

So I've been busy writing. I finished another novel, I'm shopping for a new agent with said novel, and, in the process, have discovered that my current project (hereafter referred to as my WIP, which is short for "work in progress") is a depressing fraction of usability. In other words, of my approximately 52000 words written on this project so far, I'm going back to do a rewrite which will probably use less than 20,000 of those hard-won words.

But it's just not working.

The problem is, I really love these characters. I love them so much that I'm considering, for the first time, giving up my "fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants" organic writing style in favor of an outline. I'm reading books, watching DVDs, perusing the net on all kinds of outlining/plot planning methods. I've looked at THE SNOWFLAKE, BLOCKBUSTER PLOTS, and all kinds of other stuff. And... the artsy-fartsy part of my brain (the one that rules me, mostly) is saying, "No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-NO!" But the "need to finish this book and have a sellable product" part of my brain (it's a very teensy, microscopic part) is saying, "Make the stupid outline, genius!" (You see, even the miniscule pragmatist within me is sarcastic. It stings. Really.)

So... I think I'll have to come up with my own plot planning way. Find the method that works for me. I don't do Excel Spreadsheets (although I am taking a class this summer... long story) and I can't write within the constraints of a chart. So I think I'll outline in freeflowing, paragraphical style. Like a 7th grader's book report, with a lot of crappy transitions like, "and then she..." And maybe, just maybe, within those twenty thousand words, a new spark will light, a new fire will burn, and a new phoenix-of-a-story will soar into being.

We can only hope.

Now I'm off to write a book, but you better go read one. Need a suggestion? Lisa T. Bergren's River of Time series is entertaining, funny, and well, awesome. And I'm reading Tammar Stein's KINDRED right now and it is hugely interesting look at angels and demons and powers and principalities... through the eyes of a Jewish teen. So... what's keeping you here on the internet when you could be off reading a good book?

Oh, right. You missed me.

But, seriously, thanks for stopping by.

Now go read a book or something.

YA Lit Labels. Anyone else confused????

2011-01-29T20:42:00.000-08:00

Can someone please define a quantifiable difference between "YA" and "Teen" Literature???? -- For a writer (like, ahem, yours truly) to write a book for older teens (15+) through college age and then try to market it as "YA" seems weird.

The YA demographic seems way too wide, in my opinion. 11 year olds and 19 year olds do NOT (and sometimes should not) read the same books!!!!

Would love to hear comments. Thanks.

"...stories help us to start believing the things we already know. " -Steven James

2011-01-19T12:11:00.001-08:00

Steven James is one of my very favorite nonfiction writers. Don't get me wrong -- he writes engaging, sometimes frighteningly good fiction, too; but it's his nonfiction titles like, Sailing Between the Stars and Story that have really touched my heart and mind. These books inspire me to not only take my writing up a notch, but to take my LIFE up a notch. To live more poetically, you might say.

Steven has a great post up on his blog, Musings and Meanderings about story power... a quote from it rests above. Please go read Steven's post and, if you're not already a fan or follower of his, I encourage you to become so.

Because fiction mirrors truth.

And story matters.

Fiction Matters!!!!

2011-01-12T10:20:00.000-08:00

Following a link from one of my favorite author's tweets, I ended up being inspired. So a big thank you goes out to the incomparable Tosca Lee (Havah, the Story of Eve, Demon: a memoir, etc.) for setting me up to get back to work on my editing.

Author Brad Meltzer has a terrific post up about why fiction matters. What a lovely call to action after all the time I've wasted this morning NOT writing. I have a story that must be attended to, so that is all for today. Go read Brad's post and then....

...go read a book or something. And make sure it's fiction, of course. Because Fiction Mirrors Truth.

Que Sera, Sera

2010-12-28T19:02:00.000-08:00

Okay, I don't know if I spelled that title correctly, but let's just go with it.

I'm not quite midway through the latest draft (they're overlapping now. Let's call it #47) of my coming-of-age romance -- yes, romance -- for young adults. And it has changed so much from my original version -- or should I say vision -- for this book that I almost don't recognize it sometimes. It used to be pretty dark, filled with angst and flashbacks and depression. Now it's moving forward, developing minor character arcs, finding a bit of humor, and allowing the romance to blossom at a more believable pace. Yet with all these improvements I'm wondering if I'm losing something. Or gaining something. Or selling out. Or buying in. Or getting better. Or making it worse. Or... losing some sort of grip on reality.

I have to keep in mind who my audience is. Young adults. Teens. And, since I live with one, this should be easy. And as I write this, I realize that, as a mom, sometimes I feel the same way about my daughter growing up before my eyes as I do about this novel. It's a painful growing process--sometimes for both of us (although I think more for me. But I'm biased.) I'm pretty sure the ABBA song, "Slipping Through My Fingers" (for a more recent version, pull out your Mamma Mia! soundtrack. Oh, admit it already. You own it!) is a daily refrain in my subconscious. Time is passing so quickly! Am I losing her? Or gaining new depth to our relationship? Am I selling out or buying in? Am I doing right by her? How often will the words "MY MOTHER" be spoken within the context of therapy when she's in her thirties???? Am I becoming a better mom, or just turning into a fuddy duddy who disses her music choices? (I'm sorry, but the Biebs sounds like a girl. He does.) Oh, dear. I am turning into one of those moms. I wanted to be the cool mom! Am I helping her establish a firm foothold for when she goes out into the world on her own, all too soon? Am I losing my grip on reality, or just my grip on my kid?

I've always said that fiction, well, good fiction, mirrors truth. But I'm learning that the process of creating -- or birthing, rather -- that product has much in common with child-rearing.

My daughter and I, and my manuscript and I, are both navigating the uncharted realms of adolescence. Their voices will change. Their form might too, and though I hate to admit it, I am sometimes little more than a spectator to this blossoming process.

But I was also the one who changed the diapers, walked around smelling like baby-urp, and cheered their first steps into the world. Even in this new phase of development, for my daughter and my book, there are still messes to clean up. Sometimes all it takes is a phrase, spoken at the right time. Sometimes more drastic measures are called for. And sometimes I'm the one who needs a time-out to get a grip on reality and to loosen my hold on my babies so they can earn their own wings.

It's a learning process. It's moving toward abundance for one, excellence for the other. It's gaining. Yes, it's gaining.

But it's a gain that rips out a mommy's heart sometimes.

"Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning. Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile..."

lyric quoted from "Slipping Through My Fingers" by Andersson/Ulvaeus

A Voyage to the Ugly Heart of Me -- and back.

2010-12-12T11:11:00.000-08:00

I haven't seen the newly released film version of C.S. Lewis's The Voyage of the Dawn Treader yet.

GASP!

I know, right?

The truth is, I'm scared of it. This is my favorite book in the series. What if they mess it up? What if they downplay the reality of THE LION's role in Eustace's transformation? What if they skip an island or two? What if I can't smell the lilies??????????

*****TANGENT ALERT*****

Oooh. I just had a random thought: I hope Disney does a Dawn Treader ride at DisneyWorld. That would be soooo awesome. Like the Pirates of the Carribbean ride except with dragons and a LION and children as heroes and the scent of lilies at the end and the mist in your face all along. Oooh. I really hope they do that.

Anyone who's been to Disney World will tell you how utterly transported you are to other worlds via the Imagineers. They use sight, scent, sound, mist, light, film, motion, and, I think, a few generous pinches of pixie dust to make multiple worlds come alive in one magical kingdom.

And to think: The Wizarding World of Harry Potter is right down the road at Universal Studios Orlando. It would be a little like studying Shakespeare at Stratford-upon-Avon, except much less stuffy and with better weather. It would be so awesome: the mirror-world realization of two of the 20th Century's literary greats (Okay, Rowling crossed the millenium with her series) only a couple of miles from each other. Wouldn't that be the theme-park trip extravaganza of all time???? One day you're in Narnia via Disney, the next day you head over to Hogwarts via Universal.

awwwwwwwesome.

So, Disney Imagineers, please, please, please get on this.

****END TANGENT****

But back to my original thought -- I haven't seen the movie yet. I only hope that next weekend (when the wind chill factor is in a more human-friendly zone and my emotions are stabilized enough to handle the fear of epic disappointment) that I am awed by the cinematic interpretation of one of my favorite books of all time -- my favorite of all The Chronicles of Narnia. When I read/see Eustace Clarence Scrubb in the ways C.S. Lewis created him, I see myself, my own dragon scales getting ripped off by the claws of the LION who loves me enough to bathe me with his rough pink tongue and make me clean.

Some of you may know that I have dabbled in the world of songwriting. In fact the music business was my chosen career path when I moved to Nashville and entered Belmont University's Music Business program in 1991. Moving to Iowa put a bit of a kabosh on my career plans, but I couldn't stop writing lyrics. This musical penchant has helped me as a writer, to feel the rhythm of prose, the musicality of story, as I try to create that which moves the emotion of a reader.

Some of you also know (because I have blogged about it before) that for most of my reading life I have tried to read through the complete Chronicles of Narnia every 2 years or so, to see how much bigger the Lion seems based on my own growth (see my old post Countdown to Prince Caspian, or another one: Lions & Chiggers & Dragons, oh my!) After one such re-entry into Narnia (in 2006) I penned the following lyric, entitled "Eustace's Daughter", based loosely on another lyric I had created in college many years before, again, after reading The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I still hope to someday put it to music -- but the right melody hasn't revealed itself yet; the lyric itself needs revision. But due to the release of the film it seemed appropriate to share the lyric here, even in its imperfect state. And, who knows, maybe some other music-writing Narnia-lover will be interested in contacting me (leave a comment in the comments form) about the possibility of co-writing a melody for this song someday. In any case, here it is, unedited & unrefined, like me. Because, unfortunately, I still must seek the rough pink tongue of a LION regularly.

--my apologies for the weird formatting -- I've been fighting with it to make it more uniform, but it isn't translating from the "new post" page to this page accurately. Go with it. ----

“Eustace’s Daughter”

words by Shawna R. Van Ness

Thick scales

a dragon’s tail

the heaviness in my soul

is like a man drowning in gold

Scalding tears

breathing fear

Your presence shocks the fire from my eyes

I know just who You are to my surprise

Layer by layer by layer you bid me

My own strength is spent but yet you still bid me

Sir, your vicious mercy scores my skin

Dig deep enough to gut the soul within

Wound to heal me with that golden claw

Wash me with the tender sting of love

Treasure cave, a dooming grave

the shame caused by my greed

hangs like mist below the trees

My golden lair, His burning stare

Your beauty puts the brightest gem to shame

You see me as I am and douse my flame

Layer by layer by layer you bid me

My own strength is spent but yet you still bid me

Sir, your vicious mercy scores my skin

Dig deep enough to gut the soul within

Wound to heal me with that golden claw

Wash me with the tender sting of love

Naked and raw in the water

I step in like Eustace’s daughter

and I scream -- oh, the sting....

Layer by layer by layer you bid me

My own strength is spent but yet you still bid me

Sir, your vicious mercy scores my skin

Dig deep enough to gut the soul within

Wound to heal me with that golden claw

Wash me with the tender sting of love

The water turns sweet on my skin

You've washed away all of my sin

In your view

I am new….

fiction mirrors truth.

Book review: ROOMS by James L. Rubart

2010-12-07T11:43:00.000-08:00

I just finished reading through someone's soul.

Rooms, a novel by James L. Rubart, begins with protagonist Micah Taylor inheriting a 9000 square foot home in Cannon Beach, Oregon from a mysterious (and unknown) great-uncle. This teaser alone was enough for me to want to read the book. The Oregon Coast is on my short list of hopeful vacation destinations and, honestly who hasn't fantasized about living in house on the beach -- or receiving a rockin' inheritance from some old dude you never met but had the good fortune of being the depository of his wealth?

Premise interesting --sold!-- and the hook-you quote on the cover promises some Lewis-like God-stuff? Cool.

So I dove in.

A software mogul in Seattle, Micah Taylor is happy with his surface relationships, bulging bank accounts, and the savvy girlfriend he's not-quite-ready to commit to. He has achieved fame, fortune, and, he thinks, purpose. Micah's journey to (and through) his newly inherited mansion on the beach, however, forces his perspective to shift.

The more time he spends in this mysteriously changing house, the more swiftly he morphs between ever-shifting alternate realities. The house itself changes almost daily. The better Micah comes to understand his house, the less he understands the domino-effect-like happenings within his software company and life in Seattle. He begins to question his sanity.

A wise new friend and a Godly new love inject truth and hope into Micah's coming-of-age-at-thirty-ish tale. An enemy of new acquaintance also informs his new life. Each choice Micah makes sends ripples of change through the universe, some good, some bad, and each often masquerading as the other. His perspective on these changes is poisoned and/or refreshed by other characters' input into his life. That is what makes this story believable -- because we've all been in Micah's shoes: getting advice that seems good and true, only to realize later that the action taken was the exact opposite of what we should have done. This universal experience, albeit shown in a supernaturally-charged setting, allows the reader to suspend her disbelief and enjoy the show.

What was missing for me? Not a lot, although I felt there were a couple of loose ends. One relational forgiveness issue (remember, I try very hard not to put spoilers in my reviews!) seemed to right itself a little too neatly -- it upset the tempo of the story a bit for me -- and a great loss in a younger Micah's life was not dealt with as well as I thought it could have (there seemed a lack of closure there for me, though Micah seemed okay with it.) There were a couple of head-hopping chapters centered on other character's points of view that I felt were not consistent enough throughout the work to really add to the overall flow of the book. The book was a little heavy on the exposition, a little light on the snappy conversation. But a tisket, a taskit, even though Micah thinks he should weave a basket. (that's a lame joke about Micah's propensity to wonder about his sanity throughout the book. Go with me. Laugh. Go ahead. It's okay to laugh at lame jokes to make someone feel better.)

Rooms is a good read. I would give it nearly 4 stars (out of 5). I didn't laugh much (at all? --but it's not really that kind of book.), but I did cry a couple of times due to touching, heart-rending scenes, or a line or two of explosive Truth that really captured my heart.

The cover of this novel features Robert Liparulo's recommendation of this "extraordinary read", calling Rubart's Rooms "part The Screwtape Letters and part The Shack." I can see touches of both works in it-- Liparulo's is a valid observation. The publisher's choice of putting that quote on the cover, however, was, for me at least, a bit of a "spoiler." DRAT THOSE MARKETING PEOPLE!!! The quote and its comparison to Lewis & Young's supernatural tales made it too easy for the reader (me) to correctly identify the inhabitant of one particular "room" of Micah's beach house (aka: Micah's soul) and, because of that (I think) it seemed like it took an extraordinarily long time for Micah to pull his head out of his bahoinky and figure it out for himself.

Without a doubt, James L. Rubart's Rooms is a mind-bending, imagination inflaming, and soul-searing read; a worthy novel which will challenge you to examine your own heart, your own choices, and your own reality. So follow Micah Taylor to Cannon Beach and maybe, in one of the tide pools near Haystack Rock, you could see your own reflection in his tale.

Because Fiction Mirrors Truth.

Brevity is the soul of... excruciating amputation and necessary lipo

2010-12-03T12:39:00.000-08:00

I've read that "brevity is the soul of wit" (William Shakespeare, Hamlet, spoken by Polonius -- read it.) and, apparently it is also the core of good writing. Jane Friedman over at Writer Unboxed has a great post up on the subject.

This is another bloody lesson I am learning through the painfully slow processing of writing the third draft (or second-and three quarters?) of my first coming-of-age novel for Young Adults.

I have a tendency to get caught up in a beautiful turn of phrase and then... bludgeon it to death by going overboard on the inclusion of sensory information. Sigh. So this is why God made editors. (a heartfelt thank you to mine, who is making me better!)

When I get these edits back, with entire paragraphs suffering from the editor's RED LINES OF DOOM, it feels like my precious pages have been sprayed by an arterial bleed because, after all, a leg or arm has just been severed. But although amputation can be both tragic and life-altering, it can also be life-saving. But still. It feel harsh at the time. So, choosing to think of this surgery as a positive action, I am choosing to call it something prettier. I'm calling it liposuction. Cuz it's cutting the fat.

Now if only I could apply those same principles to my waistline....

Write. Pray. Love. (or at least try.) Sigh.

2010-11-02T07:30:00.000-07:00

I've read a lot of fantasy fiction that plays up the idea of the power of a person's real name. "If they discover your true name," the hero is warned --usually by some old dude in a robe, "they can hold power over you."

I always liked the concept. The idea that somewhere within me is a name that, perhaps, I don't even know but a name which truly defines my character, my heart of hearts. (Think Christopher Paolini's Inheritance Cycle, especially the book Brisingr.) I believe there is some Biblical basis for this concept (something about God having a personal name for you, I think), but I couldn't tell you what it is. (feel free to leave references if you know them....) It's a cool thought, that my "true name" -- your true name -- is out there waiting for us to take ownership of it -- but in the meantime we are stuck with whatever moniker our parents gave us or we were lucky enough (in my case!) to marry into.

On the subject of names, however, I'm struggling today with living up to another Biblical thought: "Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you." (Matthew 5:44) You see, a little over a year ago, I was the victim of a major (but anonymous) hack on two social networking sites (one big, one little). The hack went viral thanks to a copy/paste function used in a discussion forum for graphic novel fans, the website of a famous graphic novelist, and some pretty sick puppies who thought ruining someone's name (and attaching her photo to it) was a really sweet time. It wasn't sweet for me. And 15 months later, though I'm sure their momentary entertainment is all but forgotten, the resulting defamation of my name is far from over for me, thanks to the beauty of the Search Engine which has become a Proper Verb.

(for those of you out of the loop: a graphic novel is a novel with art and onomatopoeic inserts. A little like a comic book.)

So I went to a movie over the weekend with my husband, a movie I'd been really looking forward to seeing. But in the opening credits, unfortunately, I recognized a name and my blood ran cold. Seeing that name completely ruined the movie for me. "Based on the graphic novels of---" insert name of the above mentioned author. (Notice I'm not mentioning any names. On purpose.)

I paid to see that movie. I paid him. The one who gathered the crowd to watch the murder of my name.

Disgust washed over me as surely as if I'd just placed the coin into the bony hand at the river Styx. It made me absolutely sick. I had just put money into the pocket of one of the key players of a victimization that, for me as a writer, just will not go away. (No, I don't believe this author to be the author of the hack, just the main carrier of it to the international audience of sickos.)

Now, thanks to this guy, who toured the world in support of the movie, (and the sales of his graphic novels, no doubt) and whose fame is sure to grow, I'm forced to kiss my name goodbye. But, I have to remind myself, as Papa Eric used to say when someone wronged him, "It won't do him any good."

But still. As I'm readying a YA novel for hopeful publication I, who was lucky enough to marry into an AWESOME last name (thanks, honey!) I am forced to ditch it and use a pen name. My name (not the S.R. -- my actual first and last names) is not an option. And let me tell you why:

As a parent (or publisher), if I Googled the author name on the book my daughter was reading (or wanted to read) and read that said author used PCP, engaged in satanic rituals, and had no problem with patricide, I would say: "No freaking way are you reading that book!" even if the title, cover art, and blurb looked completely harmless. If necessary, I would repeat myself (sometimes teens just don't hear you the first time) and said book would end up in le can. Oh, sure, perhaps it might slip my attention that said author was the victim of a vicious internet attack. It might not matter to me that everything that appeared in the #4 spot of my Google search (and beyond) was a vile work of fiction. The fact is, the person portrayed in that #4 link is getting no where NEAR my kid.

But it's me. Well, my name and picture, anyway.

My name, my photographed image, has been defamed worldwide. Defamed. That sounds so... nice. So neatsy. So much more clinical that what it is. I have been violated. Violated. Swish that one around in your mouth and swallow it.

I hate being a victim with no recourse. I've had a guy in a ski-masked point a loaded gun at me. (Prison term, CHECK!) I've had a former boyfriend stalk my apartment and threaten me. (Stopped.) But this victimization beats them all. Because this is my name. My career.

My life.

Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.

What seemed easy on Sunday when the shaking stopped, is a little bit harder today.

Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you. Try to pick out a great pen name for YA readership and....

And -- and as much as I love watching that particular action hero-- I hope there's no sequel in the works. if there is, well... my dollars will stay in my pocket.

Maybe the next YA book will feature a cyber crime. Who knows? Fiction so often drips from the pen as a mirror of truth.

And sometimes there's a jagged edge tinged in red.

A Great Writer -- I think.

2010-10-26T11:17:00.000-07:00

I put down a really good book this weekend because it made me sick.

Justin Cronin's The Passage. Like Dean Koontz, Cronin combines drama, science, government conspiracy theory, and fantasy with an evocative sense of character and place. His prose makes me, as a writer, drool. But... I put it down.

Several great authors --( and I don't use that term lightly. Cronin has skills. He's going to be huge.) -- have used their considerable gifts for creating believable characters and inserted me, the reader, into the mindsets of these characters with dexterous ease and a blinding sense of being there. So much so, that I want to scream: "Stop it!"

Because, truly, I don't want to see into the mind of a sexual deviant. I don't. Koontz has done it to me, King, among others, and now, Cronin. The writing is good. The story engaging and creative and deep. But I just don't want to go there. I don't want to wonder "just how did you dream up this scene? How did you do your research? How much of this character, dear author, is within you?"

URGH! I'm ashamed to admit it, but I must. I've wondered. I know it's not fair. It's just how it is. I'm sure Monsiurs Cronin, King, and Koontz (among others) are truly lovely men who walk their dogs and help old ladies across the street, and teach orphans in Uganda how to knit or something. But while I'm reading that deeply-entrenched-in-a-sicko-freak's-brain scene, I wonder, "But what if....?" Like I said. It's not fair to the author. And it makes me mad that I think that.

But I'm a mom, dangit. And every time I'm reminded that there ARE these sicko freaks out there in the world, it makes the mama-bear within me roar.

But I'm also writer, so I'm torn. I don't want to question the wonder of imagination -- of sheer writing talent -- just because a character makes me say "ew" and shiver, and check the back seat before I lock my car doors. And warn my daughters about staying 2o feet away from vans and to never, ever, help anyone look for their puppy. Because there is evil in the world. Evil. And they are innocent and I want to protect them!

I want to see good conquer evil and truth stomp injustice and.... Sigh. In the end, I guess I just want a fairytale. Where the villain is the villain. And the hero is the hero. Maybe my problem with reading such true-to-life sicko characters is that I don't want to find anything redeeming in someone whose behavior is so vile, but because these authors are so freaking good at what they do, I find a tiny part of myself feeling sympathy for Mr. Sicko. And that makes me uncomfortable.

It's an interesting commentary on the state of my own soul, isn't it? As a Believer in Christ, what do I really believe about the possibility of redemption for all people? About definitive sin as being without weight or measure, but equal under the shadow of the Cross? Hmm.... Is it a comment on the hypocrisy of my grace-based faith, or is it maybe that I'm just grossed out by some stuff? Stuff that should gross me out because it is the very definition of "sick and wrong."

I can't not recommend Justin Cronin's book. But I'll do so with the fair warning that "thar be some icky within." From what I've read, Cronin is a true artist. A creative wordsmith of the first order.

But I don't think I can finish that novel any time soon.

Am I missing out? Maybe. I'd love to see how the story is fleshed out... but I just don't want to see into the mind of a convicted sex offender, even if he is a minor character. And that is my choice. To take the book back to the library, unfinished.

Fiction is born of imagination, but fiction mirrors truth, as we say here. And sometimes it's just a little bit too real -- a little too clearly portrayed. And it creeps me out.

I hope the next novel from Justin Cronin doesn't go "there" into the mind and, lets face it, sympathy, of a sexual deviant. I'd love to see more from him -- and maybe, someday, in a different mindset, I'll pick up The Passage again, and skim over those portions I now find so creeptacularly icky.

Time will tell.

A Little Sabbath, and a Little Sin

2010-10-21T13:24:00.000-07:00

Is it a sin to pretend you're not home when the Schwan's man comes by? I guess it probably goes under "lying", eh? Darn it.

Seriously. I forgot it was his week to stop. And I hadn't even brushed my teeth yet. The past week's writing activities sapped my strength. I was literally unable to perform basic hygiene prior to 11am today. Okay, maybe not literally, but.... The girls went out the door, I finished the last 2 pages of the book I was reading, and crawled back in bed until almost 10. I was asleep in like, 2 breaths and a sigh of "oh, how I love this pillow."

But alas, I awoke, chugged another cup of coffee and some chocolate, oh, and a few pretzels. I channel surfed a bit, folded a load of laundry and -- "ding dong!" So, I flipped the tv off faster than you can say, "Oh, I guess no one's home." Thankfully, the curtains were drawn and there were no lights on in the front half of the house, so... I tiptoed down the hall to brushed my teeth and washed my face. I'd only been dressed for about 10 min. at this point, so....

I kind of hope he comes back later. The Schwan's man, I mean. I'm still tired and, I hate meal planning even when I'm well-rested. I'm thinking I'd rather heat up something premade (though expensive) rather than have to dig around in my freezer and cupboards to concoct something homemade....

I still feel sort of fried from my weeks of insanity, I cleaned house literally all day yesterday (until the bug man came to spray for spiders at 3 and I had to take my dog out to the farm for safety -- from the spray, not the spiders, although, considering the size of some of the eight-legged monstrosities I've seen, it's entirely conceivable that my 60 pound dog could use some protection....) But most of my house (the upstairs, anyway) is seriously clean. I even washed the windows outside. And I haven't done that in.... well, that's my little secret, but I'll admit it's a time measured in years.

I'm a little sleepy. I might just take a nap. Seriously. I'm that tired. It's one of those tireds where you feel like if you don't just stop and REST your body will stop you with illness. Therefore, listen to your body, Shawna. Be lazy today. But don't forget about the laundry. And get an order ready for the Schwan's man, just in case he comes back.(Bless his heart.) And go rent a movie or something for tonight so you can just put up your feet and relax. Yes, take a nap.

Take. A. Nap.

Oh-- but did I? No. I polished a magazine query letter, and did the final edits on the article to go with it. After folding a load of whites I stripped my bed and washed the sheets, moved them to the dryer, and now...

BZZZZZZZZ, it would seem it's time to move my lovey sweet down comforter (which I love nearly as much as my memory foam pillow) into the dryer (yes, it's the washable kind. And now it will smell like cuddly little whitish bear with a funny voice. You know what I'm talking about!)

I didn't get my nap. and the Schwan's man didn't come back. Sigh. But I got a little rest this morning and it will go a long way.

I hope the Schwan's man forgives me. I really don't like to cook.

Check out Tracy Krauss's blog, Expression Express -- that sweet gal recently gave me The Versatile Blogger award! What a sweetheart! And her blog is always fun to read. Here's the nice award she gave me:

Stop on by and tell Tracy that I sent you over.

Then, of course, GO READ A BOOK OR SOMETHING!

Surgery & Story

2010-10-19T13:15:00.000-07:00

It's finished. It's done. I'm doing a happy happy happy dance. A jig really.

Woo-hoo!!!

I finished the first draft of Intermission, my first young adult, coming of age novel and sent if off to my editor. Now I can --.

"Scalpel!"

Did you hear that? Was that the voice of my editor, opening the file and calling for The BIG RED PEN OF DOOM?

Probably. You see, that's the beauty of a first draft. The blood. The guts. The gore. The slashing, the trimming, the slicing, the dicing. And this is my first opportunity to have my brand new baby novel gored by an honest-to-goodness professional. (Where's that Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom narrator guy when you need him? Oh. right.Likely dead. He was old when I was a kid watching the show on Sunday mornings in my PJs. And that was at least ten (and twenty) years ago. )

So, about the upcoming gore-fest. Am I scared? You bet.

Am I chicken?

Okay, a little. But the sky isn't falling, just probably, my ego a bit. I mean, I LOVE this story. I lu-u-uvv it. I birthed it. And it was agony. It was bliss.

I imagine that when I get that manuscript returned to me in a week or two I'm going to read it, read all the hashmarks and x'd out sections, the bubble comments, the suggestions, and then take about a 48-hour bubble bath (complete with copious amounts of Dr. Pepper and Chocolate!) before my ego recovers.

Yes, I'm that insecure. That prideful. That... obsessed with Dr. Pepper and chocolate. In fact, I'm getting a little thirsty right now....

Eventually, I will leave my bubbly, fizzy, chocolatey cocoon and raise my gloves at the manuscript for Round Two. DING! DING! DING! And then I will remember why I love this part. I love the editing/rewriting phrase. I love falling in love with my story all over again. It'll be soooo, so good.

Editing toward excellence. That is my mantra. Dang it, though, it's a lame-o sort of mantra. Give me time, I'll come up with something catchy. After all, it's what I do.

I imagine by the time I get to the end of Round Two the process will have imparted the same feeling one gets upon stepping on the scale and realizing, "Oh my gosh! I lost 60 pounds! I look like Catherine Zeta-Jones!"

(This is the imagining part. I've never actually experienced that feeling, but I have daydreamed about it. I've also dreamed about winning the Oscar for Best Original Song in a Motion Picture while clutching the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. Black dress, of course. Or a bronzy brown? Michael Cors? Jimmy Choo, for sure. Harry Winston or Cartier? Hmm. What were we talking about again????)

So... fiction mirrors truth. Yes, it does. And this newest novel is no exception. (This is me, hoping to give you desire to read this book when it is published) But the truth hurts sometimes, even fictionalized. Examining our own weaknesses, our own areas of pride, our own blindness, our pain, and our own sin and then curving it, shaping it, pounding it, and sculpting it into into something new and fresh -- and without the possibility of a libel suit, har, har. -- results in creating richer, more believable characters and a deeper, more compelling story.

And that is why I welcome the scalpel. Why I'm willing to hand that sharp object to my editor myself, knowing how accident prone I tend to be.

Welcome.

To Ease A Friend's Mind -- A Post by Shawna

2010-09-29T10:48:00.000-07:00

So Jodie tells me to post something. I've been busy writing! I tell her. I don't have time to blog!

Post something! She insists. So here it is: a question inspired by some reading I've been doing late at night.

???

What is the difference between

LIVING A LIFE OF PURPOSE and

(wait for it....) LIVING ON PURPOSE

???

I'm interested to hear your take on it so, as always, I welcome your comments.

And, just in case you aren't interested in my little philosophical dabbling, here is a short list of funny words you can try to throw into your conversations today:

Harpoon (thanks, Jodie.)

Poodle

Oy!

Snazzy

Knickers

Phlegm

and in honor of my last post: Gerund.

If you can combine them all in one nonsensical but funny paragraph, I will be a fan. If you can do it and actually make it make sense, I'll be a... double fan. With a shot of espresso.

And speaking of which....

Oh my goodness I haven't had my coffee yet today!!!!! What was I thinking????????

Now go read a book or something!

Need a recommendation? How about Susan Meissner's novel: The Shape of Mercy. The cover promises "exquisite prose" and I'd have to agree.

Rules for Usage--OR--Furry Little Gerunds

2010-09-11T13:51:00.001-07:00

With school and its various scheduled activities back in session, family dinners have become something of a rarity as we try to get back into a routine. At one of these recent gatherings, however, the topic was "parts of speech."

Now, before you roll your eyes and, in your best Dana-Carvey-as-The-Church-Lady voice, say: "Gee, I wonder who started that conversation--the writer, maybe?" I will admit that, yes, I was the poser of the question, the main discusser of the possible answers and the person who laughed and said, "Gee, that sounds like something for a blog post."

So here we are and here we go. Here's the question:

Is there such a thing as a Proper Verb?

We've all heard of Proper Nouns, but by all accounts our language is still developing. The word in question (wait for it....!) is a Proper Noun, but when modified by an appropriate suffix, such as "ed" or used in a particular way within a sentence, it becomes a word of action. (Or, at the very least, a word of procrastination.)

Are you rubbing your chin and furrowing your brow in excitement yet? Are you drooling with the anticipation of a heretofore unclassified species of linguistical wonder?

If so, perhaps you need a hobby.

The word, my boredom-challenged friends, is: "Google"

GOOGLE is the name of a company which makes it a Proper Noun. Therefore it should be given the appropriate capitalization.

But wait! There's more to this seemingly simple Proper Noun!!

When used in a sentence as a verb, such as in "Why don't you just Google it?" the Proper Noun "Google" becomes a verb--a verb referencing an action in regard to a proper noun. So, I assumed, it must be capitalized. After all, if, say, my husband was a renowned expert on repairing antique tractors and his name became with synonymous with tractor repair, it might be cool to hear some old guy say to his buddy, "Why don't you just Dave it?" And Dave would still need to be capitalized.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Google is both a Proper Noun AND a Proper Verb.

Now. I know what you English teachers are thinking. And I know your fingers are just itching to type in a response to this post which claims, without a doubt that, "It's a gerund! It's a gerund!" But I've never been comfortable with the whole "it's a gerund" concept; and I think most people outside the English department staff probably feel the same way. Gerund. Say it with me now: Gerund. It sounds more like something we should learn about in biology class than in Language Arts.

I'm pretty sure we maybe used to raise gerunds on our farm in Iowa. Aren't gerunds sort of fuzzy, busy little love buckets who look like a cross between a rabbit and a hamster and a pygmy marmoset?

What?!? They're not? Too bad. It sounds like a cool pet. Just imagine:

"Hey guys! I got a new gerund! I named him Insomnia cuz that little guy just never quits moving!"

(There's a joke in there for the English Lit/Lang.Arts audience, but you might have to look for it. Maybe if you put on your MP3-player and go for a RUN you'll catch it.)

So if gerunds belong in the Language Arts text instead of the Biology text I suppose there is no such thing as a Proper Verb then, is there.

But maybe there should be. And if ever there was a prime example of the need, it would be the word, Google.

Besides, Proper Verb sounds a whole lot better than Proper Gerund.

Plus, you don't have to feed it.

Correction: Last Stop on the ECFL Summer Blog Tour is Tomorrow!

2010-08-28T15:45:00.000-07:00

When I posted for the ECFL Blog Tour last Sunday I ended my post with a directive to visit Donna Fletcher Crow's blog on Wednesday for the final stop on the tour. But I had the date wrong!

My BAD! Sorry for any inconvenience this has caused.

Please stop by Donna Fletcher Crow's blog tomorrow (Sunday, August 29) to read about Spiritual Authenticity in Fiction. Really. It'll be there. I promise.

(here's a note: the post is already up, so this time, I know I've got it right!)

A special thanks to everyone who participated in the tour in any way! Have a great rest of your weekend--I'm off to spend the evening listening to an ABBA Tribute group at the park. (yes, the Swedish singers--and, no. Not the real ones. Now if only an Elvis impersonator would show up in Mepotown....)

The Intrusion of the Real World

2010-08-26T06:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes reality takes on a surreal quality. You're quietly going along about the comfortable predictability of your life and then... the phone rings.

This week we received word that a former colleague took his own life. He leaves behind a wife, two college-aged sons, a sixth grade daughter, and a ten year old son. Their lives will never be the same.

Suddenly all that seems mundane and ordinary is viewed through a clearer lens. Yesterday a moment in which we might have seen as little more than boredom's resting place has a serene and infinite beauty. Knowledge is powerful and one thing I know:

But for the grace of God, there go I.

Both my husband and I have seen some pretty dark times. We know what it feels like to have the flicker of a floundering faith be the only dim light of hope in our hearts. Depression. Anxiety. Worry. Defeat. Illness. Loss. They have touched us both at one time or another and we've let the darkness sink its claws into our hearts. We've wondered if our family would be better off without us, gladder for a life insurance settlement than having to deal with our depression for one day more. And we've been weak enough to admit (later) that our thoughts took that road.

But that flicker, as dim as it seems, has always been bright enough to let in just enough hope to get up and turn our face toward whatever warmth there may be.

I've found myself able to achieve a certain sort power in depression--in settling into the mud of my own wallow. The energy found there is entirely negative and self-propagating. When I am depressed I am selfish. Focused inward. Seeing every interaction through a lens of personal pronouns. My loss. My defeat. My illness. My anxiety. Nobody could possibly understand what I am going through. No one really knows me.

When I eventually come up for air--usually because somehow I've noticed and been called to attend the immediate need of someone else--there is a series of moments in which my spirit vacillates between cowering in shame... and lifting my countenance to praise the God of light and peace. I've entertained the darkness, but never have I reached a moment of finality in which it blocked out every discernible pinprick of light.

And, but for the grace of God, there go I.

I know only a little of the situation which may have precipitated this man's descent into the realms of hopelessness. It seems that many layers, over several months... years, even... piled up around the windows of his soul to the point that he no longer had a mechanism available to let in that thin sliver of light.

It is sobering to be reminded through another's tragedy that there is so much to be thankful for. I have my life. I have my husband. My children. My hope. My raggedy faith. Only when we cling to gratitude can we sustain our finger hold on the thickest curtains--and pull back the dim edge to reveal the sun.

If you are moved so today, please lift the Haught family in your prayers.

Cheese and the Lactose Intolerant Editor

2010-08-25T11:00:00.000-07:00

When I was younger (much, much younger) I drank milk like a baby calf. (This is to say that I drank a lot of milk, not that I stuck my head under a cow's belly and pretended it was rush week at the tri-Delt's favorite tap.) When I was pregnant with my second child, however, dairy became my enemy. I became lactose intolerant. And I still am, as is Ellerie, the child who made me thus.

But I am an undisciplined sort of gal and dairy is freaking everywhere. Have you ever tried to make a decent casserole without cheese, milk, or cream-of-something soup? Have you given up ice cream, yogurt, and Culver's Chocolate Malts?

Me neither. At least not for long stretches at a time. But I am reminded today, after consuming a lunch of leftover tuna casserole (can you really call Velveeta cheese?--but oh, there was that cream of celery soup in it, too....) and topping it off with one Lactaid pill and an ice cream sandwich (okay, so it wasn't exactly a healthy meal. Sue me. I'm writing today and in a hurry to get back to a story!) I am reminded that cutting out dairy from my diet is so I don't have to cut the proverbial cheese quite so frequently.

Nothing like a little discussion of the bodily functions of the lactose intolerant to brighten up your day, eh?

Anyway.... So as I sit at my desk, my gut expanding with leaden bubbles, my innards gurgling, and my brain screaming, "You idiot!" I am reminded that there is, quite possibly, a lot of cheese biding its time within both my works in progress and my finished novels. It's the sort of purple prose and misdirected metaphor that fills the body of the work with air and lets off a sort of aroma which makes a publisher wary. And, one way or another, that useless gas has to come out. It's a metaphor turned upside down, because in the way of the editorial scalpel, you must cut the cheese to avoid making the book stink.

Aside from the soupy Harlequin-type romances (poor girl meets rich boy, overcomes obstacles and his mamma in order to marry rich boy and live happily ever after) I think professional editors are largely lactose intolerant. They want the good stuff, the clear, dairy-free writing that doesn't leave a film on your throat or a sick feeling in your stomach. They want to be filled with excessively digestible prose and tasty morsels which do not sour in the sun.

So that is the goal for the day: to cut the cheese.

I'll understand if you keep your distance.

"What is that smell?!" Creating CULTURALLY RELEVANT CHARACTERS IN CHRISTIAN FICTION

2010-08-22T11:07:00.000-07:00

Please note: I’ve recommended authors and provided links to their websites. Just click on the author’s name (after you’ve read this post in its entirety, of course!) And, if you leave a comment at another author’s site, please mention that you got there by way of Fiction Mirrors Truth!

According to The American Heritage College Dictionary, the word relevant is derived from the Latin, relevāre, which means: to relieve, raise up.

Although I’m not an artist, this makes me think of an art done in reliefwhere the images are lifted up off the surface to give clarity, dimension, and definition. So… cultural relevance could be interpreted as an accurate definition of a particular branch of society—or—a set of details which bring attention to dimension within a specific culture. It's like a 3-D image for the imagination, delivered in High Def resolution. So... to place that definition of "relief" upon fictional characters we could say:

A culturally relevant character is a character whose behavior, attitudes, and way of expression reflects (or contrasts against) the behaviors, attitudes, and expressions of the culture in which he/she lives.

That sounds simple enough, but when it comes to placing culturally relevant characters within marketable Christian fiction, the concept gets a little muddy.

It's important to note that when speaking of Christian Fiction, even Edgy Christian Fiction, we need to remember that our audience, by definition, is mainly filled with Christian people. I think we have a tendency to lose sight of this from time to time. The Christian culture is just that: its own culture; a unique people group with its own language, customs, mores, and behavioral expectations; a culture filled with numerous and diverse sub-cultures within the larger group (can you say "denomination"?) But, and this is very important, we also need to recognize that these Christians within our reading audience do not live in the bubble-like sanctuary of Christendom. (Hopefully.) They live, work, and interact within a larger cultural sphere; within a society that is often at war against the very mores, behaviors, and expectations they hold dear. Meanwhile, forces within the church could be fostering an "us against them" mentality in regards to the world we've been called to engage. (whew. insert deep breath here....) Therefore, to make characters culturally relevant to a Christian audience we have to respect and honestly relieve, or raise up, that juxtaposition with believable conflicts--and reactions to those conflicts--that clearly show both parts of our characters' (and our readers') worlds.

As an anthropologically astute author you have to study the applicable culture and subculture(s) of your fictional characters as well as the psychographic profile(s) of your intended audience. This means that, as writers of Christian fiction, we must step out of the safety of the church-bubble we so often find ourselves gravitating toward in our daily lives and open ourselves up to experience a friendship with The World and Its Inhabitants. A scary thought indeed. (note the sarcasm, please.) But a necessary step if we want to accurately write about those living apart from Christ, be they believers or unbelievers. Yes, I said believers. Characters living apart from Christ can even be—gasp!—Christians. Saved ain't perfect. You've seen the bumper sticker.

Just because a character is culturally relevant, however, doesn't mean they live within your readers' culture. Creating characters who are both relevant to their time in history as well as to your contemporary audience is, in my opinion, a daunting task; but one which can (and is being) done with excellence by many authors. In Historical and Biblical fiction some edgy authors, such as Jamie Carie (Wind Dancer, among others) and Tosca Lee (Havah: The Story of Eve), have masterfully overcome the challenges of historical accuracy and cultural relevance, creating beautifully wrought plots and characters who are timeless, but placed within a specific time. (Bravo!)

As a writer I must know to whom I write. But in all honesty sometimes I don't have a clue to whom I'm writing until I'm already deeply into the first (or fiftieth) draft. And I must admit that I write largely to... myself. Though it's often a bloody proposition, writing is cheaper than therapy, after all. But when it comes to putting the proposal together for a submission, I need a bigger book-buying audience than that face in the mirror. So... I must ask myself some pretty tough questions.

Will my story appeal to a conservative Christian audience, an evangelical Christian audience, or a post-modern reader who claims allegiance to Christ? And if only one of those, how can I change it to encompass them all--and do I want to? Does my story recognize the uglier aspects of the humanity within individuals within a body of faith? Am I willing to honestly show the traits and behaviors of Christians which are contrary to the Gospel? Am I willing to show SIN within CHRISTIANS--and juxtapose it against the morality within the unsaved?

If so, then I might be creating some culturally relevant characters.

Most writers (and publishers) of conventional Christian fiction would tell you that there are specific parameters which must be followed in order to avoid offending a Christian audience. The overall message of these traditional books, regardless of setting, is this: "Everything just falls into place when we come to Jesus, honey." Which, to me, is a little bit like greeting my fellow Christian with the shocking exclamation of, "Dude, what's wrong with you? You're still struggling with sin? Yeesh. Get it together, man!" In the end of those elder-board approved, traditional Christian stories everyone is happy and everyone gets saved. Just like in real life.

Right.

It amazes me that we can sell so much of this crap to Christians. Oh, I get it. Christians like to be comfortable in their faith and that sort of writing sells well to the well-churched masses. And don't get me wrong--I love to see people come to Christ. But why are we selling evangelistic messages to people who've already walked the aisle? While I can believe that readers can be entertained by such fiction, I can't believe it resonates within their hearts and lives--because it is not relevant to their situation. Even if the salvation message is well delivered I probably wouldn't loan a book like that to an unsaved friend because it's (often) written in such a goody-goody style that I have to scrape sugar off the cover just to avoid attracting ants to my bookshelf! Anyone who's been a Christian five-minutes past the "glow period" of salvation knows that the Christian life is fraught with temptation and pain which we can (and often do not) avoid. Propagating goody-goody happy-happy Christian fiction--irrelevant Christian fiction--only serves to insulate the reader from the possibility--and beautiful agony --of transformative revelation.

Kool-aid doesn't kill cancer cells, but chemo does. And you can't get chemo while admiring a bed of roses from the backseat of a buggy in Lancaster County.

Yes, I'll admit that there is entertaiment value--yes VALUE--in irrelevant fiction. There can be a beautiful thing called escapism found in the entertaining fluff of a perfect world, and that will always keep "that sort of fiction" viable within the Christian marketplace. I will not deny that there is a time and place for insulation. (see previous post) But there is also a time to swan dive right off the steeple and spill some honest ink upon the page. That's why we need to create culturally relevant characters. And that's why edgy authors are emerging within the Christian culture as a force to be reckoned with.

Edgy authors realize that Christians have a lot of junk--and the power of a culturally relevant character's story can help to sort it out.

A few mainstream pubbers are getting the message, but so far the e-book industry is where we are more likely to come across these authors . E-book publishers and other small "presses" are more willing to take risks with "edgy" Christian authors than the big boys who earn their bread and butter among the bonnets and buggies and fluffy meringue. The authors who are taking risks--taking their writing to the edge (and sometimes past it!) of the line-in-the-sand drawn by traditional CBA expectations have discovered that culturally relevant characters can be found across time and setting and worldscape. A story can be sweet and light romance or sassy chic lit and still have culturally relevant characters (read Sandra Byrd’s French TwistTrilogy or the novels of Camy Tang.) The story can take place in another world (Jeffrey Overstreet’s Auralia’s Colors), another time (Liz Curtis Higgs’s Lowlands of Scotland series), or even another planet (Kathy Tyers’s Firebird Trilogy) and still have culturally relevant characters.

Cultural relevance is about honesty, transparency, vulnerability, and sometimes has a little stank on it--but it's a familiar aroma if it's relevant. Cultural relevance leaves a little bit of fat on the bone when it tosses the meat on the table because that's where the flavor's at. It doesn't necessarily have to be deep and life-changing (though I love when it is), it just has to be real... in a fictional sort of way.

Actions. Consequences. Sin. Mercy. Risks. Rewards.

Reality.

Sometimes my characters (both Christian and non-Christian) use “bad” language, behave in deplorable ways, break vows, break commandments, and live in denial about it all. And so do their friends. Does that sound familiar? Sometimes life stinks, and we stink, and our faith walk absolutely reeks with hypocrisy and disingenuiness. And it can be quite painfull--though sometimes pretty fun--to eek that stink out upon the page.

To make nicey-nice out of ugly issues or to insulate a Christian character within a Christians-only society is to portray a human creature in a way that denigrates their God-given free will (and the consequences of that free will) as well as the Great Commission. Some edgy authors I’ve found who portray morally conflicted characters honestly (and with excellence) in a contemporary setting are Kristen Heitzmann (The Michelli Family series is a favorite of mine),Tosca Lee (Demon: A Memoir), and Christa Parrish (Home Another Way.)

Regardless of the time period, sub-genre, or setting of a novel, an edgy author of Christian fiction will avoid allowing her characters to tip-toe around the pristine exterior edges of Christendom and, instead, make those characters stomp or crawl through the sanctuary with muddy and blood-soaked boots.

Or turn around and walk the other way.

Anyone who has approached the throne of mercy can tell you that the way to the altar is not a bright, smooth pathway paved in doilies with little birdies singing “Oh, How I Love Jesus” from the lofty rafters. No, the mercy path is a shadowy, rutted alleyway littered with shards of shattered stained glass--and the only music playing is the frantic rhythm of your own filthy heart.

Been there. Done that. Will do it again and again, I’m sure.

The author who strives to be culturally relevant in his/her writing of Christian fiction knows this and works to portray his/her characters in such a way that the reader identifies with the characters—cuz sometimes she smells the same stink on herself. And, also, the same perfume of hope. That is where fiction mirrors truth.

To state it simply, creating culturally relevant characters shows that Christians still need Christ.

Ba-da-bing.

By creating these characters within our fiction we can work together with the Holy Spirit to lessen the human-inflicted distance between those in need of mercy-- and the Cross where they can find it.

Thanks for stopping by this 2nd-to-last stop on the Edgy Christian Fiction Lovers Summer Blog Tour 2010. I welcome your comments!

Don't forget to stop by Donna Fletcher's blog on Wednesday for the final stop on the tour!

Now go read a book or something!

**an additional note: Sunday, Aug. 22, 2010: Just found a blogger fluke! I saved the first draft of this post on Wednesday and, for some reason when I posted it at 6:30 am this morning (Sunday), it posted for last Wednesday, with any number of odd posts in between, so my apologies to anyone who visited earlier today and did not find the post in the correct place! And my apologies to those of you who, in looking further down my blog, find it repeated under last Wednesday's date! It was posted for the first time this morning around 6:30a.m.

Boot to the Bahoinky

2010-08-21T06:35:00.001-07:00

Chip MacGregor (I seem to be mentioning his blog a lot lately) shipped a great post to my inbox today. It's a well-thought out delineation of the Christian Market and the "secular" market and added to my conviction (thanks, Joyce Meyer) about all the complaining I've been doing about traditional CBA publishing. I guess my butt needed kicking. Again.

I'm probably going to need a softer chair soon.

Drop by Chip's blog and see what this experienced literary professional has to say. It might just open your mind a bit (as it did mine.)

Stay tuned, boys and girls: tomorrow YOURS TRULY is the featured author on the ECFL Summer Blog Tour. Come back and see us, won't ya?

2 Text or not 2 Text. That is the ?

2010-08-19T19:43:00.000-07:00

Tonight was the all-school open house extravaganza. Okay, it was low on the "extravaganza"--but heavy on the "open." Tonight was the night we unpacked the bursting backpacks into the freshly sanitized (we hope) desks and lockers and greeted all those long-lost friends we hadn't seen since... well, since we'd gone to the pool earlier this afternoon.

Ah, back to school. It's a sacred time. A beautiful time when the notebooks are doodle and problem free, the pencils are sharp and unchewed, the erasers haven't yet shaled off those pesky rubber hairs that you just can't wipe off your desk, and the gym smells....

Well, the gym smells. But that's a gym for you.

There's a certain excitement which accompanies back-to-school shopping for a writer. I'm not kidding you when I say my heartbeat quickens when I see notebooks on sale for 15 cents a piece and highlighters in fun new colors. I imagine most of my fellow shoppers at Wal-mart assumed I had about twelve other kids at home by the sheer volume of notebooks I stacked into my cart. I let my kids pick out the colors they liked and then just started grabbing handfuls of them. Sure, I reasoned that they would run out of paper before Halloween and need new notebooks, but they knew the truth. Those extra notebooks are for me.

I have notebooks in the car, beside my bed, near the TV, in the kitchen.... I've got a whole box of filled notebooks sitting in the closet of my writing cave. Sometimes I just pull one out at random to see what kind of ideas were so very immediate that they had to be written down in the dark (the penmanship could rival that of a kindergartner on crack), on the sly while I was teaching The Odyssey to a group of high school freshmen (so much fodder for fantasy writing found within Greek mythology!), and, since we're all about honesty here, while, gulp, driving.

Texting while driving is illegal in Iowa. I can live with that. Literally. But if they take away my shiny new notebook....

Yes, it's terrible. I know. But the actual penning of the idea isn't nearly so bad as when I can't find the notebook. Look out! I'm driving with one hand and scouring my purse for a receipt, a napkin, anything on which to place the glittering pixie dust of the vehicular muse, with the other.

And where's the blooming pen????

I've written ideas, lines, snarkisms, and such in lipstick and eyeliner. I've used the backs of receipts, old grocery lists, deposit slips, used napkins, and questionable kleenexes. Gross. Sorry. Writing's a messy business.

But rarely do I abbreviate. I don't do symbols in place of words. I love words. I live for words. I breathe words. That's why it's called inspiration.

and that's why I grimace every time I text.

Oh, I appreciate the convenience of texting. I do. It's like email on speed. It's Dragnet gone techno. "Just the facts, ma'am." Without the inconvenience or pressure of having to make small talk. I can arrange a sleepover for my daughter in about 2.5 seconds, reply included. Yeah, I can text pretty fast. I've got the querty keyboard and everything on my razzley-dazzly smart phone. But just because I can doesn't mean it doesn't bother me on some deep, traditionalist and philosophical level.

You see, I've got a little bit of a hang-up, no pun intended, with text lingo. I get a primo gut-sink every time I replace the word "to" with the number 2. And if I need to use "too" in a sentence? Well, doggone it, I'm typing that sucker out. It's cringe-worthy enough when I see that usage screwed up in daily life writing--I will not allow myself to use the number when a second "o" is needed for clarity of meaning. I won't I won't I won't.

Okay, I might.

And don't get me started on the evolution of the letter "b." Two years ago, when substitute teaching an English class, I received a worksheet to check with a sentence--yes, a sentence--where the answer was correct... except that it was written in TEXT! I let the red-pen of justice take care of that one for me.

My thirteen-year-old daughter is saving up for her own texting plan. Am I wrong for wanting to put specific grammatical requirements on her airtime usage?

IDK

And that's a bmr, 2. I mean, too. Call me old fashioned, but there's this little grammar teacher rapping my thumb knuckles with a ruler every time I abbreviate with what is coming to be known as proper texting vernacular.

And the past tense verb form of text? Texted. As in, "I texted him."

That just makes me shudder.

My friend Cristy lives in Alabama. Every once in a while, Cristy sends me a handwritten letter. She writes out all the words and everything. I love Cristy's letters. And I love that she's my age and still appreciates the art of communication. That girl was raised up right.

Maybe I'll text her later and tell her how much I appreciate her friendship. Now how would that go?

UR GR8. THX 4 UR LTRS.

On second thought, maybe I ought to pull one of those shiny new notebooks....

Until L8R, folks. GdNt!

Everyone needs a gut-snort now and then

2010-08-19T09:01:00.001-07:00

So I'm flipping through my emails in an effort to procrastinate myself away from THE LOOMING BLANK PAGE and I come across one from Chip MacGregor, literary agent. Now, before we get all excited about me receiving a message from the famous Chipster, you need to know that I only received it because I'm on his mailing list. I subscribed. Via some magical auto-subscribe button that you lucky 18 have also pushed on my blog. So, really, Mr. MacGregor doesn't know I'm alive.

So there it is.

But still, it came in my mailbox. From Chip MacGregor. And I always read his emails. He teaches me stuff about the pubbing biz, writing, and submitting and, more importantly, he makes me laugh. Today I needed a laugh and Chip, in his wisdom, must have known that when he sent out this latest message and at its end (I was already wearing the sly smirk of sarcasm appreciation) he left a link to author Jenny B. Jones's blog and the added note that she makes him snort coffee out of his nose (or something like that.)

Well, that is a call I cannot resist. While I prefer to drink my coffee while it's hot, I am not at all opposed to snorting it out my nose if random humor should bring it to pass. And, besides, with a name like Jenny B. Jones, I was already intrigued. I mean, a gal of a similar name, Junie B. Jones, spoke my all-time-favorite life motto:

"A little bit of glitter can turn your whole day around."

Actually, the line was from Barbara Park, in one of her Junie B. Jones, First Grader books that I love to read aloud to my girls, but still. Words to live by. Glitter rocks. But I digress. Again.

Sooo.... I clicked on the link to Jenny B. Jones's website. (Fun & Quirky) read about her books (which also seem Fun & Quirky) and then, glory of glories, clicked on her blog.

My coffee was cold by then, but when I read her picture captions I was hooked. I mean, this chiclette is funny. Make sure you read the picture captions from her trip to Kansas City--especially the armless statue and the chair from Restoration Hardware. Seriously. Or not so seriously. Jenny has a gift for observational humor! And she is spot on hysterical. Love it!

So if you, like me, need a good dose of coffee-snorting laughter today, please go visit Jenny's Blog--and tell her you got there by way of Fiction Mirrors Truth.

Now I'm off to Amazon to order one of her novels. She seems to be a girl after my own sarcastic heart.

Foiled Again! Plus a top-ten list

2010-08-19T07:42:00.001-07:00

Every year I say I'm going to the ACFW Conference. And every year something comes up right before I make my registration form out. (pulling hair and screaming low in my throat.)

This year was no different. The conference is being held in Indianapolis in one month and my plans have disintegrated. First, the bill from U of I Hospitals came. We've been frequent fliers this year and until we have some sort of "come to Jesus" meeting with our insurance company, it looks like we're going to be stuck with a $1200 bill. Which is more than the conference and hotel would have cost. Oh, and then, the insurance strikes again... after the fact. My daughter had to have 2 teeth pulled and, guess what? A month after the fact the DDS office calls and says, "Um, your dental insurance won't pay for this." Well, okay, so why are we buying dental again???????? It barely pays for anything!!!

And then, the final nail in the proverbial Writers Conference Coffin: I have been summoned to Jury Duty for the month of, you guessed it, September.

Oy!

Well, I guess there are a lot of ways to look at this to put a positive spin on it. and I do know spin, cuz I used to work in the music business--and--I've been involved in ministry! Did that sound, uh, negative? Well, think about it. How many times have you been roped into doing "service" that didn't really line up with your gifts or calling because someone put a "spin" on it. (In church situations the spin I speak of often comes in a form passed down from mother to daughter, it's called "guilting you into it.") But I digress.

Shawna's list of positive reasons she doesn't get to go to the ACFW Conference (again.)

1. There could be a plane crash. Thank goodness, I won't be on that plane.

2. Perhaps the hotel will miss one batch of the egg recall and--PRAISE BE!--I've avoided getting salmonella.

3. PMS. Need I say more? Well, okay. I'll just say that perhaps the dates of the ACFW conference are not the best time for me to be presenting my best self to potential publishers! When building a platform it behooves oneself to avoid appearing as a Big Ben-sized pendulum on the Mood Swing-o-Meter! Maybe next year the date will fit in better with my personal hormonal fluctuations.

4. I couldn't find a roommate, so I'm saving sooo much money by staying home.

5. My dog would miss me.

6. Delaney will be cheering football this year (she hopes) and I might miss one of her games if I go to the conference.

7. Orthodontia is very important and Dave has a dental phobia. Delaney is due for her impressions during that week and, well, things might go better if Mom takes her!

8. I didn't get my manuscripts to the point I wanted to by the deadline I had set for myself, so I wouldn't be as confident in shopping them as I would be otherwise.

9. Look at all the laundry I'll be able to keep up with by staying home!

and number 10. Isn't "jury duty" just another way of saying "research" ? There could be some primo people-watching possibilities down at the county courthouse!

"What is that smell?!" Creating CULTURALLY RELEVANT CHARACTERS IN CHRISTIAN FICTION

2010-08-18T09:53:00.001-07:00

According to The American Heritage College Dictionary, the word relevant is derived from the Latin, relevāre, which means: to relieve, raise up.

Although I’m not an artist, this makes me think of an art done in relief where the images are lifted up off the surface to give clarity, dimension, and definition. So… cultural relevance could be interpreted as an accurate definition of a particular branch of society—or—a set of details which bring attention to dimension within a specific culture. It's like a 3-D image for the imagination, delivered in High Def resolution. So... to place that definition of "relief" upon fictional characters we could say:

That sounds simple enough, but when it comes to placing culturally relevant characters within marketable Christian fiction, the concept gets a little muddy.

It's important to note that when speaking of Christian Fiction, even Edgy Christian Fiction, we need to remember that our audience, by definition, is mainly filled with Christian people. I think we have a tendency to lose sight of this from time to time. The Christian culture is just that: its own culture; a unique people group with its own language, customs, mores, and behavioral expectations as well as its own sub-cultures within the larger group (can you say "denomination"?) But, and this is very important, we also need to recognize that these Christians within our reading audience do not live in the bubble-like sanctuary of Christendom. (Hopefully.) They live, work, and interact within a larger cultural sphere; within a society that wars against those very mores, behaviors, and expectations they hold dear. Therefore, to make characters culturally relevant to a Christian audience we have to respect and honestly relieve, or raise up, that juxtaposition with believable conflicts--and reactions to those conflicts--that clearly show both parts of our characters' (and our readers') worlds.

As an anthropologically astute author you have to study the applicable subculture(s) of your fictional characters as well as the psychographic profile(s) of your intended audience. This means that, as writers of Christian fiction, we must step out of the safety of the church-bubble we so often find ourselves gravitating toward in our daily lives and open ourselves up to experience a friendship with The World and Its Inhabitants. A scary thought indeed. (note the sarcasm, please.) But a necessary step if we want to accurately write about those living apart from Christ, be they believers or unbelievers. Yes, I said believers. Characters living apart from Christ can even be—gasp!—Christians. Saved ain't perfect. You've seen the bumper sticker.

If so, then I might be creating some culturally relevant characters.

Right.

Kool-aid doesn't kill cancer cells, but chemo does. And you can't get chemo while admiring a bed of roses from the backseat of a buggy in Lancaster County.

Edgy authors realize that Christians have a lot of junk--and the power of a culturally relevant character's story can help to sort it out.

A few mainstream pubbers are getting the message, but so far the e-book industry is where we are more likely to come across these authors . E-book publishers and other small "presses" are more willing to take risks with "edgy" Christian authors than the big boys who earn their bread and butter among the bonnets and buggies and fluffy meringue. The authors who are taking risks--taking their writing to the edge (and sometimes past it!) of the line-in-the-sand drawn by traditional CBA expectations have discovered that culturally relevant characters can be found across time and setting and worldscape. A story can be sweet and light romance or sassy chic lit and still have culturally relevant characters (read Sandra Byrd’s French Twist Trilogy or the novels of Camy Tang.) The story can take place in another world (Jeffrey Overstreet’s Auralia’s Colors), another time (Liz Curtis Higgs’s Lowlands of Scotland series), or even another planet (Kathy Tyers’s Firebird Trilogy) and still have culturally relevant characters.

Actions. Consequences. Sin. Mercy. Risks. Rewards.

Reality.

To make nicey-nice out of ugly issues or to insulate a Christian character within a Christians-only society is to portray a human creature in a way that denigrates their God-given free will (and the consequences of that free will) as well as the Great Commission. Some edgy authors I’ve found who portray morally conflicted characters honestly (and with excellence) in a contemporary setting are Kristen Heitzmann (The Michelli Family series is a favorite of mine), Tosca Lee (Demon: A Memoir), and Christa Parrish (Home Another Way.)

Or turn around and walk the other way.

Been there. Done that. Will do it again and again, I’m sure.

To state it simply, creating culturally relevant characters shows that Christians still need Christ.

Ba-da-bing.

By creating these characters within our fiction we can work together with the Holy Spirit to lessen the human-inflicted distance between those in need of mercy-- and the Cross where they can find it.

Thanks for stopping by this 2nd-to-last stop on the Edgy Christian Fiction Lovers Summer Blog Tour 2010. I welcome your comments!

Don't forget to stop by Donna Fletcher's blog on Wednesday for the final stop on the tour!

Now go read a book or something!

Anesthesia For the Christian Heart

2010-08-15T16:19:00.001-07:00

I stopped by Shawna Williams's blog today and read her excellent and thoughtful post. One short but pointed comment, left by Keith Madsen, really made me think.

To paraphrase what "the other" Shawna and Keith wrote (with a little Shawna V twist, of course):

Fiction that isn't honest is nothing more than reality's anesthesia. And as Christians we shouldn't seek to be anesthetized by what we take in to our imaginations, but rather, transformed.

(Kudos to Keith for those two words "anesthetized" and "transformed.")

As Shawna Williams so kindly and eloquently pointed out, reader expectation is key when it comes to acceptable realism in content. If a reader picks up a book with the expectation to receive the sort of ministration that keeps them "safe" from the influences of the world, then it's available.

Oh, yeah. It's available. Readily available. Abundantly freaking available. So, when we need to be anesthetized, we need have no fear of being able to find a book in which to stick our noses. The CBA Powers That Be crank out TONS of tie-a-pretty-bow-on-it Christian fiction for those times and those readers. Positive messages and pristine characters. I guess some people like that. And there was a time when I liked it, too. Sometimes I'll still read one, just so I'll be "safe"--not convicted of sin nor challenged to be transformed.

But not very often. I like being made to squirm a little. It makes me grow and keeps me hungry.

I guess sometimes the surgery needed in our hearts is so very major that we need a little anesthesia just to make it through the day. We need to be "the bubble boy" for a while until we get back on our feet. So we immerse ourselves within the Christian Culture and see the world through stained-glass colored glasses. There is The World and there is Us. And it's Us against Them. And we are pure and shall not be soiled by Them.

Ew.

Maybe that's why there is such a demand for Christian Fiction which serves as anesthesia--to put us in a place where we can escape conscious thoughts of our bad condition and feel no pain. Where we can identify with characters based on saccharin characteristics and flaky fakiness.

Or maybe the demand is simply there because so little else is offered.

If you watch shows like Dateline, 20/20, 60 Minutes (is that even still on? I'm not big into that kind of TV, but I used to have grandparents who were, so I've seen them. LOL) or even Grey's Anatomy or ER, you may have seen a story or two that made you scared to have surgery. Every once in a while that rare person comes along who, while appearing to be unconscious during surgery, is actually fully aware of all the pain and sounds and processes being done to them, but simply unable to react or respond. Or, you hear of that person who doesn't get quite enough anesthesia and wakes up mid-procedure.

That must totally suck.

I've had that happen while reading mainstream Christian Fiction. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.) I'll be happily floating along in a squeaky clean story where everyone is fluent in Christianese and... BAM! I realize I've been drugged.

When I awaken from my stupor, I usually make some sort of snorting sound, followed by the sound of a book slamming shut and words such as, "Really?" and "Yeah, right." coming out of my mouth with that tell-tale sarcastic tone you know so well.

But, luckily, there are some edgy authors out there and some risk-taking small and e-publishers who are willing to be real. Authors like Tosca Lee and Kristen Heitzmann (who got mainstream pubbers, KUDOS!), and Shawna Williams and others on the ECFL Summer Blog Tour, who've had it with selling pink frilly drugs and are ready to give their readers a shot of adrenaline-laced Truth.

So, while I cannot cry out against the benefits of anesthesia when necessary, I do like waking up with the stitches pulling at me a little bit uncomfortably toward that place where fiction more accurately mirrors truth.

Heat Wave

2010-08-13T00:50:00.000-07:00

The thing about central air conditioning is that it is supposed to make your whole house the same temperature. Yet here it is 2:51 a.m. and I am waking up for the second night in a row because I am just too blooming hot to sleep any more. So I exit my bedroom in search of a cold glass of water, thinking I'm losing my mind or, worse--gasp!--wondering if I'm going to be one of those unlucky women who hits menopause before she hits 40. "Is this what a hot flash feels like?" I wonder. So I go out of my bedroom and... relief. Even the hallway is cooler than my room. And weirder still, just across the hall my daughter's room is almost cold.

Explain this to me. Please.

Though the inconsistent temperature variant hasn't always been in the master bedroom, every ranch-styled home I've lived in has had the same problem. And every ranch-styled home I've lived in has had Central Air Conditioning.

Oh, sure, blame the exterior temperature. But the 104 heat index we experienced today was all around my house, not just slamming against my bedroom; and, by definition, the unit is supposed to be centralized in order to keep the whole house cool.

There should be a law about this or something.

Or maybe there should be a law against posting blogs at 3am.

Urban Fantasy and a Little Sass

2010-08-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

I like Urban Fantasy. Sue me. Sometimes I need to be entertained and opening a novel of Urban Fantasy is a bit like finding an action flick on paper.

Don't confuse Urban Fantasy with Urban Fiction--they are not the same thing. For more information on URBAN FICTION, please visit Sherryle Jackson's excellent post about URBAN FICTION on the ECFL Summer blog tour.

Now back to the topic at hand: Urban Fantasy

I like that a lot of the characters within this subgenre talk like me. I mean, if I possessed a magical weapon/ability or could sense/destroy otherworldly creatures of evil intent, we could totally hang out and bond.

It might be fun, except I don't look so good in leather pants, and that seems to be a requirement.

But wardrobe aside, I like the pace of Urban Fantasy. Within most of the Urban Fantasy novels I’ve read, I’ve found dialogue (and internal monologue) that drips (sometimes literally—there’s no shortage of gore in Urban Fantasy) with sarcasm, irony, and a certain GILMORE GIRLS-go-hunting-for-vampires sensibility. Often using the First Person Point of View, the Urban Fantasy authors I most enjoy craft their prose to be funny and fast-paced—the books read like a movie with the bonus of seeing the protagonist’s innermost, and often hilariously self-deprecating thoughts.

Hang up the disco ball, baby, cuz I can groove on that. Self-deprecation is my life.

Authors like Seanan McGuire (a new fave in the genre for her October Daye series—with an added bonus: she doesn’t pander into gratuitous sex scenes), Ilona Andrews (On the Edge Chronicles and the Kate Daniels series. *beware of the latest title in the series for reasons of aforementioned gratuity*), and Michelle Sagara West (Cast in Shadow and other titles) have built believable, yet frightening worlds of imagination within this female-protagonist-heavy sub-genre. It's way too much fun.

As a sub-genre, Urban Fantasy ROCKS at portraying straight-up GIRL POWER.

Maybe that’s why I like Urban Fantasy. While there are authors (like Jim Butcher) who write great (and funny, though not necessarily Christian-friendly) male protagonists within this sub-genre, most of the Urban Fantasy books hitting the new release table at my library sport leather-bound, dagger-wielding females on their covers. And, even though these evil-slaying women are sometimes scantily clad (and I must mention this in case any Urban Fantasy book jacket artists should happen by: Cup size is not necessarily an indicator of one’s ability to vanquish evil. At least not the last time I checked. And the idea of cleavage as a selling tool for a book about a woman who literally kicks butt sort of denigrates the whole idea of “girl power”-- but, whatever.) they do look tough and, beyond Urban Fantasy I find there is a shortage of believable GIRL POWER protagonists in the overarching genre of Fantasy literature.

Does fiction mirror truth in urban fantasy? Yeah, it often does--most often by showing the layers of darkness within a soul or a culture—but sometimes the reality is found as simplistically as by tapping into a disguised comment on our culture, our language, or just our… sarcastic sensibilities. Yes, I enjoy Urban Fantasy, but I don’t read it with the intent of taking anything away from it. I don’t expect to be “moved” by Urban Fantasy. I expect to be entertained.

And that’s okay.

A steady diet of salt-laden movie-theater popcorn, however, will leave one thirsty. So I don’t read it all the time. (I believe I've mentioned my genre-hopping habits before.)

In my need to entertain my own sarcastic muse during a “dry period” of writing "my real stuff", I have dabbled in creating Urban Fantasy characters. It's way fun, but I haven’t (yet) let their stories come to life. Dabbling isn’t where passion lives. And I want to go to that address when I write.

While it’s fun to bring sassy, strong women to life, I don’t want to relegate them within the boundaries of a dark, urban environment. I would rather take them out of the city and place them in the fresher, brighter world of EPIC FANTASY. Who says strong, brainy, tough, and verbally sharp women can’t transfer their sarcastic commentary onto this brighter plane? (Well, CBA publishers seem to shout that from the hilltops, but that’s another story….) I don’t want to write popcorn to be mindlessly consumed, I want to fill my prose with the aroma of a rare-cooked steak, garlic smashed potatoes, and a bowl of fresh, tropical fruit. And when the nutritious content of the meal has been consumed, I want to polish the story with the rich and tart sweetness found within a thin slice of Key Lime Cheesecake. I want to create fiction which doesn’t leave the reader hungry for a sequel, but leaves the reader so satisfied --gorged, even--on story that she wants to go to sleep and dream of it—before she wakes up refreshed--and ravenous--and ready to break her fast on the soon-to-be-published sequel.

But, alas, Book One must first make the grade before the dream of Book Two is set upon the table.

That said, I guess I should post this puppy and get back to work. My well-spoken heroine could benefit from a little sass and I know just the well from which to draw it.

If you have to share your birthday with someone, why not someone who ROCKS at Quidditch?

2010-07-31T07:47:00.000-07:00

No, it's not my birthday--rather, it is the anniversary of the first time I gave birth which, in my opinion, not only qualifies me for as much cake as I want, but some sort of medal.

But today is a different sort of birthday for me. Today, officially, I have become the mother of a teenager.

OY!

A teenager! Aww.... when did I get so old? Was it the other night when my husband and I were watching Modern Family and we realized we identified with sitcom parents now better than those ridiculously attired sitcom kids? I dunno... maybe. But it seems just moments ago Dr. Haas proclaimed "It's a girl!" and, with the good doctor's proclamation I suddenly remembered that which I'd been striving to achieve over the preceding 24-1/2 hours. (For those of you who have gone through long and difficult labors, you know that there comes a point when your consciousness becomes removed from reality; a moment when you cease to give cognitive credence to the fact that there is a reason for this excruciating exhaustion and that, contrary to all reason, you yourself were partially responsible for bringing such agony upon yourself. But then it's over and--oh, BLISS!--"It's a girl!")

Miss Delaney Olivia came into the world at 4:37 a.m. , July 31, 1997 and my heart was lost--forever doomed to travel the world outside my body, as the saying goes. And what a trip it's been so far! Delaney has grown from a cartoon-voiced Olsen Twins look-alike (think Full House Mary-Kate & Ashley , not rehab Mary-Kate & Ashley) to a funny and intelligent burgeoning beauty; a lovely young woman-child whose sly wit and love of/obsession with books (don't know where she gets that!) makes me smile and challenges me to grow.

And today, she's a teenager. Oy.

With only 365 days in a year, we all share our birthdays with a multitude of Someones. (Among the faceless horde I share mine with actor Don Johnson, which was really cool when I was in 7th grade, but... not so much now.) My Delaney is no exception. First of all, she was born on her Grandmother's birthday, which is about the coolest birthday present you could EVER give your mom (Dave's mom, actually.) But we have since learned that Miss Delaney shares her illustrious date of birth with two wonderful and terribly famous individuals; two people (though one is the fictional creation of the other) who have played a huge role in Delaney's development as a reader and a thinker.

In 1997, Delaney was born. And so, for all intents and purposes, was Harry Potter. Though his year of "birth" is generally thought to be 1980, no one but his creator got to hold that lightning-bolt scarred baby until the first installment of J.K. Rowling's epic series was published in (wait for iiitttt...) 1997. Yep. 1997. How cool is that? And the coolness of my girl's special day just keeps getting better. Ms. Rowling herself shares Delaney's birthday. And when did Harry receive that first, life-changing summons to Hogwarts?

On July 31st.

His eleventh birthday.

I'd say my daughter is in pretty good company. Grandma V, Jo, Harry, and Delaney.

July 31st.

And here you thought it was just another Saturday.

Though I was already a devoted fan of the talented Ms. Rowling, Delaney first read Harry Potter and The Sorcerer's Stone at the age of 10, in fourth grade. From that point on there was no turning back. For a girl who had yet to become addicted to the power of the written word, J.K. Rowling's series not only lit a love for literature within my girl, it sent it straight to Super Nova.

Now about to start 8th grade, Delaney's love for these treasured tomes has not decreased. She has read the entire series forward and backward more times than I can count. (okay, forward a bit more. Backward only once to my knowledge. really. she did. Delaney read the books in backward order: 7,6,5,4,3,2,1 one time so she could 'catch more clues' that way.) My little firstborn has become one of the foremost experts on all things Potter.

I am so proud!

So as we're eating our treacle tarts and drinking our butter beer and pumpkin juice (or birthday cake and ice cream as the case may be) this evening I'll be sending warm happy birthday thoughts across the ocean to Jo in Scotland and to Harry... on my bookshelf.

Happy July 31st, everyone!

Oh, Joy!

2010-07-28T11:33:00.000-07:00

Between dust evacuations (we're having some drywall work done--it's very hard on electronic equipment and the central nervous system, hence the evacuation!) I am performing reconstructive surgery on The Ryn.

Meanwhile, I am today's featured author on Joy Tamsin David's "Work In Progress Wednesday" feature on her Edgy Inspirational blog today. Drop by Joy's place and say hello!

http://www.edgyinspirational.blogspot.com/

Coming soon...

My review of Ellen C. Maze's intriguing (Christian) Urban Fantasy novel, Rabbit: Chasing Beth Rider.

And the award for MOST (mildly) PROFANE goes to...

2010-07-26T16:25:00.000-07:00

I happened to be exiting my kitchen following an extremely unsuccessful forage and caught a glimpse of the program to which my daughters were riveted.

(I'm really trying to get a handle on this "don't end a sentence with a preposition" stuff and deep into a MAJOR REWRITE. Can you tell?)

Anyway... It's the Disney Channel. Always, the Disney Channel. And, of course, the show taking up all 47 inches of my LCD screen is the one which makes me most want to gouge out my own eyeballs: The Suite Life On Deck.

I'm feeling a little seasick just thinking about it.

Now granted--I don't watch a lot of television. I'm more of a "go read a book or something" kind of a girl. True, I love a good movie--especially an action flick--and thanks to DVR technology I will watch the occasional recorded program (5-7 taps of the arrow and I'm no longer craving snack foods and back in the Story!) But when it comes to Tween Programming, I must admit that, aside from an occasional episode of Phineus and Ferb (love those little guys), I am not a fan.

So here I am, without Dr. Pepper, without even a snack-sized Kit-Kat to ease the path back to my Writing Cave, and I have to see three annoying teen actresses scarfing ice cream out of the containers alongside a--please tell me it's not--! A hairless cat.

That is N-O-T RIGHT. My apologies to God--I'm sure he had a plan for this... thing--but... really? A hairless cat?

I'm an animal lover, curse my allergies. My long-haired cat died last winter and Rex (I believe that's the technical name for a hairless cat) might be an ideal pet for me except for one thing. How, in the name of all that's furry, do you snuggle a hairless cat? It's, like, naked and stuff. There's something about a hairless cat that is just...well... mildly profane.

So it made me think. There's been a lot of blog posting in ECF world the last few weeks about what's profane, what is the definition of profanity, and what we should/shouldn't, can/can't be allowed to put in a novel (as a Christian author) without crossing the line.

Now I finally know the answer.

Words, schmerds, people. Sex and violence? Bring it on. But whatever you do in your quest to be a relevant and edgy author, DO NOT--I said DO NOT allow a hairless cat to appear in your novel.

It could be made into a movie one day.

And that, my friends, would simply be profane.

Don't do it.

Unless, of course, it serves your story.

And another thing: you might just want to think twice about naming your characters Zach or Cody, because.... well.... watch the show. You'll see. If you don't gouge out your own eyeballs, that is.

Now, enough with all this profanity. Go read a book or something.

When opening the manuscript is like opening a vein... and other writing neuroses.

2010-07-23T22:06:00.001-07:00

I remember sitting in Mrs. Delzell's class my senior year of high school and, in the middle of a class discussion, (no, I don't remember the topic) one of my classmates turned to me, made a disgusted face, and said, "Geez, Shawna, do you have to analyze everything???"

Nineteen year later I have realized that, yes--I do have to analyze everything. I am a freak. I'll admit it. I not only analyze everything, I over-analyze everything. I'd like to think of my need to examine issues from various angles as a strength--that I am "analytical"--cuz that sounds like a smart-person thing. And I love, love, love to sound like a smart person. It just feels nice. But "analytical" also sounds sort of like a suit-wearing, math-person thing, and I am SO not that. I'm an artsy-fartsy creative type; I'm mostly ruled by my emotions. I'm an over-thinker. Just not usually about the sorts of things that could do anyone any good.

Although I apply this strange sickness to all areas of my life and relationships, my writing is the most frequent victim of this analytical, second-guessing neurosis. For example: Something I thought beautiful and moving yesterday... well, today I may edit the heart right out of it. On the other hand, something which is truly crap might have bathed in the lying light of "Oh, my genius muse!" the day before. It kinda sucks.

I am my worst critic. Wait--am I? Maybe I should think about it from another angle....

I've had countless days where I make the mistake of reading something in a bad mood and decide I should consider applying for a job at McDonald's instead of inflicting one more word upon my poor readers. Are all writers this insecure, or just us artsy-fartsy types? Yet I have two completed novels just waiting for an editor's summons within my hard drive.

Since writing those first two books my craft has improved--a lot. I've added more tools to my chest, more cookies to my jar, more... well, you get the idea. I've also added to my file a whole pile of rejection letters. These letters, and the fact that my road to publication has detoured waayyy off course leads me to believe that, while the McDonald's thing might have some merit, I am better than I was when I wrote the first book. So maybe, instead of me saying "I have two completed novels" I need to admit that, until it sells, it's still just a DRAFT of a novel. Forget that the one on the hard drive is draft number seven-hundred-and-forty-six. There is, obviously, more work to do. And I know--I know I am a better writer now than I was when I printed that "final" draft. I've worked hard to become so.

So where does that leave me? And where does that leave my manuscripts? Well, it looks like, and by the way I spent my day today, feels like I've headed straight back into the blood-letting realms of The Massive Re-Write.

You think I'm being dramatic? Well, I'm not. I mean, really. Would you pull out your child's eyelashes one by one so her vision was less impaired? Could you cut off one of your child's fingers to make her grip tighter? Well, that's how it feels sometimes when I am forced to revisit these books I've birthed with THE DRIPPING RED SCALPEL OF NOW-IT'S-WRITTEN, GET-IT-RIGHT.

Over-dramatic? Me?

Never.

Okay, sometimes.

But I'll tell you one thing...

I'm going to analyze the snot out of these pages. I might even get snot on these pages, cuz it hurts to cut so deeply. But it will make them stronger. Better. Cleaner.

Yep, I'm going to analyze EVERYTHING. I'm going to force myself to remember back to where it began and where it took me. I'm going to pray that the heart and soul of this novel--and the passion and purpose it drew out of me when it first revealed its divine spark--survives the amputations and the series of reconstructive surgeries it needs in order to come out of the anesthesia of the slush pile and awaken into a tighter, cleaner realm of truth and beauty and, maybe even, publication.

After all, isn't that what the hard times are for? The crucible for silver, the furnace for gold, and there will be beauty for ashes in THE END.

The Fodder of the Fiction Writer: It's all how you look at it.

2010-07-20T07:55:00.001-07:00

Reading about crime fiction has put me in a reflective mood this morning. As I'm about to dive in to removing more paneling off the walls of our "new" house (circa 1978--and all original) in preparation for the dry-wall guys to come, I'm thinking about the "temporary" residence we occupied for eight months of the last year.

In July of last year my husband took a new job and our house sold within thirty-six hours of putting the sign in the yard. Awesome. We were exultant! When we'd moved into that house six years earlier (with the assumption that our former home would sell quickly) we'd ended up paying two mortgages for twelve months. Not awesome. So, understandably, we were ecstatic to accept the offer! As quickly as we could, we moved our stuff into family barns, basements, and a large mini-storage unit--and moved our family of four into a teeny--and I mean teeny-tiny-- two-bedroom apartment "just for a couple of months" until we could find a house to buy.

But temporary turned out to be a bit longer than we had anticipated. We did not find a house to purchase until March. Believe me: it was a long winter.

When we moved in to the apartment, we re-discovered coin laundry, life without a dishwasher, and the speed at which mold can grow up a wall. The most exotic discovery of our sojourn, however, was the apartment's aroma. The apartment, especially one certain closet, emitted a smell which could only be described as "the belch of rotting death."

When you live in a rural community for most of your life you get pretty used to certain smells. I grew up on an Iowa farm surrounded by woods, so finding a dead possum, raccoon, or even a deer in some state of decomposition was not an uncommon event. I learned early on to identify putrescence from pretty far off. When the scent-in-question was located, the smell could either be ignored, (trusting that creepy crawlies and things that go "oww-ooo!" in the night would take care of it) or, if the carcass was in a particularly annoying place, and the farmer-in-charge ordained it, you could take an old shovel out, scoop it up, and throw it in "the pond."

The pond at our family farm is not a picturesque fishing hole. Nor has it held water in it, to my knowledge, outside of a flood year. Rather, "the pond" is a glorified trash heap; the final resting place of cleared limbs and brush, farm detritus, and various smelly stuff (such as wild animal carcasses) which have no where else to go. It's out of smelling distance of the house. I assume, because of its name, that "the pond" was, at one time, a small body of water; but family lore is unreliable in this area. It's a head scratcher, to be sure. But there it is. And you, my friend, have just been my unwitting companion on a world-class tangent. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

There was something dead in that apartment building. We figured it was probably in the crawlspace--and probably rather large. The scent was way too potent to be something as simple as a mouse in the wall. (Farm girl, remember? I know that smell all-too-well.) Then, one day, I came "home" and the smell was GONE.

And I was not alone.

The apartment was filled with hundreds of fat, lazy, flies. You could run your hand by these pudgy ne'er-do-wells and they wouldn't even flinch. Using a fly-swatter to kill them wasn't even a challenge. These were not the fast, annoying flies who buzz around your hair and and bump into the windows. These guys were...

Completely sated AND WITHOUT A CARE IN THE WORLD. These flies were chillin', dude. If flies smoked pot, these guys would have fit right in to that culture, their size explained by empty boxes of Twinkies and various other dime-store munchies. But there were no open boxes; no discarded plastic wrappers; no crumbs. All I had to explain the presence of these sluggish squatters was the sudden and questionable dissipation of a certain smell. These flies, my flies, were as happy and sleepy as if they'd just turned on the football game after a big Thanksgiving dinner.

And the smell was... gone.

Can you see why this would freak me out a little bit?

I called my witty sister-in-law and explained the situation. After a moment's pause, Heather said, "Don't you watch TV, Shawna?! That's how they find the body!" We discussed my various options. Call the landlord, call the sheriff's department, call the mental health facility to see if they had any rooms available...

But, in the end, I didn't call anyone. I just swatted and swept and swatted and swept some more. Eventually, I got them all. It was rather pathetic, actually. The fat flies didn't even put up a fight. At least they died happy. And, the smell was gone, so we decided to be thankful that, although the dank odor of multiplying mold spores was more noticeable now, Death Himself, was no longer passing gas in the closet.

Besides, the Direct TV guy never said he found a skeleton under the building when he visited the crawl space, so....

It remains a mystery. Was there a crime? Or just a rotting possum carcass? Or... something else? Something supernatural?

I doubt it. But it made you think, didn't it?

Or not.

In any case, I'm in a nice, big, brick house now. There are no funky smells (except on Burrito night, of course) and the flies that do come in are the boring, small-but-annoying type that bump into my windows and buzz around my head.

The good news? Every gross experience, every creeps-me-out encounter, is fodder for my writing life.

Because Fiction Mirrors Truth.

"For crying out loud, there's a killer to catch!" Nike Chillemi writes about Edgy Christian Crime Fiction

2010-07-19T05:39:00.000-07:00

On a morning where my head is pounding, my mood is as sour as yesterday's cold coffee, and have to walk to work since the brakes went out on my van, I was awfully happy to drop by the latest stop on the Edgy Christian Fiction Summer Blog Tour so I could check out Nike Chillemi's post on Edgy Christian Crime Fiction.

Now, we all know that in most Christian circles very few crimes escape the BIG BROOM OF CHRISTENDOM when it's time for a whole-house sanitization. The ones left lying about are usually swept under the rug of "justifiable subcultural detritus" and often appear as little more than the blatant crimes against fashion taking up space in the pews. (Can I get a boo-yah on my denim jumper and knee socks, y'all???) Sure, there are the "tactful" grasps at sounding righteous while fishing for gossip ("Just give me all the juicy details so I can pray for her more effectively.") and other various societal sins which provide the "outside world" with fresh comic fodder from within our squeaky-clean, steam-sanitized ranks. But Nike isn't talking about those sorts of crimes. Nike is talking about POLICE PROCEDURALS, and BLOOD and GORE. She's talking about UNSANITIZED CRIME SCENES and MULTIDIMENSIONAL CHARACTERS who, as she puts it, aren't just bridge club members in cop uniforms looking for a novel to inhabit.

I could tell you more, but I'd rather have you drop by Nike's place today and let her know what you think. Check out Nike's blog by clicking on the direct link below. Then, if the mood strikes, go read a book or something. (She's given some great suggestions!)

http://crimefictionandfaith.blogspot.com/

Propaganda and the Edgy Author

2010-07-14T06:00:00.001-07:00

Today's stop on the ECFL Summer blog tour finds us knee-deep in 'edgy' at Dan Calabrese's blog. I've stopped by and added my two cents--why don't you head on over there and leave your own! Click on the beachy button to the right, go to the second line down for Wednesday, July 14th: Dan Calabrese.

I'm taking up time on a hotel computer since I'm out of town on business, so I'm not going to create a link right now, but the above instructions are easy enough! It's how I dropped by Dan's place this morning, so I have faith that you can do it to!

Finally, I caught Joyce Meyer on TV this morning in between using the painfully inefficient hotel hairdryer and eating my bagel and schlemiel. My favorite Joyce line today? "You don't have to be a fruitloop to be a Christian."

After you've visited Dan Calabrese, you can download a podcast of Joyce's message from today on "BALANCE" --- or---check out last week's great series on becoming a person of excellence and integrity.

Perhaps, instead, you could go read a book or something while I go off to stare at a computer screen while the trainer leads us through all kinds of fun, new knowledge.

Have a great Wednesday!

The ECFL Summer Blog Tour Begins!!!!

2010-07-11T08:45:00.001-07:00

Joy Tamsin David has a great post about Edgy Christian Romance--what it is, important elements it should include, etc.--on her blog. She also has some recommended books for Inspirational Romance readers. Please drop by Joy's place and leave a comment as to how you take your tea. (Read the post, you'll understand.) http://www.edgyinspirational.blogspot.com

Interesting discussion with Nike Chillemi ~ Crime Fictionista: The F-Bomb and Two Camps In Christian Fiction Writing

2010-07-10T14:35:00.000-07:00

Funny thing--right after I read Nike's post, my husband came into my office to share with me the exciting items he saw sell at a local farm auction this afternoon. First he told me about an old grain truck which sold for $21,000 ("It was cute, cute, kee-ute!") Then he told me about a tractor. About the time my eyes were glazing over, my hubby-dear mentioned the hydraulic apparatus on the front of the tractor, comparing it to the bucket on his tractor, "Scoopy." (Remember, this is Iowa, folks. Where name our tractors and eat our hand-raised cows.) What brought me back to a state of full consciousness, however, was when, in his auction-frenzied state, Dave accidentally mispronounced the word "bucket" -- replacing the "b" with an "f".

I laughed, and laughed.

Oh, come on! It was funny.

And because he was in a teasing mood and, apparently trying to get me to pee my pants, my sweet husband kept going on and on about the awesomeness of said (bucket with an "f") and how well it would perform in the field.

Oh, man. I laughed a lot. And I was extra-especially glad the kids were at the pool and no one else could hear our banter. But... there it is.

So the question is upon us: was it profane of me to laugh? for him to tease? or was it good, clean fun?

It's a point I've argued before concerning profanity in fiction (and in life): what is the author's (or speaker's) motive behind using a particular word, phrase, or action which may be considered, by some audiences, to be profane? Has the author looked at other options? Is the use of the item justifiable or gratuitous? Does it fit the character, the context of the work/conversation? Would the Voice of this author be able to portray the usage of this item in a believable fashion?

Nike's post and the attached comments concern the "F-Bomb". In my opinion however, any word or phrase, spoken in violence, can become profane. Even the words I LOVE YOU can be profane when used falsely or used to manipulate another person. To me, such blasphemy aimed toward something which is true--is way more profane than the casual (or not-so-casual) dropping of an occasional F-Bomb.

But it's important to note that, while I may laugh at its utterance when made in a comical error of pronunciation, I still hate hearing the F-Bomb dropping like penny candy on the Wal-Mart floor.

And I don't like to see it abused upon the page, either.

As writers and readers we should look at profanity from a certain distance while keeping our suspension of disbelief firmly in... limbo. (Yes, I know. But can you truly keep a "suspension" firmly in place? I didn't think so.) A writer's authentic voice must remain true as she brings her characters and scenes to life.

Before those critical cards and letters start pouring in, before someone thinks us "edgy" authors are too flip and free with our use of things they may consider profane (a certain scene from Braveheart just popped into my mind. I'll let you wonder which one. Hint: The moon was full that day.), I will let you know that we do not (usually) write with the intent to offend.

But, I digress.

After the writer has ascertained her own motives and has weighed usage against context, character, and voice, she may choose a different way to express a certain emotion or action in order to stay true to the story and its intended audience... and to make the vocabulary and description of action appropriate to both. That's how fiction mirrors truth. And it ain't an easy wire to balance upon when the red pen hits the page.

So, if you haven't had enough of this subject after reading my two cents, visit Nike Chillemi's blog by clicking on the link in the next sentence. You'll find a fresh "Bucket" list of comments, spoken in the words of Nike Chillemi ~ Crime Fictionista: The F-Bomb and Two Camps In Christian Fiction Writing and other brave souls. As always, I welcome your comments. And I'm sure Nike will, as well.

What a fun ECFL Summer Blog Tour Eve. I hope I don't forget to set out the milk and cookies for Joy Tamsin David!

Make sure to check out Joy's blog tomorrow--the first stop on the Edgy Christian Fiction Lovers Summer Blog Tour. Joy will be blogging about Edgy Christian Romance. Date and Link below!

Sun, July 11: Joy Tamsin David, Edgy Christian Romance

http://www.edgyinspirational.blogspot.com

Film Trailer for The Voyage of the Dawn Treader!

2010-07-05T17:55:00.000-07:00

Y'all are going to think I've given up this writing thing with all these video links I keep posting. But this one, my dearies, I just could not keep to myself.

The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is my favorite chronicle of Narnia. And, if you haven't seen this yet, and are a fan, follow the link below to reach Narnia... at least for a moment or two. The film doesn't release until December, but... it's coming!

Further up, and further in, I say!

http://www.narniafans.com/archives/8655

Video Link--A call to being real

2010-07-03T11:40:00.000-07:00

Please follow this link I picked up from another ECFL Summer Blog Tour member's blog.

‘My favorite is when you tell me I’m lost. I don’t even know what that means.’

ANNOUNCING: THE EDGY CHRISTIAN FICTION LOVERS BLOG TOUR

2010-06-30T12:06:00.000-07:00

We're on the cusp of a revolution in Christian literature.

Finally.

Readers (and writers) are t-i-r-e-d of the sweet and sappy perfectionism so common in traditional Christian novels. They want something REAL that tickles their imaginations--and resounds with truth within their souls.

A lot of us are just plain sick of the same-old, same-old bonnet books and poor-girl-meets-rich-Christian-boy-and-is-led-to-Christ-so-she-can-marry-rich-Christian-boy stories we find in the "church appropriate" section at Wal-Mart. Enough already. Give us something real! Let us creep out to the edge of "proper" and put some stank on it.

Welcome to the Edgy Christian Fiction Lovers'

Summer Blog Tour.

A group of Christain writers dedicated to pushing the subjective envelope of traditionally acceptable Christian literature has banded together to produce the Edgy Christian Fiction Blog Tour. At this time the tour is scheduled to begin the week of July 11 and will keep firing away with weekly featured bloggers until the end of August. This blog tour will feature a diverse collection of authors and topics (yours truly will be posting on the subject of "Culturally Relevant Characters" during the week of August 22.) This blog tour is aimed at bringing attention to a developing trend in Christian fiction and building readership for its risk-taking authors.

So what is EDGY CHRISTIAN FICTION, anyway?

I'm sure every author on the tour has a slightly (or not-so-slightly) different take on what makes a piece of Christian fiction "edgy." Everyone has their predispositions, prejudices, and hot buttons, and mine may not be the same as another more conservative (or more liberal) writer. It's hard to nail down exactly what Edgy Christian Fiction is--because it will always be under development. I've thought a lot about what Edgy Christian Fiction could or can be, but I won't try to squeeze this emerging sub-genre of a sub-genre (or its authors) into a neatly labeled little box. Since I can't (or won't) definitively say what ECF is, I will, instead, give a few bullet points of what it is not. {Forgive me if I don't use actual bullets. We're all about safety at Fiction Mirrors Truth. (And if you believe that, this could possibly be your first visit to my blog....)}

Edgy Christian Fiction is not Your Grandma's Favorite Inspirational Novel. It is not preachy, nor does it proliferate cardboard stereotypes of "the sinner" and "the saved." Edgy Christian Fiction does not fear making the reader uncomfortable with characterization, detail, or subject matter. Nor does it pale at the thought of badly behaving Christians or the morally upright non-Christian. But, above all, (in my opinion) Edgy Christian Fiction does not fail to share Truth in some form--somehow--while refusing to attach a tidy little bow on the uglier aspects of the human condition.

Edgy Christian Fiction can be found under the guise of any genre (okay, maybe not erotica. LOL) It can be Historical, Contemporary, Sci-Fi, Mystery or Suspense; Romance, Fantasy, or even a fluffy beach read. It can be deep and life-changing--or light and entertaining. It might have a clear evangelical message or have nuggets of Truth deeply hidden within symbolism and characterization. Regardless of the stylization, genre, or tone of the novel, however, Edgy Christian Fiction is brave.

That's how I see it, anyway.

It's summertime--the time for beach combing (if you can find a beach where you live!) and pool lounging and finding a comfy chair and a great read. So before you pack your beach bag, make sure you dig around Amazon.com to find a great piece of Edgy Christian Fiction to dive into after your toes get pruney. I'll be posting some titles that fit the bill and I'm sure my fellow authors on the blog tour will be touting a few as well. Please come back July 11th (and thereafter!) and click on the beachy button on the upper right side of this page. Follow the links during the corresponding weeks. Please. You'll see me stopping by in the "comments" sections and, hopefully, we'll get some new, brave insight on what it takes to create, read, and get our minds wrapped around some fresh, edgy fiction... that mirrors Truth.

Fiction Mirrors Truth: A PLUG FOR MY TECHNICALLY AND GRAPHICALLY TALENTED FRIENDS

2010-06-29T18:51:00.000-07:00

Fiction Mirrors Truth: A PLUG FOR MY TECHNICALLY AND GRAPHICALLY TALENTED FRIENDS

A PLUG FOR MY TECHNICALLY AND GRAPHICALLY TALENTED FRIENDS

2010-06-29T07:59:00.000-07:00

So how do you like the new header? Isn't it AWESOME??????

The new Fiction Mirrors Truth logo is the most recent triumph of JG Designs of Manhattan, Kansas. It looks pretty cool here... but just wait 'til you get the t-shirt! (Coming soon!)

There's a little reflection, a little blur, and a little bit of smoke and mirrors. It's got some hints of erosion upon a solid block, yet clarity is hidden under a filmy surface. (Kind of like a great book, eh?) Jodie Gerling (the chief graphic design artist) took my vision for FMT and ran with it--(running seems pretty tame for this achievement--I think there may have been dancing involved.)

And Jodie and her team can do the same thing for you and your website or blog or book jacket!

Visit Jodie's website http://www.jodiegerlingdesings.com to see this talented team's work on display. Browse around a bit--Jodie has artistic photos just begging to become book covers, yet her body of work weaves a story all its own.

When you stop by JG Designs, make sure you mention my name or the new Fiction Mirrors Truth logo to let Jodie, Alan, Isaac, and Domino (the resident office cat) know where you first noted the mad skills of the design professionals at JG Designs.

On My Soapbox Again: In Defense of Potter

2010-06-24T09:05:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago I responded to a question posted to one of the forums of an online writing community in which I participate. The question concerned Harry Potter. If you've read many of my previous posts, you might be able to guess the direction of my comments. I tend to get all worked up when a possible Potter-bashing seems to be on the cusp of a discussion. So... I said my piece and then decided to opt out and let it lie. But alas... more comments rolled in and... here I am on my soapbox once again.

I understand that many people feel uncomfortable reading a book which, on the surface, seems to promote things which are not of God. Fine. Don't read it. But don't judge others for doing so. And, whatever you do, don't allow yourself to spread negative propaganda from an Pharisaical position of ignorance. Instead, remember that the very stories Jesus told, (which were often incomprehensible at the time to his listeners),were nothing less than illustrations of Truth artfully hidden within Story in order to stretch the minds and hearts of generations yet to come.

I believe Fiction is a gift which the Holy Spirit can and does use--often. And fiction which is not published under the "Christian" banner/label/genre, seems to have the most potential for this life-changing infusion of Truth into the world.

Jesus didn't hang out at the local Christian Book Shop, or even in the bonnet-book section at Walmart-- waiting for the sinners to show up. And neither should we.

Years ago, when the first movie of J.K.Rowling's series was coming out in theaters, my TV was filled with Christians coming out against both the films and the books. So, naturally, I read the first Harry Potter book, The Sorcerer's Stone, simply to see what the fuss was about and whether or not it was justified. When I closed the final page I was not scandalized, but rather, I was in tears, because of the Beauty and Truth I found within its pages. And... I was ANGRY at the Salem-like, legalistic fanaticism which fueled the controversies concerning this (and the following) books.

In a later book in the Harry Potter series, Ms. Rowling, I believe, answers this unfounded criticism with the minor character Pius Thicknesse. A laughable, metaphorical name, to be sure, I believe Mr. Thicknesse to be a comment to the anti-Potter crowd within "the church". I laughed out loud when I first came across this character's name and corresponding personality. It seems to shout to all the naysayers, "Duh!" (Of course, the naysayers wouldn't have read the book, so.... I guess it was maybe for the entertainment for those who have read the series and "get it.") Bravo, Jo.

The self-adapted phrase "don't be so heavenly minded that your mind is of no earthly good." seems appropriate here.

In short (yes, it seems a bit daft to claim brevity at this point in my defense of Fiction) I refuse to take seriously the negative "review" or criticism of a novel when such opinion is perpetrated by a person who has not personally read the work(s) of fiction in question. There is a certain aspect of mob mentality present when an individual succumbs to ignorant propaganda created by those who refuse to look beyond the fictional aspects of a novel to see the Beauty and Truth (both things of God) hidden in plain sight upon the page.

There is NO PLACE within Rowling's popular series where a protagonist or even minor character on the "good guys" team bashes or even remotely insults Truth or Christianity. There are times when, like all of us, they question the cost of doing what is right, but it is the evil characters --those who have sold themselves over to darkness and the love of power--who insult all that is Good and True.

Cuz that is what the bad guy does in fiction. Duh.

Fiction isn't Truth--fiction is a mirror for Truth. Sometimes it is a pure reflection, other times it is a funhouse mirror or a cracked surface. But by judging a book by its cover (or title, or propaganda and rumor) we may just miss out on something which the Holy Spirit could use to give us a better understanding--and a clearer view--of Himself.

Even those books/movies/tv shows that bash Christians and Christianity, unfortunately, are sadly accurate mirrors of the Loud Voices of Hypocrisy & Legalism which have stained the label "Christian" into a laughable subculture rather than a living relationship of eternal significance. By association, these reflections have stained the name of Christ. Yes, I am angered when I hear these insults, but often on two levels. First: because the insult is driven into something which is True and, second, because it is likely driven as a preemptive action or defensive strike by someone (a writer?) who has obviously been hurt at the hands/words/deeds of someone claiming to carry the banner of Christ.

May God's Mercy cover us all. And may we, as writers, produce inspired works of fiction which not only draw the reader into our worlds, but, through the work of the Holy Spirit, ignite a passion for Truth within the areas of our culture--and our hearts--where a Lie has taken root.

Book review: BREATHLESS by Dean Koontz

2010-06-16T15:10:00.000-07:00

Simply put,

Breathless, a novel by Dean Koontz,

is a story of second chances.

But there is nothing “simple” about this cross-bred science fiction/fantasy novel of suspense.

Koontz is a master of creating a sense of place and, even with this story, set in multiple locales with multiple protagonists and antagonists, Koontz's gift is spot on. The plot thread seems tenuous at times as the reader is tossed into a new place--into the thoughts of a new character--. But as the subplots twist and turn in on one another, a pattern forms from Koontz's seemingly chaotic prose. Within this crazy-quilt of a story, themes are introduced and explored without the reader realizing how each subtle thread has grabbed hold of--or caressed-- her imagination. After reading the final page, however, the beauty of the pattern emerges; and its imprint is destined to last long after the book has been shelved.

Koontz’s obvious love of animals plays a huge role in this novel. Contrasting the purity of an animal’s motivations to the complexity of a human’s, Koontz uses creatures, both known and unknown, to personify the gifts of wonder, innocence, faith, and acceptance while he deftly portrays human reticence—and resilience—to mirror the truth and consequences of such gifts.

With a myriad cast of characters (including a veterinarian who was abused as a child, a special forces sniper-turned carpentry artist, a pure-hearted Irish Wolfhound, a corrupt and sadistic political aide, a do-gooder physicist, a poet and his wife, a homeless alcoholic with tendencies toward violence, and a pair of heretofore undiscovered creatures), Koontz explores the miracle of creation and the concept of eternity from each vantage point. Without stooping to proselytize tired theological arguments, Koontz places before the reader a Puzzle and a Riddle--questions with answers; pictures in pieces; parts of a greater whole--and leads the reader to grasp unspoken conclusions through the power of Story.

I instantly fell in love with several of this book’s characters, particularly those of a furrier species. But I must admit that there was one particular character that made me uncomfortable; a character whose storyline caused me to question if Koontz’s writing had been diverted, or corrupted, rather, from its artful course by the current trend in fiction toward sexually-driven villainy.

To be honest, the scenes visualized through Henry’s point of view made me squirm. I didn’t want to see into his sadistic, deviant mind; I didn’t want to hear thoughts about who he’d like to store in his potato cellar and why. For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why Henry was included in the book at all. Near the end of the novel, when he finally does come into contact with another, kinder character, the scene is so brief that I ended the chapter thinking: “Really? That was the point of suffering through Henry’s madness with him? That’s it????” At that moment, Henry's inclusion seemed little more than a writer's device--or a sensationalist marketing tool. But, as is so often the case when you decide to trust an author, I was rewarded for making the choice to continue to suspend my disbelief for just a little while longer.

When I closed the book and took a moment to mix and digest all the various subplots and character arcs and resolutions, I realized that Henry was necessary. And that, as an artist who shows multiple dimensions of Theme, Dean Koontz had no choice but to include this character in his novel of second chances. Like viewing the negative of a photograph, we see, through sick, nasty Henry, that second chances are a GIFT—and when misinterpreted, or gained through ill means, it is not an authentic gift but, rather, a curse. I won’t include a spoiler other than to say: It doesn’t end well for Henry. And that made me happy.

As always, Dean Koontz kept me on the edge of my seat throughout the reading of this novel, but it wasn’t the intensity of the prose which moved me so much as the seed-pearls of wisdom and beauty so innocently--and seemingly randomly--placed. As my brain spun in an attempt to digest chaos theory, multiple storylines, and an overarching theme, I was both challenged and thoroughly entertained. As is almost always true with this amazing author’s work, Breathless made me think about deep and unsearchable things; things which are brought more clearly into focus only when fiction mirrors truth.

Yes, Breathless is a story about second chances. But it's also a tale of mystery and beauty; a complex weaving of concepts such as creation and eternity with those of wonder and innocent faith. It's a sparkling golden passage through a dark wood where, if the reader allows herself, she can be awed by the discovery of patterns of the Divine within apparent chaos.

No, there is nothing "simple" about this novel--but there is much that is True.

...and plenty to leave you BREATHLESS with wonder and wondering--long after you turn the final page.

Write What You Know?

2010-06-10T09:43:00.001-07:00

It's a tired old refrain of wisdom from the pros.

I subscribe to several literary agents' blog feeds and today's feed from one particular agency was a disheartening sucker punch to science fiction and fantasy authors. Though I'm sure it was not meant as such.

"Write what you know" the agent proselytized. The agent posed questions similar to these: How can a suburban housewife write about firing an M16? How can a garbage man write a novel about being a cop? The advice was more or less: "Don't even go there." But the agent added a disclaimer "unless you do thorough research."

Well, duh.

But what about fantasy? What about worlds which live within Imagination? After all, who really "knows" magic, and dragons, and unicorns, and time travel? Can a suburban housewife write about princesses, and talking cats, and castles? Can a garbage man convincingly portray dragons and were-creature-infested swamps?

You bet.

That's why FANTASY, good fantasy, anyway, is relationally driven. (My opinion.) Because although it would be AWESOME if a giant, wingless lion took me for a flight on his back in order to save the world as we know it from Evil, it's really about trusting the lion--about relating to the lion, snuggling the lion without fear. But with fear.

Yes, relationships are tricky. This I know.

I don't believe that C.S. Lewis ever took a flight on the back of a lion so he could write about it, but I've read much of his nonfiction and it is clear that, through the beauty of relationship, Jack flew with The Lion.

Write what you know.

Yes. Do that.

But keep in mind that "what you know" isn't always translated into tangible experience. It's often something less definitive--like the moon's reflection on the ocean.

Do your research, yes. As much as you are able. Then put away your stamped passport (aka: library card), dive into the ocean and chase the moon. (Or moons, depending on your genre!)

Whatever you do, in whichever genre most taps your passion, don't come up for air until you've reached that mystical island where Fiction Mirrors Truth.

THE DOCTOR IS IN! Crazy, Comforting Combos for Characterization and Therapeutic Benefit

2010-06-09T14:02:00.000-07:00

Funny thing I thought of last night--the odd coupling of comfort items in my life; things which would not normally be paired but, for some unknown reason, give me the warm fuzzies when put together. Things that I, both consciously and unconsciously, have let enrich (I hope) my characters.

Let me list a few.

1. FOUNTAIN DR. PEPPER AND A WARM, FAST-FOOD CHAIN CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE.

Back in the day, when Hardees restaurants still marketed to families instead of the great unwashed redneck population, my friend Julie and I would end (or begin) many a girls' night out at that fine, ahem, establishment. Jules would usually get a Dr. Pepper and a small order of fries and, after I ordered my requisite Pepper, I would request one brown-sugary, melt-in-your-mouth-yet-still-crispy-on-the-outside masterpiece of baked ecstasy called The Big Cookie.

Tangent alert: I don't go to Hardees anymore--I really got horked when they changed the recipe of aforementioned cookie and eschewed brown sugary goodness for a strong taste of preservative--but I swore off them when they launched their "Paris Hilton Washing a car in her very wet, clingy, barely-there hotpants" marketing campaign (hard to believe the company's marketing could go downhill from there. But, really, guys. Ew. I'm not a prude, but there are things that are appetizing and things that aren't. Fat, sweaty, hairy, greasy men diving into ginormous burgers just doesn't make me want to eat at your dive.)

Anyway... back then, Hardees was a family show--a teen show on the weekends--and since The Creepy Guy worked at the McDonald's next door, there we'd land. Hardees was pretty much on the way to everywhere we'd want to go (movies, mall, etc.) and always on the way home, as well. Funny how that works. Although The Big Cookie, as it once was, has probably rolled over in its grave if they have High Def TV in Cookie Heaven, I have found that both Arby's and KFC have a reasonable, though quite a bit smaller, facsimile. And they both serve Fountain Dr. Pepper. Yippee!!! Nostalgia. Ahhhhh. This indulgence takes me briefly back to the days when I could have indulge regularly and not gain an ounce because the angst of teendom would burn off all those calories.

Good times.

2. A COLD CAN OF DR. PEPPER and RUSSELL STOVER FRENCH CHOCOLATE MINTS

Julie introduced me to Mr. Stover's delightfully creamy indulgence while we were studying for an Algebra II test at her house. Better than Prozac, the Doctor and Mr. Stover combined their therapeutic expertise to help me rise above my anxiety and actually pass the test. I think I passed, anyway.... huh. (insert my carefree shrug of the shoulders. I have a college degree and still don't know diddly about cosigns and imaginary numbers. And strangely, have never need to know about them in real life.) Regardless, I have nothing but the kindest of thoughts toward both clinicians. French Chocolate Mints have their origins in the divine, I think.

3. WATERGUNS and --wait for it-- A COLD CAN OF DR. PEPPER

Julie, again, and Brandi, the other member of our cord-of-three-strands friendship provided me with my most vivid, grab-your-gut-laughing memories of my youth, young adulthood, and into the NOW.

TANGENT ALERT: (If you like that phraseology,"grab-your-gut-laughing" it could probably be texted as GYGL. tee, hee! Giggle. Get it?! Oh, look! We've just invented a new text word! Aren't we funny? When it makes it into the Urban Dictionary, call me!)

Crawling across the backyards of two high school teachers on our bellies with the intent of attacking the Superintendent of Schools' house with water guns is just one of many memories involving "The Angels" -- as we referred to ourselves and still, sometimes, do twenty years later. Even now we are planning a get together at which may or may not involve waterguns, but will certainly involve Dr. Pepper.

Dr. Pepper has played a huge role in my life. It's the best thing to come out of Waco, Texas since... um...David Koresh? Nope. That doesn't work. Okay, the best darn thing to ever come out of Waco, Texas. (No offense to my Texan friends. I love y'all. You know that.) But, seriously now... how can one not find comfort within a beverage you associate with nostalgia, fun, friends, and, often, chocolate????

I've suddenly realized that I should be supremely grateful that my friends and I were fairly good girls. Had another, stronger beverage been the liquid companion to our adventures, then perhaps I would be writing this post from rehab. As it is, however, I'm just lovin' on the Pepper and I'm using this pull of mine toward the Good Doctor to help me visit my other bastion of Cheap Therapy: writing fiction.

I've created a somewhat neurotic character who is nearly chemically dependent upon Dr. Pepper when the going gets rough. Her choice companion for those fizzy sessions? Milk Duds. Being interested in all the technical aspects involved in the craft of writing, I have done a fair bit of research on this particular therapy combo and, after one gastronomically disastrous foray into the excesses of my character, I have finished my research--and decided to lay off the Milk Duds.

'nuff said.

4. WATCHING AN ACTION MOVIE WHILE SIPPING COCA-COLA THROUGH A STRAWBERRY TWIZZLER.

Seriously. Try it. It makes the Coke taste almost like a Dr. Pepper. And action movies rock.

So, that brings me to the question for my readers (God bless all 10 of you!): What are your weird combos for comfort, nostalgia, and warm-fuzzies? And to my readers who are also writers: Do you incorporate your personal neuroses/cravings/comforts into your characters--and/or--Do you find yourself taking on the neuroses you invented for your characters while engaged in the writing of a piece?

Leave your answers in the comments. I can't wait to read about your crazy combos and if they show up upon the page where Fiction Mirrors Truth.

Selfish Hedonism and The Writer's Life

2010-06-03T06:22:00.000-07:00

There are times when guilt hits me out of the blue with a poisoned dart; when the voice of discouragement whispers in my ear that the writing life is one of supreme selfishness.

Because it is.

Yes, I try to hold to a schedule--some days more successfully than others. I turn on the computer when the kids go out the door to school and turn it off when they come home. Most days. But in the meantime, in those too-quickly-passing hours spent in that Other World, there is not much I am doing to benefit my family or the world at large.

But, I argue, I must also serve my calling! How can I attend to the basic, mundane functions of running of a household (laundry, dishes, meal planning, grocery shopping, vehicle maintenance, etc.) when my mind is so fully engaged elsewhere?

When I am deep within a story, so deep that my soul is rent and my very hearts blood appears upon the screen, my vision tunnels to all else.

I suppose that is rather selfish.

That my writing has yet to make a significant financial contribution to the family makes this "career choice" seem self-serving. That the need to acquire books, training in the craft, and attend conferences actually causes a financial burden to the household makes me cringe. Who, besides me, is benefitting from these hours spent extracting the venom and honey from my soul to the screen? Well, no one... yet. Perhaps, with a book contract in hand and an advance on its way I wouldn’t feel that this pursuit is so utterly hedonistic—so self-serving.

But then again, I have to remind myself, even without a paycheck, writing is cheaper than therapy.

So this is the cost of my calling—my passionate pursuit. To live with the knowledge that even if a contract never materializes, even if only my friends and relatives and those I pay for professional editing services ever read the completed novels, I have to keep writing.

I really don’t have a choice in the matter. The stories must be told.

Today is my kids’ last day of school. So here I sit, just shy of 8 am, still in my pajamas, with a hot cup of the Nectar of Inspiration. Today’s creamer choice is White Chocolate Mocha. I’m banking on it working for me, helping to keep the flow… eventually. First, there is a phone call to make, an appointment to keep, and a shower to take—not necessarily in that order. There is a dishwasher to unload and reload, a breakfast table to wash, and a dog to walk.

Perhaps by noon I will make my way back to this disorganized, paper and book-strewn desk; back to my soft brown chair and my tin of Godiva Pearls--dark chocolate with mint--and a fresh, steaming cup of the writer's ambrosia, brewed extra bold. I will power up my computer and lean in to sniff the air like a hound. I will rediscover the trail I was forced to leave off from yesterday and, when I catch its scent, I will immerse myself in a few precious hours of hedonism; a few beautifully aching hours of traveling to that otherworld where Fiction Mirrors Truth.

The Purpose of Procrastination, or Welcome to My World

2010-06-01T11:24:00.000-07:00

If procrastination were an art form, I’d be its most sought-after Diva.

The internet snares me sometimes; okay, often. What begins as “research” or “networking” turns into mindless surfing to avoid the glaring blank page I should be focused upon. Today, however, the page hasn’t been blank. It hasn’t glared, it’s grinned. Because it's been filling up with words.

Yesterday’s mindless surfing--as I waited to get my groove on--resulted in a visit to cafepress.com where I viewed lots of funny stuff—t-shirts, posters, etc., which made me laugh and then, unexpectedly, made me close down my Google Chrome and GET BACK TO WORK! You see, I saw this inspirational mug. I know, silly. But go with me on my wave of procrastination. It said, “The first draft doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to be written.”

Ouch.

There are two conferences I would love to attend—would love to have fresh, finished, polished manuscripts to present to editors—but my characters have been strangely silent the last few weeks. Or perhaps, just perhaps, they’ve been screaming and I’ve just tuned them out. One manuscript is over half-way complete, the other, about one-fourth. I know how they end, both of them. Point A and Point D are clear in my mind. It’s that stubborn Act II—those Points C&D which have my knickers in a twist. So I keep going back and polishing what I’ve already written rather than adding to it. My word count goes up and down, but stays within a range which accounts for precisely zilch… NO FORWARD MOTION!!!

Until yesterday, when I happened upon that quote.

“The first draft doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be written.”

Preach it.

And that forward writing motion has continued into today. Thanks to not wanting to sit in a smelly shop and wait while my tire gets fixed, I’ve written a book review, finished the new scene I labored over yesterday, and almost have another new scene completely ripped. I feel good. Yet I’m still procrastinating on that blooming tire.

Good news, however. I have the next two days off work. I have a 10,000 word goal this week, and I’m sitting pretty at over 3,000 gloriously unedited words of first draft material so far. Also, I have obtained the newest Kristen Heitzmann novel, INDIVISIBLE, from my friends at Amazon.com, which I can take with me to the smelly tire shop.

When all else fails, make sure you’ve got a book handy.

Perhaps this is the story of my life—always putting off something to focus on… something else. Sometimes my procrastination has a purpose—a respite from stress, a step back for reflection, a bandage for the bleeding when what I’ve written has sucked me dry.

Today, however, I’m writing and putting off what I should be doing. You see, my minivan has a flat tire. Seriously flat. As in, I-almost-got-stranded-at-Wal-mart-yesterday flat. I need to get it fixed because there are piano lessons tonight and I’m the only available chauffeur. I’m procrastinating on getting my tire fixed. I know. Stupid. But look at all I've accomplished through the art of diversionary tactics!

But, alas, I have to get it fixed in time to pick up my kids. In exactly two hours.

What am I still doing here?

Oh. That's right. Procrastinating.

A Good Christian Girl reads THE DEMON KING, a Seven Realms Novel by Cinda Williams Chima

2010-06-01T06:52:00.000-07:00

(*Some aspects of the narrative below have been changed—but keep in mind that fiction mirrors truth.)

THE DEMON KING

When I reserved this title at my library, I didn’t really think twice about how its title might affect other Believers’ opinions about me if they saw me reading it. In all honesty, the title didn’t give me a single moment’s pause until, while reading, a Christian friend interrupted my bliss.

“Whatcha reading?” He looked at the graphic on the front, an amulet featuring a coiled serpent hanging in the forefront over a back drop of a fog-drenched mountain range (yes, it’s cool), then tilted the cover so he could read the sideways capital letters which proclaimed the author’s name and, larger, the title. “THE DEMON KING.” His lips moved across the syllables and, with a quick intake of breath his eyebrows flew to his hairline and he pulled his hand away from the book jacket as if it had burned him.

Heh, heh, heh.

(That, my friends, is the sarcastic sound of my internal monologue’s “sucka!” laugh. With just a tinge of my evil laugh thrown in for good measure. Perhaps I should have written it “Heh, heh, heh--bwuah-ha-hah!”??)

Internally, I chuckled (see above) and rolled my eyes, thinking, “Here we go….” and prepared to get out my GREAT DEFENDER OF FICTION soapbox to stand upon. Externally, however, I just replied, “Wild title, huh? I love this author. I’ve read all of her books.” And went back to reading. Probably a good call, because sometimes all the soapboxing in the world is not enough to overcome a person’s prejudice.

I have read Chima’s other works, (The Warrior Heir, The Wizard Heir, and The Dragon Heir) and was excited to see a new title by this exciting “new” author. I love being pulled into an alternate reality via a fantasy novel, and Chima has yet to disappoint me.

THE DEMON KING is a great, eye-catching title for a fantasy buff--but a little bit misleading. The Demon King is a colloquialism for legendary Queen Hanalea’s husband who went a little wacko and ended up causing a bit of mayhem. But his story isn’t really THE story.

(And, yes, in case you were wondering, a certain 1970s folksong came to mind each time I read the legendary queen’s name—also the name of a mountain in the Queendom’s geography--. Most of Chima’s intended audience, however, are too young to remember that particular dragon and the name of the land in which he originated.)

As I was saying before Peter, Paul and Mary distracted me, the story itself does not belong to the title character, it belongs to three young characters, Han, aka: Cuffs, the reforming former leader of a street gang, The Princess Heir, Raisa who is being courted by a young wizard as a means for the wizards to regain their lost power in the Queendom, and Amon, Raisa’s childhood friend and bodyguard.

Chima’s former books took place within a magical sub context of our modern world, but THE DEMON KING is pure genre fantasy—the beginning of an epic tale which happens in other time, another place, another reality. With a thoroughly visual cast of minor characters, including mages, warriors, metalworkers, street urchins, and royalty, each with his or her own distinct voice, Chima’s world-building talents have come into their own in this first installment of The Seven Realms series. And her main characters? Love ‘em!

Han, aka “Cuffs”, aka “Hunts Alone” depending upon the company he keeps, is sixteen and tortured by his past, his duty, and the tragic “bad luck” which has seemed to grab hold of him as tightly as the irremovable silver cuffs which have encircled his wrists since infancy. He’s all boy and all teenager, but with the hard-edged maturity and skill which comes from fighting for survival in the streets. Han feels as if he has no place in the world and, after a near-disastrous run-in with a couple of cocky young wizards in the forest, he steals a magical amulet, eschewing the young wizards’ warnings of its power to kill him and secretly takes it for himself and hides it away. When its owner realizes the amulet has been lost, everything and everyone Han loves is put in mortal danger.

Princess Raisa has just returned from being fostered by her father’s clan in the mountains. Skilled in metalwork as well as some warrior training, Raisa is bored to tears sitting in the palace and attending to her mother, The Queen’s, insistence on proper education—all of which seems trite and meaningless to this girl who longs for adventure. During Raisa’s training with his clan, her father has also been absent from court and Raisa is troubled by the way the Queen has changed in his absence. The Monarch seems to be all-too-well acquainted with, enthralled, as it were, with the High Wizard, her most powerful advisor—a man who gives Raisa the creeps. As Raisa’s sixteenth birthday arrives, and her official naming as the Crown Princess with it, suitors line up for their chance to have influence over Raisa’s throne. One of those suitors is Micah Bayer, the son of the High Wizard, but his suit is forbidden—which makes him all the more diverting to Raisa. But Raisa is loyal to the kingdom and has no desire to marry Micah, nor anyone else at such a young age. She plans much more adventure before settling into the political life. The princess's quest for adventure and meaning leads her straight into Han’s violent path.

It could be argued that Amon is a minor character, but Chima spends considerable time building his importance in Raisa’s life, in the past, present, and future and also intersects Amon’s comings and goings with Han and, through that, Han with Raisa. Although we do not get to know Amon as thoroughly as we do Han and Raisa, he is a loyal and romantic character and it is clear that he will play a major role in future Seven Realms Novels.

I hope people of faith will not judge this book by its title and allow their children to read it. Put aside your fear and give it a chance. Read it for yourself and see there is no danger to your soul. THE DEMON KING is a tale of good vs. evil, of light vs. darkness, of power and corruption vs. goodness and bravery. It's an epic of personal transformation. To write this book off due to preconceived notions—prejudice—based upon its title is, in my opinion excessive bigotry and cowardice. Come on, people! Bravo to Cinda Williams Chima--a gifted storyteller who writes with the restraint and freedom due her audience. Give this author a chance and I doubt you will be sorry. There is nothing morally offensive within her books. (If you find something that trips your prude-o-meter, however, please do let me know so I can practice rolling my eyes.)

My recommendation? Read THE DEMON KING with caution… not because of soul-endangering content, but, rather, because you will be tempted to let the dishes sit in the sink and the laundry to build up in the basket until you turn the final page. And, lest you get the wrong idea, please be aware that you will be frustrated at the end. THE DEMON KING is a new release in a new series… and the last page leaves you drooling for its sequels.

Let Ms. Chima tell you more in her own words. Watch the book trailer at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEtfteO-9dU

Metaphor, Tall Grass, and Prayer

2010-05-30T20:39:00.000-07:00

I was pulled to the waterfall tonight, but I resisted. “It’s late already.” I argued. “The mosquitoes will be terrible. And what about the snakes? And the poison ivy?” But the urge was insistent. It wouldn’t let me loose. While walking the dog, clarity struck. This wasn’t just some random hunger for nature’s respite, but a pull of the Spirit; an insistent tug which had been building in intensity since last night. So I settled my dog back at home, told my husband where I was headed and I took a chance, believing the Holy One would meet me there.

The sun was setting, and I didn’t bother to take the phone--there are no reception bars at the waterfall. It was after 8pm when I arrived since I’d put it off so long, and the sun was already below the tree line. The woods were dark and held untold creepiness within their depths. What was I thinking coming out here—by myself—this late?

It’s been a wet spring and the county hasn’t mowed along the road yet this year. The grasses were tall—some above my waist. I parked in the ditch break above the culvert and walked up the gravel road, hoping for a wide, flattened deer trail where the weeds would be tamped down enough that I could cross without having to fear snakes, ticks, and other creepy crawlies which might be hiding there. But no luck. So I stood at the edge of the road, less than thirty yards from my destination, and tears came to my eyes.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t complete my mission. I couldn’t get to the waterfall.

I was too afraid.

When I was a teenager I came here all the time. Heedless of danger and so steeped in the immortality of youth, the thought of creatures and potential accidents was the furthest thing from my teenaged mind. But my thirty-seven-year-old self could not begin to channel that girl. I was trapped on the edge of the gravel road, frozen with the realization that I am afraid of everything. The sad, humbling wrench that my faith is, for all practical purposes, a sham.

“Can you trust me with this?”

The Still Small Voice was unexpected, but not shocking. He wasn’t mocking, nor was he daring me. The Voice wasn’t asking me to go down the bank and across the water, just to reach its top; to go through the tall grasses; to place my feet on unlevel, possibly inhabited ground. The Voice was as quiet as a thought, but without the timbre of self origination. And with that simple question the Spirit caressed my mind—and tore open my heart.

I swallowed and looked back toward my van. Then toward the waterfall, and back at the weeds and tall wildflowers. My heart sank. Anything could be hiding in those grasses.

“Can you trust me with this?” The question reverberated around my soul, gently demanding an answer.

“I don’t know.” I admitted, though hesitantly, aloud.

I stared at the grass some more while I considered the question. I walked back and forth along the road’s edge, looking for a clean path where there was none. I heard creatures, small creatures, move to my left, but I didn’t see the evidence of their existence.

“Can you trust me with this?”

And , suddenly, I knew my answer. It was shocking to admit, but achingly true. “No.” I said. “I can’t.” And my honesty took me the rest of the way to a revelation moment—the realization he’d planned for me all along with every urge that had tugged at my heart for the past twenty-four hours. “I haven’t really trusted you for a long time.”

I gazed at the bank. I knew right where the path would be, even though I couldn’t see it. The steep deer trail down the mud with hidden rock outcroppings just the right size for a foothold. Even from my low point on the road I could see the young tree trunk—thicker than I remembered—which my youthful self had grabbed onto for balance before using it to swing down to the rock-lined creek bed below. But I couldn’t get there. Something was in my way.

Fear.

“Trust me with this.”

It wasn’t a question anymore. It was a nudge. And to disobey seemed... wrong. But my feet were heavy.

"Trust me with this."

“Okay.” I took a deep breath and pushed a size-nine’s worth of grasses down, then another. And another. I jumped over a low spot and up to where the grass wasn’t so tall. I stepped carefully, and the sticks in my path remained thankfully inanimate. I made it to the top of the creek bank.

I made it. But I couldn’t have done it on my own. Without that nudge, I would’ve already been back to the van, crying and feeling defeated. But I made it through the tall grasses, across the place where I’d seen a coiled snake just last spring, and to the top of the creek bank.

“I did it.” I said. “I trusted you to get me this far.” And as I stood there at the top of the bank, I thought, "Now what?"

The far ledge of the waterfall called to me as if it could smell the girl I once was. I really wanted to get across the creek to where the white wildflowers grew out of the rocks (always on the opposite side—the sun-facing side), to sit on that ledge and dangle my legs above the pool below—but the crossing would be slippery. Though I wouldn’t have hesitated at fifteen, I knew the creek was running too swiftly for common sense to take me to the waterfall’s ledge. Strangely, however, the urge was gone. The message had been simple. He hadn’t asked me to trust Him to get to the destination today, just to get to the place where I could see the path clearly. And He didn’t need me to go the whole distance tonight. He only wanted to take my hand and bring me close enough to see it—and to see something else-something hidden from the naked eye and from my fear-veiled heart.

This was not simply a trip to the edge of a waterfall. This was a safari to the edge of my faith which took me a few pitiful steps beyond its borders. At his urging, I was forced to take the stage as a player in my own allegory. I guess the Holy Spirit had a message for me that wasn’t making it through the static-filled channels of the daily grind, so He had to bring me to this place tonight to show me how my commitment to Fear paralyzes me—and limits him from accomplishing that Good Work which he has begun within me. On this stage, this weedy amphitheatre, the Holy Spirit chose to pierce my consciousness with the power of metaphor.

It was time to go. I headed 8 miles west and home as day wept orange through its hazy blue eyes. I’m not sure what to do with tonight’s revelation, but I think my fear—that ugly gray lump which has lurked on the corners of the last several months, staining my ability to write, relate, and, yes, even, at times, function—has been somewhat crippled by this revelatory visit to my sacred space.

I have been humbled tonight; an adventure which rarely happens alone. Seeing my allegorical self was painful, though necessary; for how else could I accept that fear cannot stand fully erect in the presence of the wooer of my soul?

Oh, that each day I would be willing to step out on faith and to bleed honestly upon the page; that I would move forward through the mysterious tall grasses knowing that, although this may not be the day I reach that place where I can sit and dangle my feet over The End, I can type my heart onto the keypad and trust that His hand rests upon mine to take me exactly the distance he wants me to go. Oh, that I would faithfully follow his leading—his urging—his wooing—to that place where metaphor comes to life… and where fiction mirrors truth. Amen.

"If music be the food of love, play on." -Wm. Shakespeare

2010-05-27T07:54:00.000-07:00

I just had to share this link to a song by one of my new favorites, Broadway phenom, Sutton Foster. This song is so moving--makes me think of the Holy Wind, "Sarayu" as depicted in William P. Young's novel, The Shack. (READ IT NOW IF YOU HAVE NOT YET READ IT!) I don't know if the songwriter had any thoughts of God while writing this tune, but I have no doubt the Holy Spirit inspired the lyric and the absolutely gut wrenching melody/harmony with THIS DAY and me and my need for Him in mind. This song, to me, speaks to the hunger and restlessness and great gaping need to be solitary while soaring in the presence of God. Perhaps your need and mine are not in the same place today, but I hope you enjoy the song nonetheless. And I hope the link works! If not, go to you tube and type in Sutton Foster Flight and click on the one which is accompanied by the album cover for her album WISH.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9iZwX-aV8k&feature=fvw

May you hunger and soar upon Truth's breeze today.

The Colors of Fiction

2010-05-14T06:40:00.000-07:00

Last fall my daughter decided she wanted blue hair. Not blue all over, but one thick streak of bright, electric blue. I said, "Cool." (to my husband's surprise) and set about finding an inexpensive way to add this startling hue to my child's repertoire of individuality props and fashionista experimentation tools.

In our small town it isn't considered "normal" for a tween girl--or anyone, for that matter--to have blue hair; even a streak. But, I reasoned, now is the time. Seventh grade. And why not? Someday she's going to have to go out and get a job and I don't want her having the lifelong regret of, "Oh, man. I wish I'd had the guts to have funky hair when I had the chance!"

Though, as regrets go, I suppose that isn't too heavy a burden to bear.

Are you gasping at my parenting skills? Well, I guess you don't know me very well, then. You see, for two years my own stylist has been routinely talking me out of putting a few cherry-red streaks in my hair. I really, really want a couple--just a couple mind you--of thin, cherry red streaks. But, alas, I have listened and stayed with my "normal" (aka: crazy striped) three-color dye job of natural human colors (though not mine--that color remains unknown.) And then? I lost the chance. I took a job in a place with a dress code. A dress code which includes a proviso for "no non-human hair color."

Darn.

Around the same time, my daughter went out for cheerleading, which also had a proviso. Luckily, my research had discovered several options for azure hair coloring and Delaney had decided on using a blue pseudo-weave rather than permanent color. Removable and reusable, she kept it in a drawer during basketball season.

And me? Well, I have yet to purchase my own cherry red weave. I may, instead, be forced to live my secret, deep desires upon the page, creating a heroine with cherry red streaks in her hair. There's something within me that balks at the lack of commitment a removable streak implies. I mean, if I'm going crazy, I'm going all the way, baby. No backing out. All or nothing.

So I'm stuck with nothing.

For now.

But that's just me. Good thing my daughter has a good head on her shoulders.

It's amazing what a little color can do to create atmosphere and change a person's outlook--even in fiction. In Hard Times, Charles Dickens writes page after page of gray imagery, so utterly dull in its exceptionally long description that the reader's skin begins to take on a sickly pall. (Can you tell how much I loved that book? Can you tell how much sarcasm and loathing have colored that last remark?) But for all the bleakness a perpetually dark book can, well, perpetuate upon the reader's soul, I have also found that dark, cold imagery, when used skillfully, can speed the heart rate (like in Dean Koontz's No Fear) and send a chilly sense of expectation (like in one of my more recent reads, A Great And Terrible Beauty by Libba Bray.) But the skillful author knows how to juxtapose light and heat against these sensations, these black and gray-nesses, to keep the reader from following a character too far into despair. Bray does this exceptionally well. If you can handle a Gothic novel which touches upon mythology and a bit of the occult and remember that it is FICTION, I do recommend this title.

I'm now reading Daughter of the Forest by Juliet Marillier, an epic fantasy which combines history with Celtic legend and lore and quite vividly paints scene after scene with effusive color. I'm a bit ambivalent about this story line--I do not, as yet, feel vested in its outcome--but I am sticking with it. I'm not on the edge of my seat, but I am intrigued and have been drawn into the sights and scents of the forest by Marillier's exceptional setting descriptions--many of which rely on color and the play of light. I think I can learn something about the craft by sticking with this story and seeing where protagonist Sorcha will end up. And I am anxious to know with whom, though I already have my suspicions. I am, at heart, a romantic. I want her to rescue her brothers from the evil sorceress and find love along her silent journey. And I want to see it in color.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Problem--fixed

2010-05-12T13:18:00.000-07:00

The comments have been posted. Whatever the glitch was, it is now fixed. Thank you, Blogger techies.

Thanks for your patience and your comments!

Now go read a book or something.

Will pub comments soon! and... disclaimer.

2010-05-12T06:13:00.000-07:00

Just a note--a few of you have left comments on my rant and my anti-rant which haven't been approved yet--I've tried! Really! but there's some error at blogger. Your comments WILL be posted ASAP. Maybe the crazy weather is interfering with my DSL....

A little disclaimer: I spent a good portion of my childhood around the Amish (old order, Beachy----and everything in between) as well as several different levels of the Mennonite denomination (from the very conservative, almost-Amish to the contemporary, more liberal congregations). I never meant to imply disrespect to these people groups/subcultures/denominations--my comments and sarcasm were directed toward the FICTIONAL depictions of the Amish by Christian authors and the plethora of gagtastic bonnet book fiction being published in the CBA arena.

One of my best childhood friends was/is Mennonite (surname: Graber) and the life I observed within her home, family, and church (where I attended VBS every summer) greatly enriched my own faith journey. Additionally, it was at a conservative Mennonite Book Store where I discovered the YA Fiction series which changed my life and showed me the way to the Cross. so.....

If anyone was offended by thinking I was dissin' the real Amish or Mennonite PEOPLE, be assured that I was not. Only their fictional (truly, truly fictional) counterparts.

THE ANTI-RANT, or, A Recant... sort of

2010-05-09T21:57:00.001-07:00

Before heading off to bed tonight I went back and read the post I wrote this morning.

Wow. PMS much, anyone? Yeah. It's about that time again--hormones are a doozy, aren't they?It's been more than an hour since my first attempt at sleep. With stomach clenching and anxiety building, I had to get up, had to make amends, as it were, for words fitly spoken (typed.)

Do I gag and/or roll my eyes every time I see a new book cover from a Christian publisher with the Amish "life" portrayed? Yes, I do. Does that invalidate that author's hard work and contribution to the world of literature? Umm. gulp. No.

We don't all like the same stuff.

Nathaniel Hawthorne once wrote:

“Words -- so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.”

And to think that just a few posts ago I wrote about getting over my critical attitude. Oh, the power of words. Forgive me, Amish book authors. You're doing what you feel called to pursue--you are passionate and you're getting published. Congratulations should be in order rather than the scathing criticism of an, ahem, unpublished author.

Another wise writer/philosopher (Dolly Parton) once said,

"Get down off the cross, honey, cuz someone needs the wood!"

Yeah. Poor me. Nobody's pubbing my books. Mayhap there be a reason for that, eh? Maybe someone needs to take one of those heavy beams and wack me upside the head. Maybe I'm just jealous. They're getting published and I'm not. Yeah, I'll admit it: I am jealous--the ugly, green monster kind of jealous--and it ain't pretty. But that doesn't have me rushing to open up a new Microsoft Word Document so I can start writing my new Amish novel. Instead, it has me reaching for my Bible and putting my heart near my knees.

Is that critical, sarcastic person who I really am?

A character from one of my novels stole a line from my real life when she said, "Sarcasm is my native tongue." But tonight I'm reminded of the speaker I once heard who listed sarcasm among the baser human cruelties. Sarcasm has it's place, I think, in our culture... but perhaps it is too easily dripping from my mouth and my keystrokes.

So, is this inability to sleep, guilt-induced recant based on just another hormonal mood swing? I don't know. But I do know that I wish, wish WISH there would be more variety offered by CBA publishers. And , regardless of my guilt over how I expressed myself, I really, really, really, don't like Amish books.

But you might. Or your friends might. And, perhaps, even your teenage daughter might. Gulp. It is possible that within the fiction those bestselling authors create you've found a mirror that I have discarded--one of a different shape and size--one that comes wearing a bonnet. Or maybe not. Maybe you just read to escape--and the Amish life is so different from your own that you just love transporting yourself to that other world.

Escape. Ahhhhh.... I get that. I've done that (though not with Amish books.) I will, from time to time, pick up a regular old fluffy beach read, just for the fun of it. I'm not looking for Truth, I'm looking to be entertained. And that's okay--publishing is a business, after all, and market driven. If sales are steady in a particular genre in this particular economy, then, perhaps there is a place for Amish literature, if for no other reason than to provide a living for some struggling, well-meaning authors and editors. Well, then, as Tiny Tim said, "God Bless us, everyone."

I don't much care for Dickens either, but that's another post, and, since the dude's dead all bets are....

Whoa, girl.

Sorry. Little tangent there. Maybe PMS makes me a little ADD. And LMNOP, just in case you were wondering.

PMS aside, many of my friends could tell you that I suffer from an overdeveloped sense of guilt. If I feel that I've hurt someone, or found out that I (unintentionally) hurt someone, it literally eats me up inside. I lose sleep--I become anxious, feel sick--until I make it right.

Guilt plus hormones equals me posting a recant at a quarter to one in the morning on a day I've gotta get up and go to work in a few short hours. So I guess this is my anti-rant; my apology--my attempt to make it right.

So justice begs to ask: How dare I give a scathing review to a book simply because of its genre? How dare I judge the creation of an author and her publisher without having given it full perusal? I read part of Chapter One of Book One of a new series. I did not read the full book and, as I've stated recently in this very blog--I've grudgingly "stuck it out" on several other-genre titles and been glad for it.

Shame on me.

Does that mean I'm gonna rush right out and get this series and read it? Nope. Cuz Amish books just ain't my bag, baby.

But they might be yours.

And that's okay.

Sometimes our own reflection is the one we most need to hold up against Truth.

Sometimes the mirror needs to be cleaned.

Rant Warning: Amish Books for Good Christian Teens (?!?)

2010-05-09T09:08:00.000-07:00

Just when I thought CBA couldn't possibly offer one more collection of bonnet-driven drivel, I come across a new Amish series offered from Thomas Nelson's children's division, Tommy Nelson. A Summer Secret is the name of the series. Inspiring Amish fiction for teens. (Gagging now, please go get me a five gallon bucket!)

I read an excerpt of Chapter One, Book One online. A book for teens? Not any I know. Maybe a denim-jumper-wearing, I-haven't-cut-my-glory (hair) since I was 2, socially inept, immature, mama's-taught-me-to-fear-the-"world" kid whose reading level tapped out around age nine? Maybe. A Summer Secret might be an acceptable choice for a fourth grader. But not a teen. I will not be among those good Christian mommies who plan to force their tween and teen daughters to read these books (instead of those other books) so they can become good little bonnet-book reading Christian girls.

Jeff Gerke at Marcher Lord Press sarcastically refers to Amish Fiction (and I paraphrase--see his comments for yourself on his website) as the only fantasy fiction published regularly by mainstream CBA publishers. And I agree. Here's his quote (which I love) taken from an interview with author/artist Rachel Marks.

"It’s a whole genre about an alternate world with a bizarre culture and it’s own language and odd rules. It’s truly another world. It’s called Amish fiction. Christian readers apparently have no problem jumping to alternate realities. They just want certain alternate realities, with bonnets and buggies as the fantasy trappings of choice."

http://www.wherethemapends.com/Interviews/current_interview.htm

Glad I'm not the only the only one with a bonnet-induced gag reflex.

From the ages of 2-13 I lived in a community with a large population of old-order Amish residents. I have a hard time seeing the characters portrayed in this "fantasy-fiction" as at all comparative to the characters I saw in that community in my daily life. The Amish lifestyle is based upon tradition, legalism, and some downright crazy ideas about indoor plumbing, procreation, women's roles, facial hair and "The English." But they do make some mighty fine quilts.

The Amish lifestyle is not charming. It's not like Witness (starring Harrison Ford). Neither does it resemble For Richer or Poorer (starring Tim Allen and Kirstie Allie) as entertaining as those films are-- and I can guarantee that, other than a sense of place and an adherence to culturally acceptable wardrobe, the truth holds little resemblance to anything like what I've read in the one or two Amish "Christian" novels I choked through a few years back. The Amish life is a hard life filled with religiously sanctioned abuse--especially against women--and with little or no room for a theology of Grace.

And this is what we're selling to our girls. Go team.

Warning: please set your Sarcasmometers to stun before reading the following paragraph.

Forget secular market trends in teen fiction, because that ungodly tripe could not possibly be suitable reading for our sweet, impressionable young ladies of the church. Give them the stuff that's selling so well to their mammas and grandmammas (forget that it's all we're publishing right now) because then they can carry it (along with their Bibles, of course) in their quilted tote bags with them to youth group and not embarrass us in front of the adults of the congregation. Big sigh of relief. God will surely bless us for our prudent publishing practices.

Puh-leeze. That mirror is cracked.

Clarity and Sunshine and Stillness

2010-05-06T09:15:00.000-07:00

My dog, Vivvi, was greatly in need of exercise, so I took her out to “the farm” – the now-houseless two acres my Gustafson grandparents lived on for sixty years. I poked around in the old buildings for a while and wandered around the yard while Vivvi ran with the happy abandon of a much younger dog. Eventually, I pulled the big green blanket out of my minivan and spread it under the ancient Matriarch of the farm.

I can never remember what variety of tree it is—and it doesn’t matter. This early in May the Matriarch’s leaves are sparse and so high that I couldn’t identify them even if I was into that sort of thing. Which I’m not. No matter, the Matriarch is a giant tree which gives a mountain of shade in the summer. But I’m not looking for shade. I’m reading a good book—a gothic novel recommended by Rachel Marks—and I just want to pick up where I left off last night. So while Vivvi proceeds to find every cocklebur and puddle of water within a six-acre radius (this is how we measure things in rural Iowa), I read.

Libba Bray’s evocative prose soars across the streets of London, but the tone--the atmosphere of the scene—is dark; chilly. And I am sprawled in the sunshine—the pure, undiluted, life-affirming light of Spring. Deciding the words can wait, I close the book and roll onto my back.

It’s pretty windy. It’s almost always windy at the farm—breezy at the very least. Today the wind is conducting the fledgling leaves of the tall cottonwood at the other end of the yard in a waterfall chorus. I don’t know if it is the shape, texture, or proximity of the leaves of that particular cottonwood tree (yes, I know a couple of tree names—but only because I’ve asked ‘the people who know.’) but if you stand under it, or even near it, on a windy day, the sound mimics that of a roaring waterfall.

It’s totally cool.

So I’m lying beneath the Matriarch, listening to the wind rustle her leaves, hearing the imaginary waterfall across the yard, and feeling the white blaze of the afternoon sun against my closed eyes. I’m doing… nothing. And I like it! It feels decadent… and yet, right. It’s been so long since I’ve taken a moment to just be still; to clear my mind of all the have-tos, the want-to-dos, and the should-dos to just be.

There was once a chicken house under this enormous tree, but it’s gone now. I am resting almost exactly where the old, red building used to be. Like my mother before me, when I was a little girl visiting my grandparents in the summertime, I would invariably climb up onto the sloping roof of the chicken house, spread a towel on the rusty tin, and read for hours on end. Sometimes, however, I would just lie there and listen to the birds, the wind, and the whooshing, wishing gossip of the trees. I would plan, I would imagine, and I would dream of the wonderful adventures I would have when I grew up. I was a child. I knew little about the art--the practice, of being Still.

I’m still learning.

The trees whisper while the sunshine seeps through my skin and into my soul. It is welcome. Lately our weather has been cold wind and thunderstorms and pummeling rain--the chill gray days which seep into your mood if you let them. But this blue sky is far from moody gray and the wind is playful rather than the vengeful slapping of recent memory. As these thoughts flit like butterflies across my mind I’m reminded of Elijah waiting within a cave for the Lord to pass by. And I’m feeling His Presence within the whispering leaves, the clear blue May sky, the birdsong, and the waterfall cottonwood tree. I feel His Welcome in the sway of the Matriarch’s arms as she welcome’s back a girl with a book, though it is closed, to nearly the same place that this now-grown-up girl found enchanting as a child.

I feel Stillness.

And it is good.

I guess people like me need to step away from the reflecting pool of books for a moment or two every now and then. We need to take time to close our eyes to the addictive power of words in order to soak within the bright, warm embrace of a Whisper rather than a reflection.

Time to go. But I won't leave empty-handed.

I'm home again. It's a new day. It’s time to take that solar energy and apply it to my work; to let my fingers be the conduit for a whisper to reach the page--hoping that Truth is reflected with a clearer freshness now that the waters have, for a moment, been stilled.

WHERE THE MAP ENDS interviews Rachel Marks

2010-05-01T05:55:00.000-07:00

Jeff Gerke, publisher at Marcher Lord Press, recently posted an interview on Where the Map Ends with one of the edgiest author/artist/cool chicks around. http://www.wherethemapends.com/Interviews/current_interview.htm

Rachel Marks was one of my first online friends at ECFL and I try to keep up with this witty, talented world-weaver whenever I can, checking out her ECFL page as well as her website, http://www.shadowofthewood.com/

Rachel’s artistry is human enough (considering she often depicts non-humans!) to be confused with photography. Amazing. Her writing is tight while remaining evocative. Absolutely worth hardcover price, in case any pubbers are listening!

If you check out the interview I guarantee your “must reads” list will gain a few new titles. (Amazon cart? FULL!) Once you've finished reading the interview, try visiting Rachel’s website. If you're an urban fantasy lover, you'll will be salivating for the release of Golden.

Have a great weekend!

Attitude is Everything

2010-04-28T05:55:00.000-07:00

I don't want to be a negative, critical person. I've been praying about that. Working on that. The last several months have been difficult in every arena. But a new day has dawned. Things are looking up. My personality, however, is having a hard time making the jump to positivity. But, as so often is the case: when we're working on changing something negative about ourselves--especially something that is impeding relationships on both the horizontal and vertical plane, the enemy throws stuff at us to steal our joy and impede our progress. Stuff like Iron Deficiency. Health problems. Communication misunderstandings. Family Issues. Scheduling Nightmares.

Early morning phone calls.

I was called in to work today. I’m having a really hard time not being resentful of losing a writing day. Not because I don’t like my job—I do like my job—I really do! I work with a group of women who are funny, understanding, compassionate, friendly… and just plain nice. It’s a wonderful work environment and a job where I can “leave work at work” at the end of the day.

I had a GREAT writing day yesterday. Seven hours of uninterrupted (okay, I ate lunch!) creativity. Ideas flowed, things got tighter, discovered a new twist in my plot…. It was a great day. And I was soooo pumped to hit it again today. Cause today was going to be EIGHT hours. Maybe more!

But alas. The 6:49am call came in. Someone’s sick. Someone else had a planned day off with appointments. So off to work I go. Sigh.

If anyone out there reading this is a praying person, I’d appreciate your prayers that I approach this day with positivity--that I leave all my negative regrets about lack of writing time at home. I keep telling myself: “The more hours you work, the faster you get the fence installed in the back yard. The faster you get the fence, the less time you have to spend cleaning up dog poo in the garage. The less time you spend cleaning up dog poo, the more time you have to write.”

It always comes down to some sort of poo, doesn’t it?

Oh, wait. I was trying to think positively.

Ellerie has dance class tonight. There’s nothing that says I can’t take my sweet little laptop with me and wait in the car with my characters. Because I can’t wait to reveal how Dr. Vidler found out about Thatcher’s strange abilities—that oughtta cause some tension. Not to mention the recent revelation made by Thatcher’s brother Logan that has far-reaching implications for the whole family….

Like Donald Maas says, and I paraphrase, “Tension on every page!”

Oh, dear. I really need to go get my make-up on. I’ve got to get a fence so I can have more writing time!

Think positive, Shawna! Everything happens for a reason, and acceptance of circumstance can lead to revelation. Who knows what customer will come in, what situation will arise, that could start the wheels turning in new directions? Fiction mirrors truth, after all.

Burned... or not.

2010-04-26T15:45:00.000-07:00

A sort-of-review of Ted Dekker and Erin Healy's novel Burn

I can’t even begin to tally the number of books I’ve checked out from my library the past few months only to return them in disgust after snoozing my way to chapter three. Whether the problem is boring prose, indistinct or cliché characters, or a dragging plot so many of these books have not lived up to their jackets.

So I was a little worried about whether or not I would like the new Ted Dekker/Erin Healy collaboration, Burn. Dekker has rarely disappointed me and his debut duo with Healy, Kiss, was a book I enjoyed. (Enjoyed. Not head-over-heels, but yes, enjoyed.) So I gave it a shot. But a little past chapter three I hit a wall of wondering if I really cared what happened to the characters in the end. But I kept going—kept holding on to hope that this writing duo would not let me down.

And I’m glad I did.

I was drawn into the life of protagonist Janeal Mikkado from the start—though I wasn’t sure I liked her. This caused me a moment’s pause—and some more moments of “What the…?” when the story moved on after Janeal was forced to make a… choice. The decision she made was… dichotomous. A bit confusing to the reader. But… I decided to stick it out.

***Spoiler note: HAVE NO FEAR! I will do everything in my power to avoid putting even the hint of a spoiler in this blog—especially concerning a new release! I want you to read for yourself! You read, you decide!***

Although I understood Janeal to be a conflicted character, even so, I was confused as the story moved away from tragedy and Janeal became… one-dimensional.

I have to admit, I was disappointed at this point. The story twisted and turned and I was stuck taking a ride with a one-dimensional protagonist. I almost gave up, closed the book, and threw it in the car for my next trip to the library returns slot. But as it turned out, the Dekker/Healy duo had a completely valid reason for making Janeal become such an unlikable, cardboard cut-out.

And the reveal takes a bit of blinking. Janeal’s recognition of her state of being (to avoid spoiling it I will remain vague) is a bit quick for my taste; a bit too easy for her to recognize and rather shocking for the reader. But as Janeal’s discovery becomes clear in an… “Are you kidding me?” sort of way everything vague, dichotomous, and downright odd is explained… sort of.

“But,” you think, “really?” You wait for the contradiction—the denial of the hypothesis. You say to yourself, “Surely not. There’s got to be some other explanation!” And then BAM! You get to the end, you’ve made it through the fire, so to speak, and the chaff of the story has been separated from the wheat. All at once your eyes are misty, and the story has spoken to you, and… you realize you’ve been reading an extended metaphor all along—an allegory-of-sorts—which makes you examine your own heart, your own past, your own choices and ask, “What if I had…(fill in the blank) instead?”

So… did I get burned by taking a chance on giving precious time to read this novel?

Yes.

But not how you might expect.

Sometimes the mirror’s a flame.

Lions and Chiggers and Dragons... oh my!

2010-04-25T10:59:00.000-07:00

I was five years old the first time I visited Narnia. I'm thirty-seven now and I have made it a point to step through the wardrobe/portrait/train depot/garden wall...regularly, rereading the entire series in chronological order every two years. It's time for me to enter again. Further up, and further in. And though I am changed each and every time I revist this most-adored book series, one thing never changes: on each fresh visit to Narnia I meet a Lion. He’s not tame, but he is good.

In The Magician’s Nephew the Lion taught me about the Creator’s song. In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe he showed me the heart of a traitor and the sacrifice of a King. He chased me through tombs and left scratches on my back in The Horse and His Boy. In Prince Caspian He told me that he never changes, but still gets bigger. In shades of green he used The Silver Chair to show me that I need to keep my guard up because the evil that I think I’ve conquered still longs to come back and bite me in the butt. After The Last Battle the Lion allowed me to imagine and long for Heaven, my true country, without fearing death.

Those are just a few of the big lessons I learned in six of the seven Chronicles of Narnia. But the one chronicle which I have left out is the one in which I have most clearly seen myself. But not as one of the characters you might have imagined.

You see, I am a Truth Seeker. I sail across unfamiliar waters in the hopes of finding a fresh perspective of the dawn as I tread toward the lily sea. My favorite chronicle of Narnia is The Voyage of the Dawn Treader because it makes me weep at the beauty of Redemption.

In many areas of my heart I am Eustace Clarence Scrubb, the irritating cousin of the heroic Pevensie children. I am a pretentious, whiny, know-it-all; a greedy snob. But, thankfully, I am regularly pulled through a picture (a picture I’m not all that fond of) and dumped into the brine. Unlike Eustace, however, I understand the value of “spin” and have fooled even myself sometimes by coloring over my pretentiousness with a nice and glossy airbrushed finish that is occasionally mistaken for spirituality or intelligence.

But the Lion knows the truth.

Lurking deep within my need for intellectual stimulation there’s a little green chigger playing a slide trombone. You know what a chigger is, right? Well, if not, I’ll explain.

A chigger is what we Iowans call sometimes call a “can’t-see-‘em bug”. If we’re sitting on the grass and we start to itch, it must be a chigger. If we come in with hives but don’t remember a sting, it must have been chiggers. And, since my spell check isn’t putting a little red squiggly line under the word, it must be a real one.

In high school biology class we learned that the bugs known as chiggers are little parasitic mites that burrow under the skin and then die. As their little green carcasses rot underneath the top layers of our epidermis the chemical reactions of their decay cause the specific irritation, swelling, and itching we refer to as a “chigger bite.”

Okay, I might have made up the “green” part just because it sounds creepier. My memory of high school biology explanations may not be 100% accurate, but who knows? They might be green… and since I’m not in the mood to Google mites of the family Trombiculidae right now, let’s go with it.

In case you’re wondering, I so did NOT pull that Latin word out of my mental class notes—I have a very comprehensive dictionary sitting in my lap. And, also, there are squiggly red lines under “Trombiculidae”; so, while the computer is happy to accept the existence of “chiggers” it isn’t so quick to give them the credence of a fancy word to validate their worth.

Trombiculidae. Hmm. When I look at the unfamiliar word it causes me to wonder if in some areas of lawn lore the chiggers are the undisputed brass virtuosos in the parasitic marching band.

But I digress.

So, now that I’ve explained why I think Mr. Trombiculidae is playing a slide trombone in my psyche, how did he get there? Why is there a chigger lurking within my need for intellectual stimulation?

Well, it’s because that little bugger isn’t dead yet. (And, since I’m an American, I can say “bugger” without getting sent to the Headmaster’s office. If you’re from the U.K. or beyond and I’ve offended you, I’m sort of sorry, but not enough to delete the word.) So, as I said before I went off on my little pseudo-Brit-swearing tangent, my little chigger is not dead yet--not even close. The little green dude is laying eggs, probably; procreating within a cushy, blood-pulsing area of living pride.

The chigger personifies (or insectifies?) my selfish, overweening desire to be thought of as an intellectually superior human. Creeping around the edges of each new discovery of erudition (living next to my dictionary I also have a monstrous thesaurus—because I love interesting words; not only are they cool, but they keep my chigger well fed), the little green guy laughs like a villain through every spiritual light-bulb moment; happily itching and irritating in gales of skin-chafing chigger-glee. Mr. Trombiculidae’s happy squirming causes welts to break out across my personal sense of intellectual indignation in the form of societal-flagellating questions and assertions.

“Why don’t the rest of these morons get it? Why are they so happily going about their mundane, ordinary, uninformed, and thirstless lives? Don’t they hunger for more? Don’t they long for deep conversations and mind-stretching dialogue? Where are the thinkers? The philosophers? The humans who long for a pyrotechnical explosion of understanding?”

When I picture the person who might say such things aloud it doesn’t look like me. The guy’s a professor at Harvard or Yale; he’s got salt and pepper (mostly salt) hair, a well-trimmed goatee, and a brown suit with a vest and a bow tie. He’s an educational elitist; a snob.

I will never hold a job at Harvard or Yale. I haven’t worn a bow tie since I was in Show Choir in high school; and, thanks to Lana The Magician of Hair, I will probably never have salt-and-pepper hair (at least not the salt.) But, even though familial evidence of a genetic predisposition points to the uncomfortable conclusion that I may someday have the ability to grow a goatee, I firmly believe in the power of HOT WAX (and my Magician is adept at its application); so that guy can’t be me… can it?

But it is me. Professor Highbrow reads the transcription of my scathing, prideful thoughts. The sad truth is that I am fully capable of morphing into a self-righteous, egocentric snob at any moment in time. It’s pathetic, isn’t it? -- This skewed self-perception-meets-the-people reality I live in is quite ugly, don’t you think? But it’s the chigger’s fault.

Stupid bug.

I want people to think I’m smart. I want go to the Great Receptionist of Revolutionary Thinking and have my brain power parking permit validated.

Part of it, I suppose, is a bit of not-so-latent feminism which likes to assert my mental prowess—especially to the males of my species; but most of it, as uncomfortable as it is to admit, is just a deep-rooted ache to be noticed.

And that makes it all sound so sad and so human and so… sigh… pitiful. But that’s me; maybe that’s all of us. Some people want to be noticed for their singular steak-grilling talents, their muscles, or their ability to change the oil of a dually pickup in less than seven minutes. Some are organizers, clean freaks, or fashionistas, while others’ seeming humility might cover up a chigger screaming, “Look at me! I’m so good!”

I guess in our own way, we are all a bunch of self-righteous bastards practicing our own brand of chigger-religion to the plaintive wah-waoh of a well-greased slide trombone.

So is it wrong for me to seek out the similarly cerebral (wearing invisible bow-ties) for conversation? No, I don’t think so. Because not only do those conversations leave me filled up, they leave me hungry. And that is the paradox of seeking, isn’t it? I like the hunger; I’m fed by the hunger.

But the problem is the chigger. When I begin to define myself by comparing my hunger to the hunger of others, I become the chigger; the itching, irritating, decaying corpse.

Hunger can’t be seen or measured by anyone outside the individual who is experiencing it. After a certain point a person who is starving may not even be able to acknowledge “hunger” as a state of being; when the need has gone unmet for so long they don’t even notice it anymore.

Why should intellectual or spiritual hunger be any different than physical hunger? If left untended the starvation is just as severe. When we quit feeding our minds or our spirits, our intellectual digestive system quits functioning; quits voiding; and the “food” we have just sits there like a warm, comfy lump of emptyness in our spiritual bellies.

So the chigger keeps feeding as we get fed; it keeps growing and squirming and breeding incestuous little green offspring so we can hold our heads up high and say, “Look at me! Look at me! I am sooooo hungry! And that makes me smarter and prettier and more spiritually mature than you!”

The chigger needs to die, but I don’t know how to kill Mr. Trombiculidae. In my heart of hearts, I’m not even sure I want to; because, let’s face it: it feels good to scratch an itch.

As a reborn, Trinity chasing Believer I’ve been called to keep searching for and ingesting Truth in as big of gulps as I can swallow—and then go back to God’s Big Buffet to see if the Holy Spirit has laid out something new for me to taste. He’s called me to my hunger; and he’s seasoned his Truth so perfectly that it always leaves me happily salivating for one more bite; one more sip of Holy Wine. And that is good. The digestion of Living Water promotes a glowing countenance. But nibbling away underneath my very human skin is a parasite with an appetite that goes beyond hunger and into the darker realms, eking out its survival squirm by squirm in a Darwinistic battle for supremacy over the glowing, insecticidal parts of my Spirit.

I’m a reader and a writer and a student. I’m a mom and a wife and a friend. But, sadly, I’m also a pathetic elitist lifting my nose at the numb satisfaction of the well-churched masses. I’m both the host and the parasite—the chigger and the chigged—hanging on to my humanity by a thread.

But that thread is a strand of three cords, and it is not easily broken. It’s a thread woven and held by the perfect hand of a Master Weaver who sees the completed tapestry of my life and who is, even now, chasing down the chiggers of my soul. He’ll find them and he’ll root them out… even if it means slicing open several layers of my skin in order to clean out the rot.

Like in C.S. Lewis’s Voyage of the Dawn Treader my Grand Weaver is a Lion with claws--and I’m Eustace by the pool on Dragon Island. The gold bracelet on my arm is shiny and pretty, but it’s tight and it hurts. A lot. I can breathe fire, but it leaves an aftertaste of sulfur in my mouth. I can fly over the little people on the beach, but I’m disgusted by my own carnivorous cravings. I am a contradiction—but I am incurable, I think, without the searing rend of claws upon my flesh.

But then the Lion comes. His words--his very presence--causes steam to trail down the cheeks of my oversized dragon head. Sizzle, sizzle, puff. I cry, but the Lion-Weaver says he can make it better. He offers to bathe me.

And the memory of past bathings quickens my blood and caresses my broken heart.

Oh, it hurts! But it feels so good, having my scales ripped off one layer at a time. The Lion-Weaver keeps bathing me with his rough cat’s tongue and dipping me in the pool, yet there are still a lot of chigger eggs left under my skin and so many layers of dragonish epidermis left to remove. But someday—yes, someday… I’ll be scrubbed raw and be able to stand naked before him. And I’ll realize then just how very stupid I am and how much power my own pathetic intellect lacks, but how precious my hunger has been to His heart. As I bury my face in his mite-free mane I’ll weep for an eternal moment before he breathes onto my tear-streaked face… and invites me to climb on his back.

I’ll look at his huge form, and look for a step--a boulder or something I can use to get a leg up. But there will be nothing big enough for me to climb to be able to reach his back. My heart sinks when I realize I can’t get up there on my own. But then, to my awe, the Lion will kneel as if proposing marriage--and I’ll remember the day I said “yes” and I blink—and I see the distance isn’t nearly as daunting as I’d thought. Once on his back, I’ll lean forward and squeeze him with a joy of which I’ve only imagined the depth: the truest embrace of a longing fulfilled. A rumble will begin in his chest, as low as a purr, but growing until affection and delight pour forth from the sound as he laughs… and suggests that I cover my ears.

But I won’t-- because I want to hear him roar.

The ground shakes nearly as much as my knees at that amazing, powerful sound. My stomach falls to my toes as the Lion leaps and… we take a ride on the wind.

And the chiggers of my soul cannot survive at that altitude.

Isn't it great when Fiction Mirrors Truth... and imagination takes flight in ways that capture our souls?

Never Underestimate the Power of a Good Dye Job

2010-04-22T07:38:00.000-07:00

My previous post should explain my long absence from blogging. But I'm getting settled in a new "permanent" home now, my computer is enjoying a better firewall and the huge advance from dial-up to DSL. Woo-hoo!

I'm back, baby! But it took a bit more than an address change to get me here....

After a short stint as a coppery-blonde to play the role of "Margy" in our community theater's production of Rodgers and Hammerstein's State Fair I've finally got my real hair back. Well, what constitutes as my "real hair", anyway! I have my razor cut, my almost-funky striped low and highlights, and my flat iron and hair goo are once again receiving daily attention.

Who knew that something as wacky as a hair style could affect my mojo so much? When I let my razored layers grow out and went copper-penny blonde for "Margy" the bleach must have somehow taken the color out of my soul as well as my hair. Some random chemical reaction must have happened to make me feel insecure and entirely frumptastic. ("tastic", of course, being my personal suffix of choice at the moment; and, since I am a writer I am at liberty to make up words at will. I'm sure I'll move on soon to some other thing, but since I've been over-using the word "ginormous" I had to come up with something fresh. This too shall pass.)

My lifeless reflection hearkened my hair back to the days of being a new mom, when showers were a hit or miss part of the day and make-up?--faggeddaboutit! So even though I was getting up in the morning, going through the whole shower/makeup/hairstyle routine, dressing professionally, and heading off to the bank to fulfill my role as a Financial Services Representative, I still felt, well... frumpy. My creative juices fizzled, my writing slugged. It was depressing. I don't like to think of myself as vain, but dang. Something had to be done! Two days after our final performance of State Fair, I called my stylist (aka: The Magician) so sweet, innocent little "Margy" could DIE! and the rrrrrrrrr could get dyed back into S.R. Van Ness.

Thanks to Lana, my stylist/colorist/magician, I'm back, baby. And I'm digging in hard. I'm posting this puppy and then I'm opening up those first 130 pages of my supernatural-thriller-in-progress and seeing if I can make it to 140 pgs before the kiddos get home from school.

It's amazing what a girl can do when she's got the right hair.

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

2009-08-28T10:28:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-26T13:04:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-22T12:21:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-15T12:50:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-10T12:38:00.000-07:00

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.

Fiction Mirrors Truth

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Que Sera, Sera

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"What is that smell?!" Creating CULTURALLY RELEVANT CHARACTERS IN CHRISTIAN FICTION

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If you have to share your birthday with someone, why not someone who ROCKS at Quidditch?

Oh, Joy!

And the award for MOST (mildly) PROFANE goes to...

When opening the manuscript is like opening a vein... and other writing neuroses.

The Fodder of the Fiction Writer: It's all how you look at it.

"For crying out loud, there's a killer to catch!" Nike Chillemi writes about Edgy Christian Crime Fiction

Propaganda and the Edgy Author

The ECFL Summer Blog Tour Begins!!!!

Interesting discussion with Nike Chillemi ~ Crime Fictionista: The F-Bomb and Two Camps In Christian Fiction Writing

Film Trailer for The Voyage of the Dawn Treader!

Video Link--A call to being real

ANNOUNCING: THE EDGY CHRISTIAN FICTION LOVERS BLOG TOUR

Fiction Mirrors Truth: A PLUG FOR MY TECHNICALLY AND GRAPHICALLY TALENTED FRIENDS

A PLUG FOR MY TECHNICALLY AND GRAPHICALLY TALENTED FRIENDS

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Book review: BREATHLESS by Dean Koontz

Write What You Know?

THE DOCTOR IS IN! Crazy, Comforting Combos for Characterization and Therapeutic Benefit

Selfish Hedonism and The Writer's Life

The Purpose of Procrastination, or Welcome to My World

A Good Christian Girl reads THE DEMON KING, a Seven Realms Novel by Cinda Williams Chima

Metaphor, Tall Grass, and Prayer

"If music be the food of love, play on." -Wm. Shakespeare

The Colors of Fiction

Problem--fixed

Will pub comments soon! and... disclaimer.

THE ANTI-RANT, or, A Recant... sort of

“Words -- so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.”

Rant Warning: Amish Books for Good Christian Teens (?!?)

Clarity and Sunshine and Stillness

WHERE THE MAP ENDS interviews Rachel Marks

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Burned... or not.

Lions and Chiggers and Dragons... oh my!

Never Underestimate the Power of a Good Dye Job

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

Duking it out--through Self-editing and Revision

Obsessive Compulsive Mood Music Disorder

Dreams from Atop a Dry Waterfall

Howling at the Moon: And Other Conspiracy Theories