Bread and Roses

I usually write a "round-up" of the previous month during the first week of the new month, but frankly I've been too tired (and a bit too scatterbrained) to contemplate that posting. Maybe soon. Life is gearing up to be interesting for a while, as I'm taking on a new, half-time job outside the house. It's the first time I will have worked outside the home at all since Sarah was not quite 2 -- in other words, half her life ago. So we've all got big adjustments coming. I'm wishing I didn't have to do this, but I'm also grateful God is providing something for our family -- and I'm trying to be willing to do what needs to be done as he provides.

One of the adjustments I forsee is less time to read and write -- between new work hours during the day, continued work I need to do at night (both as a t.a. and in course development for the course I'll be teaching online next fall) and perhaps most importantly, trying to be as attentive and truly present as I can in the fewer waking hours I'll have with my little girl (not to mention regular "stuff" like ongoing household tasks and -- oh yes! eating! prayer! sleep!) I just can't see how I'm going to carve much of a slice out of that pie to dedicate to writing projects. Once again, I'm faced with the dilemma of having creative fire burning in my bones/longing to flesh out ideas into stories, poems and articles/wanting to use this gift and valuing the gift in and of itself -- and yet being forced to put it low, low on the priority list because it's not "productive" and doesn't help my family economically. I've been here many times in my life, but for some reason being faced with yet one more season of consciously having to push writing into the cracks and crevices of my life hurts a lot more this time around. Maybe because I just had a birthday so am feeling more aware of the swift passing of time. Maybe because the older I get, the more I feel I have to say and the more I long to find ways to say it through story. How ironic that the time periods of my life when I had more time and space to write, I didn't have nearly as much in me that longed to be written.

A week or so ago I read an interesting little book by Jill Paton Walsh, a short novel for middle grade readers called The Green Book. It's fantasy (and sort of rudimentary science fiction) about a family being sent with a small group of other people to colonize a new planet, since earth is dying. This family, a single dad and his three children, are told they must pack light. Each of them may bring one book and one book only. The father agonizes because he longs to bring a Complete Shakespeare but realizes that he needs to bring a book on technology instead, if he's going to help the colony in the new world. He lets each of his children make their own selection without his input, and their choices (and those of the other group members) are interesting, to say the least! When they all realize (after they're onboard the spaceship taking them to their new home) that the youngest child has brought along a blank book (the "green book" of the title) they're dismayed because they think she's made an unwise, even foolish choice. But it turns out to be a creative choice; one that the whole community values once they realize the child has been writing down the stories of the new community/colony. No one else had thought to do that.

I thought about entitling this posting "what book would you choose?" because I'm still genuinely curious to know what other people might pick if you could only pick one book in the world to take with you on a long journey without any real prospect of finding more books where you're arriving. I'm going to presuppose that you could take a Bible, or that the community would have a Bible; otherwise (for Christians at least) the question would be a "no brainer." What one book -- besides the Bible -- would you choose to take? I'm still not sure of my own answer. I think the Complete Shakespeare would be a good choice, actually, or the Complete Austen or the Complete Dickens. Although maybe the "complete" idea is a bit of a cop-out. Any takers here? I'd love to hear some ideas!

But the more I think about it, the aspect of Walsh's story that fascinates me most is that agonizing decision the Dad makes, to choose the "practical" book on technology (needed, productive) instead of the book that feeds the spirit in more intangible ways. How often we think of our more practical, physical needs first -- and I'm not saying that's a bad thing in and of itself, it's just a necessity because we're embodied, physical creatures. But we're so much more than just our bodies. It reminds me of that old workers' song "Bread and Roses" that talks of people's need for both bodily, physical sustenance and for beauty. How often do we have to choose bread and not roses in our daily existence? Most of the time, it seems to me. I also find myself painfully aware that, for a lot of people in our world, the choice between bread and roses isn't even a choice, because they don't have either one. And that should not be.

I know all this may sound a bit simplistic, but it's working on a soul level for me tonight. Bread and roses are more entertwined than we might think, because we human beings are entertwined, made up of body, mind, soul, spirit. Having really struggled with poverty in the past couple of years (although thankfully we've had family to help) one lesson I've learned is that poor people need and deserve good things and beauty as much as anyone else. So often what we give them is our castoffs, our broken and used things; our generic and less healthy food items go into the food pantry box, our faded and somewhat stained clothing goes to the vets, our toys with missing pieces go to the local children's home. Sometime again, when we're not counting every penny and still coming up short, I want to remember this lesson and give someone poor something that they need...on more than one level. Something beautiful as well as practical. Something new.

And as for now, I feel like I'm being asked to make a choice about how to apportion my time, and in some ways I'm having to weight that choice heavily toward practical considerations -- i.e. bread. Which means less time for roses. But I'll survive, and somehow I'll find some time in there somewhere for roses, real or imagined. At least that's my hope.

"The Weight of All My Dreams..."

I've not posted much this past week, and doubt I'll have much chance to in the coming week either. Having to let go of some things right now in a quest to survive and to not give in under the weight of some tremendous stress.

It's not quite Holy week yet, but I think God might be preparing me to walk a passion kind of road. It's hard.

Needing to flee to the life of Jesus. Needing to rest in his arms.

A pause for poetry in the midst of everything. This from W.B. Yeats.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

More on Story Shaping

I used the phrase "story shaping" the other day, and have been thinking about it a bit since. I really mean at least two things by the expression: how we shape stories (as writers and storytellers) and how stories shape us.

I've recently reaffirmed how much I prefer old-fashioned story shapes. That is, stories with some discernable linear progression (even if not completely straightforward), with transitions, connections and inner weavings that make sense, with solid beginnings and ends. By solid ends, I don't necessarily mean happy or tidy endings, but I don't like complete ambiguity either. And what completely drives me crazy is stories that really don't end...they just...stop.

So I'm an antiquated fish, completely at sea as I try to swim in and out of postmodern stories. I honestly appreciate some aspects of postmodern approaches to art: in particular, the way postmoderns don't mind "borrowing" from other places and times and finding new ways to "blend." Stories that can blend vintage sensibility with contemporary characterization and setting, for instance, I like very much.

But I'm getting a little tired of the postmodern celebration of "voices" in fiction. That is, creative and interesting voices that either have nothing truthtful or beautiful to say, or that don't say anything in a way that one can easily discern meaning.

Example: the other day I came upon a creative but frustrating short story titled "Notes to my Biographer" by Adam Haslett. Haslett was a bright star in the literary firmament a handful of years ago when he first got published (not sure what's he's been doing lately; I just happened to pick up his first short story collection) and had one of those writing pedigrees that it would be so easy to envy (studied at Yale, at Breadloaf, won major grants, stories picked up by NPR). "Notes to my Biographer" was apparently the story that garnered him first major attention, and I found it a fascinating read. Well-paced, distinct "voice," interesting characters, kept me turning pages. I think it was hailed as 'fresh' but it felt a bit trite to me, embodying familiar stuff of contemporary fiction -- including an unreliable narrator (strugging with mental illness...or was he?) with a gay son. A few pages from the end, I had to put the book back on the library shelf and didn't get back to it for a couple of days. I was curious enough about the ending to go back and finish it. And argh! It had one of those endings that drives me crazy. It didn't really end; it just stopped. And I can't help but feel that this was a well written vignette, an interesting sketch or slice of life, but not really a story -- at least not a story that feels shaped for any purpose beyond impressing me with its literary tricks. Somehow that doesn't feel like enough. Maybe I'm not being fair, since I often love poetry that seems to exist just to play with language, or to celebrate sound. But stories, though they can have those poetic elements, feel like a different category for me...

When I was not long out of college, I attended (by invitation) a two-week series of workshops at an intensive/low-residency MFA program that was considering inviting me to join the program. I took a lot of things away from the experience, not least the realization that as a relatively young woman (twenty-three) trying to find a way to articulate stories that connected with my faith, I was already an antiquated fish -- or at least an odd duck. :-) One clear memory I have from the two weeks was a one on one coversation I had with a very kind but clearly somewhat weary writing mentor, who kept trotting out good but tired advice about what I should be reading. She kept telling me I needed to "develop my own voice," and that until I did, my writing really wouldn't get anywhere.

It's not bad advice, though I have to admit in the past fifteen years, as I've grown and developed, my writing voice has changed and deepened right along with me. It's not a stagnant thing; its not as though I can reach a point where I think I've "arrived" in the development of my writing voice. I've also come to a place of some creative humility about the relative unimportance of my own distinct "voice" -- in part because I've come to recognize that my voice is simply responding to other voices in an ages-old conversation to which I am a pretty recent arrival. And in art but also on the larger levels of life and prayer, I am always in a position of response: responding to the one who first called me into being, and later called me out of darkness into his wonderful light. The Word spoke first, speaks first, always takes the initiative. He's the real Story-teller; I'm invited into the story (thanks be to God) and even invited to imitate his activity as Maker. Maybe I will always be hungering then to shape stories (with a small "s") that in some way reflect the ultimate (large "S") Story.

Pause for Praise

This morning in church we sang this song. I hadn't heard it for a while, but it seemed needful for my heart, so I'm posting it here so I can come back to it from time to time. And maybe it will bless someone else as well...

(It's by the "Newsboys." Not sure of copyright info. )

What I like about it is the affirmation -- the *choosing* to bless God's name, no matter what our circumstances. I'm still learning this. I need to keep practicing. It seemed to weave together with the sermon preached by Bishop Duncan, who made his pastoral visitation this morning, and who reminded us that God has a plan: for the world, for us as a community, for you, for me (as individuals) and that it's our task to learn to "walk in" that path he's prepared beforehand for us (Ephesians 2).

Part of our cooperation with what God's doing seems intimately connected to praise...

******
Blessed be Your name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name

And blessed be Your name
When I'm found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed be your name

Every blessing You pour out I'll
Turn back to praise
And when the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

Blessed be Your name
When the sun's shining down on me
When the world's "all as it should be"
Blessed be You name
And blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name

You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name
I will bless Your name

********

I turned 38 today. It was kind of a lonely and tired birthday. But it was a birthday, and I'm thankful to be alive and well.

Blessed be your name, Lord!

One more for the "story bag..."

I've recently revived my old practice of plumbing newspapers and magazines for story ideas. I often have an eye out for interesting items: odd events, fascinating names and the like. But lately I feel as though story ideas are jumping out all over the place. From time to time, I think I will drop them here into a virtual "story bag" (a kind of grab-bag of creative goodies).

Here's a fun one: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/03/24/AR2006032400365.html

It's a recent Washington Post article on the death of a tortoise in an Indian zoo. He was, believe it or not, around 250 years old. A tortoise who was alive before the American Revolution! Now that's a character worth writing about.

Katherine Paterson wins Astrid Lindgren Award

I just found out yesterday that Katherine Paterson, one of my favorite children's authors, has won the Astrid Lindgren award. Heartfelt congratulations to her! What a joy to hear someone of her caliber has won such a prestigious award.

Paterson has written numerous wonderful stories. Her best known are probably Bridge to Terebithia, Jacob Have I Loved, and The Great Gilly Hopkins, but she's written many others as well. Award recipients are chosen from many nominations by a committee in Sweden. The award is an international honor, named for the author of the Pippi Longstocking books. It's also the largest award given to children's authors -- the prize money totals (get this!) $640,000! Even a long-established mutliple Newbery winner like Paterson must be reeling over the total. Children's book authors just do not make that kind of money in our world...at least not usually.

Actually, that was one of the nicest things about this, I think -- although the money seems like an huge amount, we know that that kind of cash (and more) is regularly doled out to people for accomplishments of a much less profound and much more ephemeral kind. Six figures are usually reserved for people who can throw a ball in a hoop, or make people laugh on a thirty-minute sitcom fourteen times a year, or who run companies with questionable practices. OK, I'm being slightly cycnical. But only slightly! Not everyone who makes large amounts of money has questionable ethics, but a lot do. And although it takes skill to tell a joke or play sports with grace and speed, I think our culture needs to ask itself some hard questions about why we award those skills with so much money while so many people working dilligently and hard at professions that make huge difference in people's lives (like teachers, for instance) often struggle to earn a living wage. Where is our treasure? That's where our heart is, as Jesus tells us.

OK, enough of my soapbox. :-) Let me revel for a moment that an author like Paterson, a simple, grounded, Christian woman who has spent years creating stories that are beautifully crafted and that provide helpful formation for young imaginations, hearts and minds, has been rewarded so tangibly. I'm sure she'll spend the money wisely (she's already gone on record as saying so...adding that she was taught that trait was important from childhood on) and I'm sure she would be quick to admit that she's been as richly rewarded in less tangible ways all through her careeer. All of which makes this news very nice news indeed.

Today Marks...

It's March 20th, which means several things (some wonderful, others sad...)

• It's the first day of spring, over which there is great rejoicing in my heart. Despite the fact that it's still quite cold here, and I'm not seeing many buds on the trees yet...I know warmth and green are coming!
• On a very personal note, it's my parents' wedding anniversary, their 52nd. What a wonderful day for them and for our family. I am giving thanks for their love for all of us and for one another, and how that love has persevered and grown through the years.
• It's the birthday of Fred Rogers. Our beloved "television neighbor" died in February 2003; today would have been his 78th birthday. I'm always very aware of this anniversary since I live near Pittsburgh (his actual neighborhood!). Once again, I posted a tribute on epinions in honor of this loving, gentle man (this time a review of the book The World According to Mister Rogers: Important Things to Remember).
• It's the third anniversary of the US led invasion of Iraq. There have been over 2,500 coalition deaths (over 2,300 U.S. deaths) and by conservative reckoning, over 33,000 Iraqi civilian deaths. A time to remember, a day to pray for peace. May we keep longing for, working toward, and especially praying for a day when war shall be no more. May we become peacemakers in our own small sphere of life, wherever that may be.

Story Shaping

About fifteen years ago when I was finishing up my undergraduate degree, I had a literature professor who somewhat mischievously set her graduating seniors the task of writing an essay on the question "What is Literature?" I say mischievously because we were probably a month or less from graduating, most of us with degrees in Literature and/or Writing (I was a double major) and presumably most of us were feeling rather good about the fact that we'd survived three or four or five years of study and could pat ourselves on the back for having become at least somewhat proficient in our field of endeavour.

Heh. I think Betsy (my professor) knew that attempting to answer the question would provide us with some moments of humour and humility. Perhaps she even knew that for some of us, instead of providing "closure" to the college experience, contemplating such a question could help invite us into the realization that the field we'd chosen to study would continue to be a rich terrain to explore for the rest of our lives. At least that was my experience. As I struggled to answer the simple question, I think I began a conscious awareness that my studies in school had merely opened the door. I've always been a reader, a writer, a lover of language and especially of stories. I've always needed those things in my life to help make sense of my life, and to help me think through (with mind, imagination and heart) all that I'm learning.

I don't remember much of what I said in that essay. I do know that I fumbled for words, that I moved quickly from prose into the language of fairy-tale in an attempt to answer it. And I do recall that the metaphor I tried rather clumsily to employ was literature as a "cup" -- something that helps provide a shaped container for our experiences, be they sweet, sour, or something mixed.

I thought of that essay when I read these wise words this week from Rebecca West:

Art is not a plaything, but a necessity, and its essence, form, is not a decorative adjustment, but a cup into which life can be poured and lifted to the lips and be tasted. If one's own existence has no form, if its events do not come handily to mind and disclose their significance, we feel about ourselves as if we were reading a bad book. We can all of us judge the truth of this, for hardly any of us manage to avoid some periods when the main theme of our lives is obscured by details.

I resonated with this quote on so many levels, both aesthetic and personal. And I felt tremendously pleased to finally find a well-written description of what I tried (fumblingly) to say when I was 23.

What kind of book is your life right now? What's happening in the story, and what or who is shaping its plot twists, its deepening characterization? What is the main theme of your life? Questions worth asking. We need stories that help us think through the answers, stories that help us to order and shape all the "raw data" and ordinary details of our lives. Stories that challenge, heal and startle us. Stories in which we see ourselves...both as we are, and as we wish to be.

More on this soon...

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

This morning I read the story of St. Patrick from Bob Hartman's Early Saints of God. It's a very well written book for children. A bit old for Sarah still (who got antsy during the introduction and tuned out) but I enjoyed it a lot. In fact, it reminded me of one of the most obvious but amazing facts about St. Patrick, one we tend to forget: Patrick wasn't Irish.

He was, in fact, a Briton, born in what we now know as Wales. He was abducted by Irish raiders and became a slave in Ireland. It was while a slave that he found new freedom in Christ, who answered his anguished prayers and helped him find his way home again. Years later, having become a priest and then a bishop, Patrick returned to the land of his captivity as an evangelist.

My good friend Gail sent me a timely note last night, along with a copy of the wonderful St. Patrick's Breastplate, a beautiful hymn/prayer for protection and and help. I've loved it for a long time, but it never ceases to move me, especially that last stanza:

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks of me,
Christ in the eye of every one that sees me
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today [I bind unto my self this day]
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through a belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

********
I also spent part of the day remembering with great fondness how much fun St. Patrick's Day always was when I worked with the Cabrini sisters. Many of the Cabrini sisters are Italian, but some of them are Irish, and at any rate, they always know how to celebrate...not just St. Patrick's, but almost every other occasion, small or large! I can almost taste those yummy pastries the sisters in the Radnor community would bring into the office on March 17 -- I think they were called Irish Potatoes. I actually looked up some recipes online, but apparently there are lots of ways to make them...most of them featuring cream, coconut and cinnamon. Perhaps I wil have to try to make some of these, if not this year, then next. (If anyone out there has a favorite recipe, let me know) Yum!!

Flourishing Oak Trees, Deep Roots

Several years ago, when I was a seminarian, I remember journaling about a pattern I noted in my life...the way the Lord often gets my attention by nudging me over and over with similar images or words. I usually know He is trying to get my attention and help me into new growth in a certain area when I suddenly find myself almost tripping over certain specific images or verses of Scripture wherever I turn, from books to conversations.

It's been happening lately, especially with the image of a tree. Not just any tree, but a green and flourishing tree with deep roots.

The odd thing (or perhaps not so odd, really) is that I truly don't feel like such a tree right now. Many circumstances in my life are combining to make me feel rather weary and parched, and I fret (and oh, I can fret with the best of them) over what can feel like a lack of fruitfulness. I have days when I'm not only not flourishing; I feel like a tiny little sapling about to get torn up by a heavy wind.

But I think during this Lenten season God is working in me a desire to become a flourishing tree, a Psalm 1 and Jeremiah 17 tree. Why was I surprised when a woman in our small group this evening read out the exact verses from Jeremiah 17 that God had just snagged my attention with yesterday as I was reading...verses I went back to this afternoon? A threefold reminder:

"Blessed are those who trust in the LORD, whose trust is in the LORD. They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit." (Jeremiah 17:7-8)

I'm feeling especially meditative right now about oak trees. Last fall when the leaves were turning, I would take Sarah on walks and we'd pick up different leaves and bring them home, talk about them, make crayon rubbings of them, note their different shapes. In our neighborhood, the most plenteous kinds of trees are sycamores, maples and oaks. So Sarah's gotten very good at identifying those three kinds of trees and leaves. I found myself especially in awe of oaks, and how they grow from tiny acorns. I've written a couple of acorn and oak poems in recent months.

A few weeks ago, while reading in Esther DeWaal's The Celtic Way of Prayer, I came across a writing by St. Columba. He wrote this as he was leaving his home in Ireland for exile in Scotland. In Derry, he dwelt in an grove of oaks: It is for this I love Derry,/For its smoothness, for its purity; All full of angels/Is every leaf on the oaks of Derry he wrote, and I can't get that wonderful image of oak leaf angels out of my mind.

Then yesterday, reading further in Called by a New Name: Becoming What God Has Promised (a rich book by Gerrit Scott Dawson) I dwelt for a while both on the Jeremiah 17 verse, and on Isaiah 61:3 They will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, to the display of his glory. And my heart cries out, make it so, Lord Jesus!

Finally, Sarah was rummaging through a drawer in her room today (she's got a newfound fascination with drawers, which means I'm needing to do some throwing away and reorganizing!) and found a small cardboard "Jesse Tree" we'd put together a couple of advent seasons ago. I have no idea how it got in that drawer instead of with the advent things in the closet, but there it was. She trotted it out to the kitchen where I was and we fit the two slotted halves together to make it stand up. I asked her if she remembered it and we started talking about what it was. At which point she smiled her lovely Sarah smile and said "It looka like an oak tree."

Okay, I get it. :-) I'm supposed to be dwelling on what it means to be a tree, and not just any tree, but one planted by the Lord, strong and flourishing, with my roots deep in the soil of his love.

Harry Potter Book Seven

I've been so busy lately that I haven't been keeping up with the latest Harry Potter news. When I finally did "check in" in HP land the other day, I discovered what most serious fans of the books (at least those who check in at Rowling's website or the Leaky Cauldron regularly) probably already know...Rowling is still hard at work on book 7, and it's getting LONG.

Is anyone surprised by this?! :-)

JKR posted an update to her website journal on the last day of February, in effect worrying out loud a bit that the book-in-progress might be turning into an Order of the Phoenix size finale. She made a comment that what she thought would be two chapters had already become four, and then joked about it being as long as Phoenix, while trying to assure herself and her faithful readers that she didn't think it would be. Not that most of her readers would mind.

Frankly, I'm not surprised that she's discovering it's a lengthy story. She's left herself a huge amount of ground to cover, and lots of important questions to answer. She's such a good writer that I think she will deliver on everything major that she needs to deliver on. If it turns out to take 700 or 800 pages, so be it. (I for one will enjoy the ride!)

I do think Phoenix could have been slimmed...I said then and I think I stand by it now, that it could have used a good final edit. Still, I like it a lot, and I admire it far more now than I did in my first read-through. I think it will go down in HP history as the most difficult book in the series -- for JKR to write, and for readers to read. Books 1-4 each have their own sort of "character" and each provide an important part of the overall epic; she's already said books 6-7 are more or less all of one piece, providing the end of the saga. Book 5 was the transition book, moving us from the return of Voldemort to the "begnning of the end" in book 6. It was also the "nigredo" book, if you follow the ideas about alchemical literary symbolism as put forth by John Granger (which I do, with much delight). Meaning, it was in book 5 that Harry had to go through the process of being completely "broken down" by his experiences and trials, prior to the final stages of the purification process in the last books. What it meant was a darker tone and a more depressed Harry than we'd ever seen before (or since). The plot also advanced the least in book 5, despite its length.

At any rate, I don't think she will have the same problems with book 7. It's a completely different place in the Potter epic, and if she's struggling to keep words to a minimum, it's because she's created such a rich world, and set such rich questions, obstacles and quests in motion that she's got a lot to deal with in order to give us a satisfying ending. I'll post more soon on some of what I think she's got to address in the final story...as well as why some readers are bound to be dissatisfied no matter how long it ends up being!

Chesterton on Misplaced Humility

I've begun reading Alan Jacobs' book of "Essays in Truthtelling," entitled Shaming the Devil. In his introduction he quotes the amazing G.K. Chesterton on the the subject of humility:

What we suffer from to-day is humility in the wrong place. Modesty has moved from the organ of ambition. Modesty has settled upon the organ of conviction; where it was never meant to be. A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about the truth; this has been exactly reversed. Nowadays the part of a man that a man does assert is exactly the part he ought not to assert -- himself. The part he doubts is exactly the part he ought not to doubt -- the Divine Reason.

It still rings true all these years later.

Isn't it Romantic? Isn't it Fun!

I finally posted a review on Ron Hansen's book Atticus, which I wrote about here a few weeks ago. It took me a while, both because life has been busy, but also because I had rather mixed feelings about the book. Writing the review made me realize that the story had more "staying power" than I realized -- it had stuck with me in the interim. Through the writing of the review, I think I clarified my feelings about it and realized how much I actually liked it.

Our local library had a copy of what I think is Hansen's latest, so I picked it up last week. It's called Isn't It Romantic? and he subtitled it an entertainment. Entertaining it is! In fact, I had a hard time putting it down...I don't think I'd read a funnier novel in a long time. It's completely and utterly different from Atticus -- I'm incredibly impressed that one novelist can tread such different fictional terrain so well. While Atticus dealt with some profound themes (and heavy ones) and was pretty ambitious in the way it mixed genres, Isn't It Romantic is a straightforward, lighthearted comedy. Almost a comedy of manners. It's also very much what Orson Scott Card would term a "milleu" story, with characters from one place/culture being plopped down in the middle of another culture. That's where much of the humour lies.

The best I can come up with to describe the "feel" of the story is: Garrison Keillor meets Robert Altman. (I thought I was very clever to come up with that combination, until I realized that Keillor and Altman have met already, in the recent feature film of *Prairie Home Companion* which I've not yet seen.) Sophisticated urbanites from Paris find themselves stranded in the small town of Seldom, Nebraska (where I'm sure strangers seldom visit), population 395. Natalie and Pierre, the French couple, are already struggling with plenty of stress in their own rocky relationship. In fact, Natalie has been considering breaking off their engagement. She has always been fascinated with American culture, so she takes off on a kind of pilgrimage to see the American heartland by bus -- but Pierre chases her down. They agree to be the "king and queen" of the town's summer revel -- a kind of carnival. The town always tries to get a visiting couple to be king and queen, but they're especially excited to have a French couple because the town's founder, many years ago, was French.

What follows are three really zany days of cultural clashes and romantic entanglements. If it sounds fluffy, it is, but it's wonderfully written fluff. I kept finding myself chuckling aloud, and some scenes were so funny I had to read them to Dana. (They read great out loud too.) Probably my very favorite scene is when one of the townies, a Cornhusker fanatic named Owen who owns the gas station/garage, traps Pierre (whose family is in the wine business back in France) into tasting his own wine vintage. Turns out he's been making his own wine for years, and contrary to appearances, is rather expert in viticulture. What a wonderful job Hansen does, building up Owen's scruffy, earthy, football fanatic redneck sort of personality, and then giving him this secret sophisticated passion. When he starts spouting wine knowledge, your mouth drops along with Pierre's. And it's howlingly funny when Pierre finally takes a sip of the wine, expecting to have to spit it out, only to discover it's pretty amazing stuff.

I loved this book! I wonder if Hansen first envisioned it (or even wrote it as) a screenplay. I've almost never read a novel that seemed to play out before my eyes so much like a film. In fact, ever since I finished it, I've been trying to cast the main roles. I've decided George Clooney should play Dick Tupper, the rancher in town who finds himself enamored of Natalie. I've cast Kirsten Dunst as Iona, the young waitress at the diner with an eye on Pierre, and Carlo the cook should probably be played by Lyle Lovett. Pierre and Natalie are harder to cast, though I've just about decided on Johnny Depp for Pierre. Maybe (maybe?) Natalie Portman for Natalie...I wish I could think of a young enough French actress for the part (she's about 26). Julia Ormond would have been perfect 20 years ago. Still can't place who should play Owen, though I've considered Matt Damon.

At any rate, in the midst of a long and busy week, this slim novel provided some lovely, lighthearted fun. I may have to read some of Hansen's other work now, just because I'm really curious about what else he's done. Not an author one can pigeon-hole easily.

Reading Round-up for February

As Dar Williams sings “February was so long, that it lasted into March…”

Yes, it’s March 7th, and I’ve yet to jot any more about my reading in February…I’m tempted to give it up as a lost cause, especially because my memory is fading fast! But I do want to try to maintain the discipline of keeping at least a brief record here of most (if not quite all) of what I’m reading, although I’ve clearly expanded the purpose of this journal quite a bit in recent weeks.

So let me just dive in and try to list a few things I read in February and didn’t have time to post about.

Poetry: Some old favorites by Jessica Powers, plus dipping into a collection of Amy Carmichael’s poems (entitled Mountain Breezes). The spring issue of The Penwood Review hit my mailbox sometime last week…so I guess that’s technically been March reading. I’ve also been using some exercises from the terrific book Creating Poetry again, a Writer’s Digest book by John Drury, and one of the best reference books/handbooks of poetry I know. It almost always inspires me to write, or at least gives me new ways to play with words or practice certain forms/meters.

A short story from an old Image magazine given to me by a friend – I wanted to look at a sample, and no longer have any idea where any of my old issues are. I used to buy this wonderful journal from time to time at Gene’s Books, my favorite independent bookseller in King of Prussia. Alas, Gene’s is no longer in existence and I haven’t been able to afford a copy of Image in a long time. Very happy to have this one.

Children’s literature: I read a lovely little book called Ruthie's Gift by an author named Kimberly Brubaker Bradley. This was her debut novel from 1998; I hadn’t heard of her but picked it up, intrigued, once I realized it was based on what I think of as “my era” – that is the pre-WWI era of American history. I’m working on an epinions review.

Finally found the first book of Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate Events in at our little, local library – they’re certainly popular! I found it a light, fast read, weird and quite funny. Enjoyed it, but don’t know how hard I will go looking for the rest of the series (I think there are 13 in all?). They strike me as the kind of books it would be wonderful to have on hand while in bed with the flu.

I was very lax this month with scholarly reading or even any serious journalism -- just no energy for it. Though I did very much enjoy reading Bono’s speech to the national prayer breakfast – who would have guessed that he could preach like that?! (although perhaps we should have guessed, based on the song “40” all those years ago…)

Final day of February was the release date for the DVD of the new version of “Pride and Prejudice” (the Keira Knightly one) and I confess I rented it right away. Although I warned myself not to be too bothered by edits and by the liberties it was bound to take (after all, it was only a bit over 2 hours long) I still found myself somewhat disappointed. Still trying to pinpoint exactly why. Parts of it were lovely – in fact, I think the most charitable and authentic compliment I can give it is that, in places, it feels like an inspired visual poem in honor of Pride and Prejudice. So that alone makes it worth seeing. I’ve held off reviewing it until I can give it a more fair assessment on a second viewing. In the meantime, it made me want to see the wonderful A&E miniseries again, so I’ve been letting myself watch it in installments this week, late at night after the Boop’s in bed and I’ve done some paper grading. Viewing that masterpiece always sends me back to the delight of the real thing, the book. A real treat to a week when I’m struggling with a cold and worsening cough, and with sadness over the upcoming move of a dear friend.

Which Jane Austen Herione Are You?

I couldn't resist posting this fun little internet quiz. I ran across it while looking for some old-fashioned/victorian clipart. Of course, I had to take it immediately!

http://quizilla.com/users/elenna10/quizzes/Which%20Jane%20Austen%20heroine%20are%20you?/

Turns out I'm Elizabeth Bennet. She's one of my very favorite Austen heriones, so I can't say I'm not pleased...though I was a bit surprised. Apparently my love of walks in the fresh air and my understanding of love as something that comes over one gradually weighed in more heavily than the fact that I can't really describe myself as witty or vivacious!

I enjoy taking these silly kinds of quizzes from time to time, and Austenophile that I am, this one was especially fun. You only rarely see literary quizzes, since most of them seem centered on movies and television shows. This makes me want to look for more bookish quizzes. If I find any other good ones, I'll post them here.

Still hoping to have time to do my "reading round-up" for February later today.

Happy Birthday, Patricia MacLachlan!

Today is author Patricia MacLachlan's 68th birthday. She was born March 3, 1938. I don't think I've ever read a Patricia MacLachlan book I didn't like, but there are three in particular that have meant a lot to me over the years: Sarah, Plain and Tall (for which she won the Newbery Medal in 1986), Baby, and All the Places to Love.

From time to time, I plan to do "Happy Birthday" posts here for some of my favorite authors. Several months ago I began compiling a birthday list of authors, with an emphasis on children's authors, in the hopes that I can one day do a sort of "literary calendar" for children, with ideas for ways to celebrate a particular author's books, themes and life. It's a longterm project, but fun to plug away at from time to time.

At any rate, I love MacLachlan's work so much I couldn't resist posting here today. If you've never read her work, it's worth checking out. She writes musical prose about characters who are easy to love. Stories filled with small graces.

Lent Begins

Last night we went to the Ash Wednesday service at our church. It was the first year we’d taken Sarah (who is now old enough to stay up a little later and to be quiet during the hour-long service). I hadn’t really thought through how she might respond to the service itself, especially the imposition of ashes.

When it was time to go forward to receive the ashes, Dana was carrying her (she was getting pretty tired by then) and I was right behind them. I hadn’t stopped to consider how I would feel when Dennett, our priest, smudged Sarah’s forehead with the sign of the cross. For a tiny heartbeat, I felt my own heart catch in my throat. This little person I carried inside me, this wonderful little girl I’ve nourished and nurtured for three and a half years since her birth, is mortal. I know…an obvious statement. Nonetheless it’s not a thought I have every day. She will, I hope and pray, have many long and lovely years of life still ahead of her, but one day her days, just like mine, just like her Daddy’s, will cease to be.

And in the next heartbeat of time, that was all right. I think it was all right as soon as I stepped forward to receive the ashes for myself, because it’s such an amazing and blessed gift to feel that grainy cross pressed into one skin. What is sown perishable will be raised imperishable, the Scriptures tell us, and it’s all on account of the cross.

When we got back to our seats, I took Sarah onto my lap. She was looking mighty perplexed as she stared first at the dark smudge on my forehead, then at the smudge on her Daddy’s forehead. Sarah doesn’t like it when anyone gets too “dirty” so I had a worried moment that she was going to throw a loud fit and insist we all wash our faces, but she seemed to understand somehow that this was different. Perhaps because we were at church at night time (and we’d told her it was a “special” service) perhaps because of the beautiful and solemn hymns we’d sung and prayers we’d prayed, perhaps because other people, herself included, had that strange smudge on their foreheads. She didn’t fuss, just continued to stare quizzically at the mark. I leaned in and whispered “do you see the shape? It’s the shape of a cross. It’s to remind us of Jesus and how much he loves us.” As soon as I said it, Sarah (who had put her two fingers in her mouth the way she often still does when she’s sleepy) wrapped a tiny little smile around her fingers, as though she understood. As though she was blessed.

And you know, I had an immediate sense of peace, because what I said was true. I didn’t need to say anymore, or try to unpack a full “lenten theology” for my preschooler. Ash Wednesday is about so many things, including the acknowledgement that we are indeed fragile and mortal. But it’s also about Jesus, about the way he took on and shared our mortal flesh and forever redeemed it through his suffering, death and resurrection. That sign on my forehead, and on the forehead of my little girl, is at once a sign of death and a sign of life, not unlike the sign of the cross with which she was marked in her baptism just three years ago.

I couldn’t help but go to the Book of Common Prayer and to another service (besides the traditional Ash Wednesday service) where we hear the phrase “dust to dust.” It’s a beautiful prayer that comes in the commendation part of the burial service, reminding me of who we are and who God is:

“Thou only art immortal, the creator and maker of mankind; and we are mortal, formed of the earth, and unto earth shall we return. For so thou didst ordain when thou createdst me, saying ‘Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’ All we go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.’”

It Looks Like....

We woke up this morning to more snow, a lovely fluttering snowfall that just barely covered the ground before it started melting mid-morning. Because we live in a river valley, we get a lot of wind, and the flakes tend to flutter and blow sideways and do other odd and beautiful things before they actually land on anything. Dana and I used to joke, the first few years we lived here, that it actually only snowed about a hundred flakes every winter, and that those same hundred flakes just blew around the whole season.

I've been feeling very tired, and so the sudden whiteness on the ground was especially healing. It looked like a clean white page, ready for the writing of a new story in a new day.

I've been doing the "it looks like" game a lot for myself lately, courtesy of my daughter's fascination with the idea. I'm not sure when Booper started saying that things "looked like" other things, and if she picked it up from me or just came up with it on her own, but she does it often. Some of her "looks like" ideas are very creative. At lunch today she was munching on apple slices, held them up together, grinned and announced "It looks like two moons hugging." Three year old poets are wonderful!

Yesterday was another good one. We'd gone for a walk to the little library here in town in the late morning, and the weather was unbelievably balmy. We wore light jackets, and mine almost felt too heavy. The light looked like spring, the air almost (but not quite) smelled like spring, and it was almost 50 degrees. Later in the afternoon, nearing dinner time, I decided I wanted to pick up an early Sunday paper, so we walked a few blocks to get one. I'd heard it was going to get colder, so I put Sarah in a heavier coat, but I foolishly shrugged into my light one again (well, it's a fleece jacket, and a favorite of mine, but the zipper broke on it so it's not very warm at all). It had dropped close to 20 degrees, I bet, and the wind was biting...you could tell snow was probably on its way. Even Sarah, native Pittsburgher, was admitting it was cold.

And I confess I struggled with one more blast of winter. Walking down a gray street under a gray sky, thinking about our difficult financial and job situation, aching a bit with the knowledge that some of our closest friends here will soon be moving away (again) I suddenly wasn't sure I could deal with one more cold, windy winter walk in this loveable but broken town. As we battled on against the wind (and walking home we were definitely against it) I found myself struggling to even try to imagine any change in our circumstances. Last year, during some of the harder times, I was able to buoy myself up with imagined futures where we were settled somewhere warmer, greener, someplace where I actually had a small yard and a patch where I could grow flowers. Most of the time I'm pretty good about living fully in the present (a lesson the Lord has taught me over and over here) but sometimes I need to do some fruitful and hopeful imagining. And yesterday, suddenly, walking down that wind-cold street, I just couldn't muster the energy to imagine a garden anymore.

That's when Sarah's three year old imagination (though she didn't know it) brought healing to my heart. She suddenly came to a stop, reached over to pick something up off the sidewalk, and lifted it triumphantly in the air. "Wow, Sarah, pretty neat!" I think she said (or something like that...it's one of her favorite phrases these days...she likes to talk to herself). I tugged at her other cold hand to hurry her along. "What is it, sweetie?" I asked. She waved the something around with great abandon. We were passing the town square, the one with several trees, and I saw that she'd picked up an old brown and brittle seed pod, round and prickly, on a stem. Not very beautiful. But Sarah waved it like it was a prize and announced "It looks like a dandelion!" I started laughing. I squeezed that little hand and said something like "Sarah, only you could see a dandelion in an old seed pod." She just beamed at me and repeated, "It kinda looks like a flower. Pretty neat!" Out of the mouths of babes. Bless her.

So I need to keep exercising my imagination, using my eyes with the freshness of a three year old's eyes. I need to keep saying "it looks like ----" and then filling in the blank, with hope, with beauty, and yes, when need be, with imagined gardens.

Writing Excellence

My paternal grandfather was a journalist and an historian, and words mattered deeply to him. He was especially keen on the idea that words should be used wisely and carefully in order to communicate clearly. I never got to meet him (he died 6 years before I was born) but I've been blessed to hear many stories (clearly communicated to me!) about him, and I suspect his legacy is one of the reasons I love words so much and try to use them as well as I can.

I confess to feeling aggravated when I read certain articles or stories that do not use words carefully or wisely. Of late, I've been especially annoyed by certain pieces I've read online. I worry sometimes that the ease and speed of online communication is making writers sloppy. A couple of brief cases in point:

*This morning I was on a website for a small press whose listing I had seen in the 2006 Writer's Market. I hadn't heard of them before, and was interested in seeing what they publish, the philosophy behind what they publish, etc. They provided only the briefest of introductions as to who they were and what they were doing. They did make the point, however, that "our purpose is controversial." In vain did I search for a purpose statement -- there was none! I confess I don't understand the point of claming a "controverisal" purpose (unless you think it just sounds cool?) if you're not going to explain what your purpose is and what you mean by controversial. I tried to sift through some of their content for contextual clues, and concluded that they are probably into a kind of "health and wealth" version of the Christian faith, which isn't very "healthy" at all. But I could be wrong. Their writing was so unclear, I couldn't be sure. They also claimed that their "passion" is "inevitable" -- yet another statement that made little sense.

And another example:

*A few days ago I read an editorial on the Winter Olympics by a well-known sports writer for a prominent news website. He made some interesting points (as far as I could tell) but the piece itself meandered all over, and was so inconsistent in tone, that it was hard for me to decide exactly what he was trying to say. He began by bemoaning how boring these Olympic games have been, especially for the U.S., in part because there have been no stories that capture the public's attention or dazzle journalists. He then appeared to chastise all of us in the U.S. for our general shallowness -- for no longer being satisified with athletic excellence if it didn't result in lots of gold medals or the blooming of fascinating sports personalities. Then, in an odd about-face, he fretted about the possibility that Sasha Cohen would succumb to competitive pressure once again and not win gold in ladies' figure skating, and went out of his way (though whether in blame or praise, I couldn't tell) to point out that she's refused to play the media game by taking on the role of American ice princess.

Is writing like this fuzzy writing? Or just plain fuzzy thinking?

And while we're on the topic of the Olympics, I had to say I found Sasha Cohen's second place finish inspiring. I'd never seen anyone in an Olympic skating competition, with so much to win and so much to lose, stumble so badly so early and yet find the strength of will to not only finish, but finish beautifully, elegantly, and almost perfectly. 3 out of 4 minutes of her program were sheer poetry and near perfection. It struck me with odd force, watching Cohen and also her closest competitors, that these young women have really achieved excellence in their field. Most of us have never achieved anywhere near such excellence in any skill. They do what they do better than anyone else in the world, and they achieve this kind of skill through hard work, determination, and (as was clear last night) sometimes through sheer chutzpah. Watching Cohen skate, falls and all, gave me a sense of joy and of clean and simple contentment. Reading rushed and inflated prose about her and her fellow athletes at the Olympics, from a writer who clearly doesn't have the same standards of excellence for his own work, just left me feeling flat.

It makes me want to work all the harder at my own writing.

Going Bananas

This morning Sarah and I were reading the story of the feeding of the 5,000, or as her children's Bible calls it, "The Little Boy's Lunch." One of the lines in the story is "Then he (Jesus) thanked God for the food and began to break the bread and fish into pieces."

A little while later she was at the breakfast table while I was in the living room doing a few things. Suddenly I heard Dana start laughing. Sarah had peeled an entire banana, broken it into chunks, and placed them on her plate. When her Daddy asked her why she'd done that, she said proudly "You broke it into pieces just like in the Bible!"

If we suddenly have more bananas than we know what to do with, I'll let you know... !!

This seems as good a time as any to plug the wonderful set of children's Bibles we've been using with Booper these past several months. It's a two volume set (OT and NT) called My Very First Bible. Published by Harvest House Publishers, the stories are retold by L.J. Sattgast and the terrific illustrations are by Russ Flint. We've used a number of "kid-friendly" Bibles in the past three years, and I think this is our hands-down favorite. It's officially listed for an age range of 2-7, and that's just about right. Sarah loves them, and we go through them again and again, often reading 3 or 4 stories each morning (they average about a dozen lines or so each). The stories are well chosen and well written. Some children's bibles have really awful illustrations -- either cartoonish or somewhat dreary old-fashioned Sunday School take-home paper pictures. These are bright and lively, well drawn, with fantastic details and expression and even some touches of droll humour. It pays to look carefully at each picture because you're often rewarded with a memorable detail. For instance, in the story of the miraculous catch of fish (post-resurrection, John 21) before Jesus gets on the scene, the disciples can't catch anything...and there's a marvelous illustration of Peter bringing up an old sandal from an otherwise empty net. Things like that capture kids' imaginations. Sarah always remembers that part! And it's much easier in the context of laughing together over Peter catching an old sandal, to press home the point that it's Jesus who makes the HUGE catch of fish possible! I also love the facial expressions on many of the characters' faces -- especially the people who are healed in the healing stories. Such joy and exuberance! The lame man turns cartwheels. The paralytic dances. These are memorably and beautifully done, really bringing the stories to full life.

Unfortunately they're out of print. We were blessed to find our copies through Amazon sellers - I think we spent $5 apiece, and that included shipping. And they looked like they'd never been read. Definitely worth finding and buying if you have little ones in your life that could benefit from a good introduction to the Scriptures.

Reading Rambles

Long week. My lack of posting here hasn't meant a lack of reading, just a lack of time to actually reflect on/write about anything I'm reading. I've been busy, both with ordinary life and with the stress of continued job hunting as D. and I continue to try to find some ways to pay our bills. Meanwhile, winter has struck our little corner of PA with a vengenance again. After an amazingly balmy and springlike day on Thursday, bitter cold roared back into the Ohio River Valley on Friday. Booper girl loves it, but then she was born in the 'Burgh! She keeps saying "it's not really, REALLY cold" and "it's not as cold as snowmen." Meanwhile, her poor southern mommy is freezing and donning my heaviest, warmest socks.

Our friend Travis preached an amazing sermon at church this morning. I'm still chewing on it. Reflecting on the gospel story of Jesus healing the paralytic (the one who was lowered through the roof by the four faithful friends) he spoke of Jesus always going "deeper, wider, and higher" than we could possibly imagine or expect in his response to our faithfully bringing someone into Jesus' presence. "Deeper" -- Jesus gets to the root of the person's real needs. "Wider" -- Jesus enlarges everyone's vision to reveal more of who He himself is. "Higher" -- Jesus points Godward and orients us and readies us to praise (and gives us cause to praise). So much there my heart needed to hear.

I went to a movie yesterday. Yes, an actual movie in an actual theater! Dana knew how much I needed a break, and how much I'd been wanting to see "Nanny McPhee." So when it came to our little inexpensive theater in town, he practically pushed me out the door. Having two hours to escape into a hilarious and charming fairy-tale was bliss. Emma Thompson's done it again with her brilliant screenwriting and fine acting. She made a far scarier and funnier nanny than Mary Poppins. Colin Firth was wonderful in the role of the bumbling, vulnerable father to seven out of control children. And any movie where both Angela Lansbury and Derek Jacobi get cream cakes in the face is worth seeing. (There's a dancing donkey too. Really, you should see it. Lovely fun!)

I guess I've been in a fairy-tale sort of mood. Several days ago I finished a little book called The Lost Flower Children -- still trying to decide what I thought about it. I liked it, but I'm not sure if its really a purebred fairytale. In the end, I'm not sure the author, Janet Taylor Lisle, could decide whether or not the magic was real or not...or whether or not she just wanted to leave that question to the reader. Part of her point, I think, was that the real magic of the story lay not in the legend of the garden fairies that Nellie came to believe in (which may or may not have been "true") but in the love, encouragement and hope provided by Aunt Minty for Nellie, and the healing that fully entering into the fairy story helped provide. I hope the approach wasn't entirely a half-hearted modernist cop-out. I have to confess I liked the "real world" aspect of it, the notion that the deepest magic of all might be ordinary but very real love. Plus I liked the openness of the ending, when the reader doesn't know for sure whether or not the real fairy teapot has been found buried in the garden. It reminded me of a story I wrote several years ago in which I laid out conflicting claims to a character's identity, and then at the end brought in a momento/artefact which would seem to cement the character's claim as to who she was. But I never quite came out and said who she was and left it to the reader instead.

Today I finished Jon Hassler's latest novel The New Woman. Last I had heard, Mr. Hassler was ill with Parkinson's disease, and I wasn't sure if he would write another novel. So what a pleasure to be able to return to Staggerford, Minnesota (one of my favorite fictional towns) and to the company of Agatha McGee (one of my favorite heriones). I was a bit nervous going into the story since Agatha is now 88 and living in a nursing home, but she doesn't seem to have lost much of her spunk. In fact, she seems to be getting a bit more flexible and tolerant in her old age. And Hassler's as deft with dialogue as ever. I did feel it fizzled a bit plot-wise -- it felt more like a character study of Agatha than a riveting story -- but I enjoy her character so much I didn't mind.

Have been working with some metered/rhyming poetry again -- playing with iambic lines and also with ballad stanzas. On that last, I've been reading Emily Dickinson and having fun aping her style. Mostly just keeping my writing muscles moving.

There lived a girl in Ambridge gray
And a tired girl was she;
She wished for sunshine and for light --
That tired girl was me.

Or how bout' this one?

The need for light is very strong
An elemental urge
To rid the cave of shadows drear --
And let the sun come in

Learning to Plot with MICE

No, I'm not going completely batty...nor have I been reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (not lately anyway).

What I have been reading is Orson Scott Card's How to Write Science Fiction and Fantasy. This is a book I've been trying to get a hold of for a few years, ever since someone (I'm not even sure who now) recommended it as an excellent book for all fiction writers, not just writers of sci fi and fantasy. I even ordered it used a couple of years ago, but it got lost in the mail (something that never happens!) and the seller didn't have another copy. Turns out the library a couple of towns over actually had a copy all this time.

Much of the book is specific to writing for this particular genre, and while interesting, it's not all pertinent to my own sense of calling as a writer right now. But there was one chapter that I found worth its weight in gold, chapter 3 on "Story Construction."

Card offers wonderful descriptions of four elements that can determine the structure of your story. They're all in every story to some degree, but usually one "stands out" more than any other, and thus determines the story's shape. He gives the acronym MICE for the four elements: Milieu, Idea, Character and Event.

He suggests the best way to determine the structure your story should have is to consider carefully what part of the writing you feel most passionate about. The part of the story you care the most about crafting, or the part of the story you think is most important, is the key to your structure.

In brief: MILIEU stories are the ones where you most care about the environment, world or society you're creating. These stories are shaped by the need to have a character explore a world that is strange and different to him or her. That character is usually your POV, and the story usually begins with entry into that different world and ends when the character leaves (or chooses not to).

IDEA stories care about the discovery of important information. They look into the process of finding something out. An idea story usually starts by asking a question, and ends when it's answered. The most obvious example is a "whodunnit" murder mystery, but there are other stories that fit the pattern as well. The important thing is to raise a question, a question that's important to one or more characters in the story. One can spend some time establishing character, but must get to the key question soon within the narrative.

CHARACTER stories are what they sound like, stories whose main focus is on who a character is, not just what he or she does. Character stories are about transformation, often (Card says) about the transformation of a person's role in a certain community. (Though I think transformation stories can and do go deeper than that sometimes.) A character story usually begins when your main character becomes dissatisfied in some way with their current situation or role, and it ends when they move into a new one or fall back into the old one (neither ending has to be a happy one). Card suggests beginning your story as close as you can to that moment when the character realizes change must happen. He also reminds us that other characters, besides the main one, will change within a story too...but the climax doesn't depend on how they change. Their changes or how they resist the change of the main character may be important in providing struggle/drama.

Finally, there's the EVENT story. Here it is more important what a character does (or is done to him or her) than who the character is. The shape of the story usually centers around a disordered world. "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark..." or Middle Earth, or someone's family. Whether a big world or a small one, the disorder is real and the main character opposes the disorder or tries to reorder things, restore peace, etc. The story usually begins (and this is very important, according to Card) not when the chaos ensues, but when the main character becomes aware of it/is called to the struggle. Thus Hamlet doesn't start with the king's murder, but with the ghost coming to Hamlet to tell him of it. And The Lord of the Rings doesn't begin with Sauron forging the rings, but with Frodo's realization that the ring he has is the "one ring" and that he's called to do something about that. Important to remember: the main character is often not a great and mighty person, but a small one who is freeer to act and whose actions are often less noticeable but more important to the unfolding of the story.

Card adds that most stories could be structured in any of these four ways. What's important is to find the structure that works for you (by following your instinct and passion about what matters most to you in the story you're setting out to tell) and then stick with it consistently. In other words, if you begin by writing a character story, then end with the transformation of that character, not the solving of a mystery. So basically you need to deliver payoffs for your set-ups, as an online acquaintance of mine (who's a screenwriter) loves to say. Thanks Janet!

I know this is basic stuff, but I found it incredibly helpful. Plot is not my strong suit and never has been. I can write scenes all day, but am not always as skilled at finding ways to shape them into a meaningful whole. So this is guidance worth pondering, especially coming as it is from such a story craftsman as Card (who singlehandedly changed my stereotyped attitude to science fiction a few years back). I'm looking forward to trying to heed these thoughts as I revisit some stories I've been working on...and struggling with...for a while.

The Gift of Drawing

An odd thing has happened over the past three weeks...I've begun to draw again.

To understand how odd this is, you have to realize that I haven't really drawn (as in, sketched) in many years. I used to love to draw when I was a child. Up until I was about twelve, in fact, it was something that I really enjoyed doing. I'm not saying I ever showed a lot of talent, just that I loved doing it, found it relaxing and enjoyable.

I don't know what happened to change that. I can't look back and pinpoint a day or an experience that made me stop. In fact, I don't even think it was a conscious decision. I just know that somewhere around the beginning of adolesence, drawing became almost impossible. I almost felt like I had some sort of mental block so that when I picked up a pencil, I couldn't make it do what my fingers wanted it to do. The harder I tried, the worse it seemed to get, so I just quit (beyond occasional margin doodling in my journal which no one would ever see).

I've continued to love art all these years, and to enjoy other people's artwork. In the past few years, since my daughter was born really, I've felt my own urges to create visual art again growing stronger. For a long time, that translated itself into paper collages and cards. I've always loved design, especially designing with colors and patterns of basic shapes. Spending so much time reading children's pictures books in the past few years, I've been intrigued by the boldness and creativity of many children's book illustrators, and find myself thinking "I could do something like that' or 'oh, that gives me an idea to try that...' I've indulged my love of paper scraps for so long that I now have several small baskets and boxes full of images (and words) I've clipped from magazines, catalogs, newspapers, and wrapping papers.

But as much as I still enjoy doing collage work, lately I've had almost irrestible desire to sketch again. Even though I know I'm no good at drawing. Even though my most recent attempt, a few years back, to work my way through exercises in Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, only made me freeze up worse.

So a couple of weeks ago, I just suddenly did it. My little girl was having her nap, and I went and dug up a sketch book and some good sketching pencils which my parents had gotten me for Christmas a couple of years ago (along with some lovely watercolors I'd asked for, but have hardly yet used). And I started to draw. And...I don't know how to explain this...but suddenly, I could draw again. No, I'm not going to win any prizes any time soon, but the delight is back and so is the ease. In fact, the ease is a factor I don't even remember being this wonderful from my childhood drawing seasons...maybe it just feels extra precious because of the twenty-five year absence. It's as though the mental block has melted away. Some of it is, I think, time I've spent in recent years reading and writing poetry as well as the much more recent years I've been designing paper collages. I seem to see and feel lines more fluidly, note patterns more easily. I'm sketching all kinds of things, especially flowers and animals, and even bringing some of the design elements from my collage work (along with a few nods to Celtic knotwork) into creating some interesting geometric designs.

In a strange way, I feel as though a part of me has been healed, though it's hard to explain what part. I find myself a little afraid this ability will go away again, disappear just as mysteriously as it did a quarter century ago. But another part of me is just grateful that I can once more pick up a pencil and enjoy the delights of drawing. It almost feels more about having weathered some difficult inner growing seasons and learned a deeper art of seeing than it does about the drawing itself.

One of the picture books we've been reading over and over again lately is Jim Arnoksy's All About Owls. My little one has an utter fascination with owls right now, so the whole family is learning about them! I discovered Arnosky is a nature writer and illustrator, and picked up his wonderful book Drawing with Nature. Ironically, it was written in 1982, probably not long after I experienced the beginning of my personal artistic ice age. The book's done with young people in mind, but this middle-age mom who's recently rediscovered her childhood love of drawing is loving it. He includes sketches and small prose observations/meditations on "Drawing Water," "Drawing Land," "Drawing Plants" and "Drawing Animals." It's not a how-to book, and I'd probably run away from it right now if it was. He's a poet, and it's all about learning to see, to really look with attention at the world around you, and to find faithful ways to sketch what you see. As he writes:

"Drawing from nature is discovering the upside down scene through a water drop. It is noticing how much of a fox is tail. Drawing from nature is learning how a tree grows and a flower blooms. It is sketching in the mountains and breathing air bears breathe."

Burnishing Gold

I had hoped to post over the weekend, but some computer glitches and just a general time crunch kept preventing me from getting here. It's been a very stressful week at our house, for various reasons related to jobs and finances. Not that there hasn't been a lot of such stress for the past year or more, but most days I've been able to retain a sense of peace and even (sometimes) a sense of humour. This month has me feeling like I'm treading water against a mighty current that's threatening to dash us against a rock. I found myself tearing up this morning as I read Sarah her morning Bible stories -- she wanted "Jesus Calms the Sea" again. "The water is HIGH!" she exclaimed in wonder, pointing to the big waves churning against the little boat. Indeed! I was so glad to get to the next page, with the sea and the wind calm, the sun shining, and Jesus' words "Why didn't you trust God?" (hear that, heart?) along with the disciples' awed "Even the wind and waves obey him!" To which Sarah replied something along the lines of "That's pretty neat!"

Feeling somewhat fragile emotionally this evening, and just received news that an old and dear friend lost her sister a few days ago. Her sister died at almost eighty and had lived a full and vibrant life of love, but I know the loss will go deep for my friend, because they were best friends.

Suffering, loss, difficulties, stress...they're part of this life, and they shape us. God uses them to shape our hearts for his purposes, for his kingdom and glory, for HIMSELF. That's the good news I cling to in the midst of my own weariness, and in the midst of the suffering of loved ones and of so many others I don't even know.

All of which seems to tie in somehow with Lewis' Till We Have Faces. I reached the staggering and yet immensely satisfying end of the book over the weekend too, and fortunately I don't feel I have to retract any of my earlier comments, made when I was still in the middle of the story. I still feel that this is best looked at as a journey story, the story of a soul's journey from baseness and brokenness to wholeness -- or at least as whole and peaceful as it gets this side of eternity. For a story that's set in a mythic, pre-Christian age, it's absolutely steeped in Christian themes -- though they're not explicit. Maybe because for Lewis, everything in the "old stories" contained at least a hint of the "true Story" simply because the true Story IS true, and because the whole world now and for always has "held together" in Christ.

The story was really about Orual's purificiation. Although she rails against the gods for causing (or at least allowing) her suffering, and though she believes her life has not been "fair" -- in point of fact, she is being readied through all her suffering for the moment when she can stand before them, realize their presence is the answer she's been seeking (very Job-ian) and realize too that all she has endured has not been in vain. It has, in fact, been a sharing in or partial bearing of another's suffering (her beloved sister Psyche) and it's also, in the process, shaped her so that she's become real -- real enough that she finally has a "face" and even a form of beauty after so many years of walking about with her ugliness veiled.

That veil is such an interesting part of the story. Orual first decides to wear it after she's gone through the terrible scene on the mountain in which she refuses to believe in the reality of the god of the mountain or his palace, where she cruelly manipulates Psyche into breaking faith with the god of the mountain, Psyche's husband. She seems to decide to wear the veil because she's suddenly come to terms with her ugliness. And yet she's lived with the fact of her physical ugliness for many years, and others have not let her forget it (Batta, her father). So why the sudden rush to veil herself? I can only think it's because she finally realized her spiritual ugliness, the state of her own heart. The veil might also symbolize her stubborn willfulness against *seeing* what her sister sees. She refused to see the realities before her on the mountain, even when given a real glimpse of the palace and even a glimpse of the face of the god who actually speaks to her! And in refusing to see (because she doesn't want to see, because if she sees then she will have to believe and her whole world view and everything/one in it will have to be altered) she shows her blindness, which the veil symbolizes.

Perhaps too the veil is a subconscious way of confessing (to herself?) that she *did* see, at least for a moment. In evening Bible reading we've been reading about Moses leading the Israelites, and recently read the story of Moses having to veil his face when he came down from the mountain where he spoke with God. For the radiance of God made his face shine.

In the end, Orual is given that kind of radiance. The prophetic word that she too is Psyche ends up meaning more than "you too shall live in exile." It means "you too shall be beautiful and loved and brought home at last, given a face that you can live with." (I'm indebted to Thomas Howard for some of these insights, though my own ideas are mixed up here with some of his. I was grateful to discover, as I read his thoughts on TWHF, that I wasn't so far off the beaten path with my interpretation of the story.)

Amy Carmichael, in the book of her meditations I'm still reading, commented that she once asked a goldsmith in India who was working at his crucible: How do you know how long to sit and wait? How do you know when it's purified?" to which he answered "When I can see my face in it."

The alchemy of God's love.

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ETA: For some reason this posting is showing up as written on Sunday the 5th, probably because I started it then (I think I wrote two sentences before I had to save it in draft). But the full posting was really written late night Tuesday the 7th...yikes, it's actually past midnght now, so it's the 8th!

Visible and Invisible

I'm most of the way through C.S. Lewis' Till We Have Faces. It was his last novel and many think his best. I feel as though I know a lot about it, but I've never really worked my own way through the story. Dana read it aloud to me years ago, not long after we were first married, but for some reason I had a hard time staying awake for many of those late-night reading sessions. (Odd but true -- I can read aloud for hours, till I'm hoarse, and not get tired -- but when anyone reads to me for any length of time I often find myself nodding off.) I've also read bits or heard lectures about the book over the years. So I feel I know the story in bits and pieces, but have missed the real power and impact of reading it myself until now.

And it's an amazing book. I can already understand, even before reaching the end, why so many consider this Lewis' most mature and powerful fiction. There's a raw elemental feeling to it; the voice of Orual, the narrator, is one of the strongest (and most bitter, thus far) story voices I've ever read.

I'm struck as I read by the way Lewis worked certain themes over and over into his life's work, like certain colored threads woven into a tapestry, or a refrain line in poetry, or design elements that repeat as a motif in a painting. The one that's really jumped out at me here is his fascination with visible and invisible realities, things "seen and unseen." In Till We Have Faces, there is a crucial scene in which Orual has discovered her sister Psyche is alive, the sister who had been sacrificed by their community to appease what they believed to be a wrathful god. When she finds Psyche alive and well on the mountain, she is stunned to see her beautiful, healthy and full of happiness. And yet she cannot believe her sister that there really is a god, who has turned out to be loving as well as fearful, and that he had taken her as his wife. She believes her sister mad, especially because Psyche insists that they are sitting in the courtyard of a beautiful palace. Although Psyche can describe this great house in detail, Orual sees nothing but rocks, trees, wind and sky. And the two are locked in this moment with a huge chasm opening between them -- one who seems to see into an invisible realm to "what's really there," and one who simply cannot believe anything beyond her own senses, which tell her that nothing beautiful is there.

Lewis plays on this theme again and again in the Chronicles. Having recently re-read the first two, they're freshest in my mind. Of course it's Lucy who sees (actually enters) a world that the others can't, at first, see at all -- when they first go to the wardrobe to verify her seemingly wild account of journeying into a land called Narnia, the doorway is no longer open to it. Even Lucy sees it's "not there" -- or at least doesn't seem to be. But she adamantly sticks to the truth that it was there a moment ago, leading Peter and Susan to ultimately question her veracity and even more, her sanity (though the Professor poo-poohs them for that silly suggestion). I think it's Peter who comments that if things are really real, they're there "all the time" to which Professor Kirke says rather enigmatically "are they?"

We see this theme again in Prince Caspian, when only Lucy can see Aslan at first, but he is clearly there, leading and guiding the party on their way. Eventually all come to see him. And we see it again in The Last Battle (which I've not read in quite a while, so I'm treading on thin ice with my memory here) when at the end of Narnia, when Aslan is leading people into his country, the dwarves are unable to see any of the wonders and beauties around them, insisting loudly and angrily that they're in a filthy place eating terrible food, when all the others can see and taste wonderful things. (Orual reminds me of the dwarves. Her sister offers her honeycakes and wine, and she tastes only mountain berries and water.)

For Lewis, there are invisible realities that can lie hidden (unseen, unrevealed) all around us, and it's only in certain moments and situations, and I would add to certain people who are ready and able to see with the eyes of the heart, that the veil is lifted so that what is truly there can be beheld. This is a deeply Christian view, one confirmed by the Scriptures that teach us of an invisible God who has lovingly revealed himself in the face of his son Jesus, and through the Holy Spirit who is sometimes likened to the wind. The Scriptures also speak of the existence of other realities we can't see with the naked eye, including realms and spirits, both good and bad. It's not a view that sits easily in the modern world, which is perhaps the very reason Lewis chose to explore it through the language of myth and fairy-tale, knowing as he did that the world is in need of "a powerful spell" to break it from "the enchantment of worldliness" it's been living under.

Lots of people point to Lewis' interest in Platonism when they consider these themes. And sure, that's there. (He did, after all, hold a degree in Philosophy as well as Literature.) But I'm struck again by something pointed out by Alan Jacobs in The Narnian, an obvious point I'd somehow overlooked for years -- Lewis was Irish. He himself, in at least one letter he wrote to his father, talked proudly of their shared Celtic temperament and roots. It seems to me that his fascination with "thin places" where the veil is momentarily lifted and one can see realities beyond those we can grasp with our mere senses, where the earthly realm and the heavenly realm intersect and overlap, is a very Celtic trait. As is his fascination with journeys, especially interior journeys of the heart, though often mirrored in outward journeys. The kind of journey that the Celtic saints called peregrinatio, often wild and perilous journeys where one is led through suffering and trial (but also unexpected joy and beauty) to the place of one's resurrection. (That last reflection is shaped out of some reading I'm doing on Celtic prayer in a book by Esther De Waal...more to come on that.)

I think it's that kind of journey that Lucy takes when she steps into Narnia. And that Orual is taking in Till We Have Faces (though I'm less sure about the end of the journey here...stay tuned). Interesting that along they way, they're both learning to live into royalty, into queenship.

January Round-Up

Yes, I know it's February...my three year old daughter reminded me first thing this morning that we needed to change the calendar page. She's been learning the months of the year and finds the whole concept fascinating. Not to mention that she got to choose our kitchen calendar this year; we will have 12 full months of chocolate labrador retriever pictures as a result! :-)

I didn't get a chance to post yesterday. But I've decided that somewhere near the end of each month I want to post a kind of "odds n' ends" batch of notes on things I've been reading that somehow didn't make it into any other reflection. I also hereby give myself permission to throw in other things that strike my fancy -- movies I've seen, inspiring quotes, songs or poems that have been stuck in my head. Hey, it's my journal so I get to make the rules!

During family reading this month we've been reading Prince Caspian. We read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe during December, mostly during our Christmas travels in the car. I had hesitated briefly over whether to start these books with Sarah so young, but she's already listened to a lot of things way past her "age range" and Dana and I really felt like doing a re-read of the Chronicles, with all the hoopla surrounding the movie release. I probably read them every four or five years anyway, at least.

Our family reading time is very relaxed. We don't have a set time, or a regular place, or even try to do it every day -- in fact, sometimes a whole week can go by without us reading anything all together except our morning/evening prayers and Bible stories. Oh and we usually do one bedtime story all together too, assuming D. doesn't have evening meetings or work. We tend to do most of our family reading in the car or sometimes at dinner. I think S. has liked PC mostly because it has the name "Trumpkin" in it so often, though she's been a bit confused that he's not a bear. Her beloved brown bear is Trumpkin -- it's how she's always known the name. She didn't know that her Mommy named that bear (in college...he was my going away from home present from my Dad) after a dwarf in a beloved book. Of course, I didn't know then that one day my fuzzy friend would come out of retirement to become the favorite animal of my daughter!

I'd forgotten how much I like PC, especially the characters of Trumpkin and Caspian, and the whole "return to Narnia" theme. Not much happens in the book in some ways, and yet there are a lot of scenes in it I love. I especially like the whole "following Aslan" section in the middle, when the Great Lion reveals himself to the children and Trumpkin, but one at a time, and basically in the order of their willingness and openness to seeing him and following him. It's so telling that Lucy sees him first. And then there's that wonderful moment when she tells Aslan he's gotten bigger, and he explains to her that it's because she's gotten older -- so she can see more of him.

Lucy's a marvelously drawn character, here and elsewhere. One day I will have to make a list of my favorite heriones in fiction. Lucy is definitely on that list!

In the reading as total fluff category, in January I also read the Sense and Sensibility Screenplay and Diaries. I got this through inter-library loan and was very pleased with it, though a bit disappointed that Emma Thompson (who screenwrote the wonderful movie and starred as Elinor Dashwood) didn't spend more time in the diaries section actually detailing her creative process in adapting/updating the Jane Austen story for a modern audience. Instead it's mostly notes from the set, but they're so funny and droll I didn't mind too much that it wasn't all I'd hoped for. I actually dug out the movie again (we got a VHS copy last fall for something like $2!) and followed along watching it while I read the screenplay. Didn't quite get through the whole film this way yet, but hope to -- it's really interesting seeing how actors interpret the directions in the screenplay, not to mention to note scenes they've cut. I was surprised they cut a kiss between Elinor and Edward...perhaps they felt it was just too "lover-ly" for Austen. She was always so reserved in the way she wrote those tender, romantic moments.

I read almost no poetry in January. Must makes amends in February. February is a month that cries out for lots of poetry! I have read some poems from the fall 2005 issue of The Penwood Review, which I'm published in. (But there's a typo in my poem, which sort of makes me want to bang my head against the wall...it feels like such a long road to get anything published, so to see the final result with a typo is a bit maddening. Ah well. Patience. I am learning patience.) I may post some thoughts about one or two of the poems in that issue later as there are some beautiful ones.

Most interesting video I've seen this month (and I didn't see many): Bride and Prejudice. It's a "Bollywood musical" of the Jane Austen classic, and I thought it rip-roaringly exuberant and fun. Very bold retelling, though not without its flaws.

Song I've listened to a lot this month -- Derrick Harris' Cup of Life. More on that and perhaps a few other odds n' ends later. It's nearing midnight and I'm fading.