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.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Friday, February 24, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, February 20, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
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
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
Monday, February 13, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
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."
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."
Sunday, February 05, 2006
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.
***************
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!
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.
***************
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!
Friday, February 03, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Random Poetry
I'd be the first to admit how much I hate e-mail spam. In spite of trying to keep my "filters" set fairly high, I seem to get more than my fair share of the stuff, and I grumble about life being too short as I clean it out every day.
However, lately I've been getting a kick out of the randomly generated subject lines on some of the spam in my inbox. You know the ones I mean, the subject lines that string together three or four words that appear to have been randomly generated and have no apparent connection to each other in any way (all in an attempt to get their noxious virus-y advertisements through to my mailbox). Most of the time I don't give these a second glance as I send them to the trash bin for emptying, but once in a while a combination of words will jump out at me and...well...
almost look like poetry (she says sheepishly). Sometimes they remind me of those poetry magnets people put on their refrigerator!
This morning there was an interesting one. The subject line read "sing as reflex." I almost took a double-take when I saw that, because I had just read the following in a meditation by Amy Carmichael:
"His anxious thoughts said: 'Terrific powers are set in array against me!' ... His Father said: 'And you are as a little child, who knows not how to meet them. But with you, there is one stronger than they. Do not forget to sing!'"
Do not forget to sing! When trouble comes, when you seem surrounded by terrible pressures, fears and troubles, look up, realize who is on your side, and sing! Sing praises! Sing thanks! And, as the wise and witty spam-poetry in my inbox put it, "sing as reflex"! I love that idea -- that I could so train my responses to life's problems, that my trust in God's loving power and goodness could be so strong, that even in the darkest and most anxious moments of the day, my first instinct would be to sing. It would be like a reflex action, something I would do almost without thinking.
I'm going to try to remember this insight: do not forget to sing/sing as reflex. And I'm going to see if I can't keep my eyes open for more instances of unexpected poetry, poems that ambush me from ordinary places. What Annie Dillard calls "found poetry."
However, lately I've been getting a kick out of the randomly generated subject lines on some of the spam in my inbox. You know the ones I mean, the subject lines that string together three or four words that appear to have been randomly generated and have no apparent connection to each other in any way (all in an attempt to get their noxious virus-y advertisements through to my mailbox). Most of the time I don't give these a second glance as I send them to the trash bin for emptying, but once in a while a combination of words will jump out at me and...well...
almost look like poetry (she says sheepishly). Sometimes they remind me of those poetry magnets people put on their refrigerator!
This morning there was an interesting one. The subject line read "sing as reflex." I almost took a double-take when I saw that, because I had just read the following in a meditation by Amy Carmichael:
"His anxious thoughts said: 'Terrific powers are set in array against me!' ... His Father said: 'And you are as a little child, who knows not how to meet them. But with you, there is one stronger than they. Do not forget to sing!'"
Do not forget to sing! When trouble comes, when you seem surrounded by terrible pressures, fears and troubles, look up, realize who is on your side, and sing! Sing praises! Sing thanks! And, as the wise and witty spam-poetry in my inbox put it, "sing as reflex"! I love that idea -- that I could so train my responses to life's problems, that my trust in God's loving power and goodness could be so strong, that even in the darkest and most anxious moments of the day, my first instinct would be to sing. It would be like a reflex action, something I would do almost without thinking.
I'm going to try to remember this insight: do not forget to sing/sing as reflex. And I'm going to see if I can't keep my eyes open for more instances of unexpected poetry, poems that ambush me from ordinary places. What Annie Dillard calls "found poetry."
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Quacking and Kerplunking
I don’t want this journal to turn into a pseudo-list: in other words, just because it’s an online journal I don’t want to waste time trying to make my reading list look more impressive or “academic” than it is. In truth, I do a lot of reading, and not all of it is “big and important” (whatever that means!) -- at least by the world’s standards.
So what have I been reading this week? Well, a lot of Robert McCloskey. Yes, that’s right, Robert McCloskey, author of Make Way for Ducklings and Blueberries for Sal, both of which I’ve read numerous times in the past several days. McCloskey wrote and illustrated children’s books in the 1940s and 1950s, wonderful books that have stood the test of time and still delight both me and my three year old. I’ve been thoroughly enjoying the whimsy of reading (or quacking!) out the ducklings’ names: Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack and Quack, and of course I also love the chance to do the sounds of the blueberries hitting little Sal’s tin pail: Kerplink, Kerplank, Kerplunk. There’s something deeply satisfying about these stories, especially the terrific symmetry of the adventures of the mother/little child and mother bear/little bear in Blueberries for Sal.
I want to reflect from time to time on reading I’m doing with my daughter, because frankly it makes up a good portion of this season of my life! Part of the reason I began this journal was to get myself in the habit of reflecting on what I’m actually reading from day to day, whatever that might be. In the process, I may learn more about my own reading habits, and of course I may need to decide somewhere down the road that it would be a good idea to shape my reading habits differently. In general, I don’t set reading plans, in part because I’ve always had what I describe as a “popcorn mind.” One idea puts another idea into my head, and then another comes and then another… pop pop pop! My reading seasons tend to go the same way. I begin to read something and find that I feel passionate about what I’m reading – the form, the content, the author, the themes – and I begin to read other things that connect to it in some way. So you may notice where I go through times where I read heavily from and about one or more authors (Austen and Lewis at the moment, who tend to cycle back around pretty often). I don’t always do this consciously, but when I look back I can see what or who shaped a particular reading season.
One exception to my popcorn pattern is my more intentional spiritual reading. I don’t mean that I haven’t been spiritually formed by reading I’ve done spontaneously. I believe that the Holy Spirit sometimes moves me to read things that I didn’t consciously plan to be reading. One example I shared not long ago was how the Lord led me to the Amy Carmichael meditations that I didn’t even realize were on my shelves. Those are providing much food for my heart, but I certainly didn’t plan to read them right now.
But at least with my Scripture reading, I try to be more disciplined…though I often fail. I have not been good about reading through the daily lectionary lately, but it’s there for me like a scaffolding and I can return to that pattern. Sometimes I choose a certain book of the Bible – at the moment, it’s 2 Corinthians – and try to read through it a little bit each day, often trying a chapter per day, but not allowing myself to get hung up if I end up reading a little less or more.
I guess you could say there are several distinct kinds of reading I find myself doing these days:
Scripture reading
Other spiritual reading
Literary reading
Reading to my daughter
Informational reading (news/articles)
“Literary reading” is a kind of catch-all category. It doesn’t necessarily mean great or classic literature (though it can). It can also overlap with spiritual reading. In fact, most of these categories overlap in some way, in part because I find myself making connections or finding insights in one area based on reading and reflecting in another area. And all of these kinds of reading, with the possible exception of the last, is reading that feeds my “story-hunger” -- hunger for stories that reflect the Great Story found in the Scriptures.
My three and a half year old has a pretty insatiable story hunger of her own (I think she was born with it, but I’m sure we’ve fueled it too!). It would be silly and dishonest for me never to reflect in my journal about the books I’m reading with and to her, not only because they’re a big part of my diet, but because they’re good literature. I know for a fact that my own reading and writing have been shaped by the children’s literature I’ve been blessed to read since she was born. In fact, I have begun to write more stories and poems with children in mind, and I’m finding that I love this kind of work.
So what have I been reading this week? Well, a lot of Robert McCloskey. Yes, that’s right, Robert McCloskey, author of Make Way for Ducklings and Blueberries for Sal, both of which I’ve read numerous times in the past several days. McCloskey wrote and illustrated children’s books in the 1940s and 1950s, wonderful books that have stood the test of time and still delight both me and my three year old. I’ve been thoroughly enjoying the whimsy of reading (or quacking!) out the ducklings’ names: Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack and Quack, and of course I also love the chance to do the sounds of the blueberries hitting little Sal’s tin pail: Kerplink, Kerplank, Kerplunk. There’s something deeply satisfying about these stories, especially the terrific symmetry of the adventures of the mother/little child and mother bear/little bear in Blueberries for Sal.
I want to reflect from time to time on reading I’m doing with my daughter, because frankly it makes up a good portion of this season of my life! Part of the reason I began this journal was to get myself in the habit of reflecting on what I’m actually reading from day to day, whatever that might be. In the process, I may learn more about my own reading habits, and of course I may need to decide somewhere down the road that it would be a good idea to shape my reading habits differently. In general, I don’t set reading plans, in part because I’ve always had what I describe as a “popcorn mind.” One idea puts another idea into my head, and then another comes and then another… pop pop pop! My reading seasons tend to go the same way. I begin to read something and find that I feel passionate about what I’m reading – the form, the content, the author, the themes – and I begin to read other things that connect to it in some way. So you may notice where I go through times where I read heavily from and about one or more authors (Austen and Lewis at the moment, who tend to cycle back around pretty often). I don’t always do this consciously, but when I look back I can see what or who shaped a particular reading season.
One exception to my popcorn pattern is my more intentional spiritual reading. I don’t mean that I haven’t been spiritually formed by reading I’ve done spontaneously. I believe that the Holy Spirit sometimes moves me to read things that I didn’t consciously plan to be reading. One example I shared not long ago was how the Lord led me to the Amy Carmichael meditations that I didn’t even realize were on my shelves. Those are providing much food for my heart, but I certainly didn’t plan to read them right now.
But at least with my Scripture reading, I try to be more disciplined…though I often fail. I have not been good about reading through the daily lectionary lately, but it’s there for me like a scaffolding and I can return to that pattern. Sometimes I choose a certain book of the Bible – at the moment, it’s 2 Corinthians – and try to read through it a little bit each day, often trying a chapter per day, but not allowing myself to get hung up if I end up reading a little less or more.
I guess you could say there are several distinct kinds of reading I find myself doing these days:
Scripture reading
Other spiritual reading
Literary reading
Reading to my daughter
Informational reading (news/articles)
“Literary reading” is a kind of catch-all category. It doesn’t necessarily mean great or classic literature (though it can). It can also overlap with spiritual reading. In fact, most of these categories overlap in some way, in part because I find myself making connections or finding insights in one area based on reading and reflecting in another area. And all of these kinds of reading, with the possible exception of the last, is reading that feeds my “story-hunger” -- hunger for stories that reflect the Great Story found in the Scriptures.
My three and a half year old has a pretty insatiable story hunger of her own (I think she was born with it, but I’m sure we’ve fueled it too!). It would be silly and dishonest for me never to reflect in my journal about the books I’m reading with and to her, not only because they’re a big part of my diet, but because they’re good literature. I know for a fact that my own reading and writing have been shaped by the children’s literature I’ve been blessed to read since she was born. In fact, I have begun to write more stories and poems with children in mind, and I’m finding that I love this kind of work.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Beautiful, and Yet...
I finally finished Ron Hansen's novel Atticus. I say finally because I've attempted to read this book on and off for about a year. I'm not sure why it took me so long to get into it. I bought a used copy of it a year or so ago, with part of a gift certificate, and it's been lying on top of various book piles (often in the bathroom) ever since.
I must have started it half a dozen times. The writing is beautiful, so I really can't figure out why it didn't "hook" me more immediately. Once it did, I read the whole thing in just a few days. I'm still trying to sort out my reaction to it...or to be more precise, why my reaction wasn't stronger.
Because the writing is beautiful, and the themes of the novel very close to my heart. In many ways, it's a contemporary retelling of the "prodigal son" story with some very cool twists. It reads like rich, literary fiction and also a compelling mystery/suspense novel at the same time -- in some ways it reminded me of Dorothy Sayers (not at all in tone or language, but in the way it used a contemporary "murder mystery" type genre to explore big moral questions).
Is it possible that the writing was too beautiful? What a strange question. But I sometimes felt as though all the language was getting in the way. Almost every sentence seemed so well crafted -- and there were a lot of them. This novel is dense on description and light on dialogue. I'd be interested to know if that's typical of Hansen (this was my introduction to his work) or if it's somewhat unique to this novel given that Atticus, our main character (and POV for a good portion of the story) is taciturn and immensely private. A man of few words, but lots of thoughts -- he observes everything very carefully. One guess that's his nature, but it's also partly driven by the needs of the story, since he spends much of it investigating his son Scott's suspicious suicide in Mexico.
I often found myself pausing to admire lines like: Horizontal snow was flying through the halo of the green yard light and carrots of ice were hanging from the roof's iron gutters. Carrots of ice! Isn't that a perfect description for icicles? Hansen's wonderful at looking and naming the tiny details that bring a landscape or a face to life. Green and pink buildings were high above them on both sides and hot sunlight glared like snow off the walls. I like that one. The mixing of temperatures, the hot sun glaring, not just white, but "like snow." Startles you. Good stuff.
But for some reason, all this good stuff seemed to jump up and ask to be noticed. It felt distracting. So while I admired the book on technical levels, I didn't find myself connecting as much emotionally to the characters, and given what they were going through, and the themes of love, guilt and forgiveness that he so skillfully wove together, that seemed strange.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe it just wasn't the right time for this book. Some books don't "grab you" right away, but they can stay with you, deeper than you realize, and when you go back to them at a later time you find more of the story lodged in your heart than you knew. And you're ready for it the second time around. Maybe that's the case here.
I must have started it half a dozen times. The writing is beautiful, so I really can't figure out why it didn't "hook" me more immediately. Once it did, I read the whole thing in just a few days. I'm still trying to sort out my reaction to it...or to be more precise, why my reaction wasn't stronger.
Because the writing is beautiful, and the themes of the novel very close to my heart. In many ways, it's a contemporary retelling of the "prodigal son" story with some very cool twists. It reads like rich, literary fiction and also a compelling mystery/suspense novel at the same time -- in some ways it reminded me of Dorothy Sayers (not at all in tone or language, but in the way it used a contemporary "murder mystery" type genre to explore big moral questions).
Is it possible that the writing was too beautiful? What a strange question. But I sometimes felt as though all the language was getting in the way. Almost every sentence seemed so well crafted -- and there were a lot of them. This novel is dense on description and light on dialogue. I'd be interested to know if that's typical of Hansen (this was my introduction to his work) or if it's somewhat unique to this novel given that Atticus, our main character (and POV for a good portion of the story) is taciturn and immensely private. A man of few words, but lots of thoughts -- he observes everything very carefully. One guess that's his nature, but it's also partly driven by the needs of the story, since he spends much of it investigating his son Scott's suspicious suicide in Mexico.
I often found myself pausing to admire lines like: Horizontal snow was flying through the halo of the green yard light and carrots of ice were hanging from the roof's iron gutters. Carrots of ice! Isn't that a perfect description for icicles? Hansen's wonderful at looking and naming the tiny details that bring a landscape or a face to life. Green and pink buildings were high above them on both sides and hot sunlight glared like snow off the walls. I like that one. The mixing of temperatures, the hot sun glaring, not just white, but "like snow." Startles you. Good stuff.
But for some reason, all this good stuff seemed to jump up and ask to be noticed. It felt distracting. So while I admired the book on technical levels, I didn't find myself connecting as much emotionally to the characters, and given what they were going through, and the themes of love, guilt and forgiveness that he so skillfully wove together, that seemed strange.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe it just wasn't the right time for this book. Some books don't "grab you" right away, but they can stay with you, deeper than you realize, and when you go back to them at a later time you find more of the story lodged in your heart than you knew. And you're ready for it the second time around. Maybe that's the case here.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Still Wild About Harry
I've begun re-reading the entire Harry Potter series, trying to trace anything to do with the theme of memory/memories. I had an idea -- months ago, when I was in an inspiring online reading group at Barnes and Noble University following the publication of Half-Blood Prince -- to work up an essay around that theme and its importance to the overall series. Lately I dug the idea out again and started my re-read, tiny notebook and pen next to me so I can jot page numbers and quotes as I go.
Of course, it's mostly just a good excuse to revisit the wonderful Harry Potter stories, which I have enjoyed numerous times in the past few years. I am an unabashed Harry Potter fan, and have discovered, to my joy, many like-minded adults who are also crazy about these books. I still read and post (at least somewhat regularly) in an online HP forum. It's an unusual one and a wonderful one too, because it's moderated by my friend John Granger, whose brilliant books The Hidden Key to Harry Potter and Looking for God in Harry Potter have helped many of us to explore the Christian symbolism and themes of the stories (not to mention we like to kick around exciting topics like Rowling's use of "narrative misdirection"). John manages to attract wonderfully thoughtful people. Lots of writers and teachers in this group, and numerous Austen, Dickens and Inklings fans! No wonder I enjoy my time there.
At any rate, I'm having a hard time concentrating on my notetaking because, in spite of the fact that I've read most of the books in the series a handful of times, I find myself getting caught up in them again. Hanging out with Harry, Ron and Hermione is like hanging out with old friends. I had forgotten how funny Sorcerer's Stone is -- laugh out loud funny, in some parts. It's so delightful to be so delighted while rejoicing in a story that skewers the blatant materialism of our times, and does a wonderful job of emphasizing the power of sacrificial love. And those are just two things Rowling does so well.
At any rate, I'll keep reading and note-taking and see if I actually get anywhere with the essay later this spring. (I know it's not spring yet -- but I still think on an academic schedule.) It's not exactly priority right now admist all the other work I need to do, not to mention other reading and writing projects, but it's wonderful "background" reading...I know I can always take a holiday with Harry.
And in the spirit of holiday, here are a few observations I've made while reading Sorcerer's Stone... observations of the "isn't that interesting?" variety or the "hmm...wonder if that might be important in the final book" variety. I find that last especially interesting, as I fully believe Rowling is going to come full circle in book 7 with many of the ideas, themes and plotlines introduced in book 1. Still, these are not my most serious reflections about where the story is going...I'm mostly having fun here.
Of course, it's mostly just a good excuse to revisit the wonderful Harry Potter stories, which I have enjoyed numerous times in the past few years. I am an unabashed Harry Potter fan, and have discovered, to my joy, many like-minded adults who are also crazy about these books. I still read and post (at least somewhat regularly) in an online HP forum. It's an unusual one and a wonderful one too, because it's moderated by my friend John Granger, whose brilliant books The Hidden Key to Harry Potter and Looking for God in Harry Potter have helped many of us to explore the Christian symbolism and themes of the stories (not to mention we like to kick around exciting topics like Rowling's use of "narrative misdirection"). John manages to attract wonderfully thoughtful people. Lots of writers and teachers in this group, and numerous Austen, Dickens and Inklings fans! No wonder I enjoy my time there.
At any rate, I'm having a hard time concentrating on my notetaking because, in spite of the fact that I've read most of the books in the series a handful of times, I find myself getting caught up in them again. Hanging out with Harry, Ron and Hermione is like hanging out with old friends. I had forgotten how funny Sorcerer's Stone is -- laugh out loud funny, in some parts. It's so delightful to be so delighted while rejoicing in a story that skewers the blatant materialism of our times, and does a wonderful job of emphasizing the power of sacrificial love. And those are just two things Rowling does so well.
At any rate, I'll keep reading and note-taking and see if I actually get anywhere with the essay later this spring. (I know it's not spring yet -- but I still think on an academic schedule.) It's not exactly priority right now admist all the other work I need to do, not to mention other reading and writing projects, but it's wonderful "background" reading...I know I can always take a holiday with Harry.
And in the spirit of holiday, here are a few observations I've made while reading Sorcerer's Stone... observations of the "isn't that interesting?" variety or the "hmm...wonder if that might be important in the final book" variety. I find that last especially interesting, as I fully believe Rowling is going to come full circle in book 7 with many of the ideas, themes and plotlines introduced in book 1. Still, these are not my most serious reflections about where the story is going...I'm mostly having fun here.
- Wouldn't it be funny if the boa constrictor that Harry accidentally set free in the zoo came back to help him out in the final battle? He owes Harry, so maybe he could duke it out with Nagini. (This is a joke. I'm counting on a Fawkes/Nagini encounter actually.)
- Has Harry inherited Sirius Black's flying motorcycle? And would he enjoy flying on that as much as he loves flying on his Firebolt?
- Have we seen the last of Hagrid's pink umbrella? Remember it's his wand (the one that got snapped in pieces when he was expelled from Hogwarts). We haven't seen Hagrid attempt much magic, but he's capable of some feats. And if John Granger is right about the pattern of the alchemical symbolism (and I'm willing to bet he is!) then Hagrid has a very important role to play in the final book.
- What wand is it that Ollivander keeps in his window (the one in the display case)? Is anyone running Ollivander's now that he's disappeared? (and whose side is he really on? I have my theories about that one...)
- Snape's saving of Harry during the first Quidditch match...major foreshadowing?
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Dragon Skin
Do you ever have Eustace Scrubb moments? Moments when you feel, like the character of the 'unfortunately named' Eustace in Voyage of the Dawn Treader, that you've layers and layers of accumulated dragon skin (made up of all sorts of sins and selfishness) that you long to peel away and can't?
I have moments like that sometimes. The other night I was feeling all "stuffed with self" -- full of impatience, uncharitable feelings, sharp tones -- and then feeling guilty because I knew that perhaps the worst part of all was how focused I was on my own sense of failure and self-pity. It was only after a time of prayer and confession that I felt stripped clean, made "real" again, reminded I was a beloved daughter, redeemed and whole.
I've always loved the scene in Dawn Treader and the marvelous transformation of dragon-Eustace back into human (but perhaps truly human for the first time) Eustace. But I have a deeper appreciation for the scene now, having read Alan Jacobs' beautiful reflections on it, woven skillfully into his reflections on C.S. Lewis' own gradual transformation as he moved from an atheistic materialism, to recognition that there was "a" God, to a final recongition of and surrender to the triune God. Lewis himself described part of that transformation (in Surprised by Joy) as the feeling that he was a lobster who had lost his hard shell. But somehow I never made the obvious connection between that description and the scene he wrote about Eustace.
Jacobs writes:
"It is especially noteworthy that Eustace's own attempts to remove his scaly skin are ineffectual. To peel off his skin is 'a most lovely feeling,' but he is just the same after doing so
-- just as Lewis himself had been exactly the same after 'breaking the neck' of a prideful thought, or several prideful thoughts. Eustace skins himself three times before realizing that his best efforts are inadequate. It is only Aslan who has the strength (and the love) to do the job properly -- that is, to turn Eustace back into a boy again -- and Eustace welcomes the gift, even if 'the very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart.'
But then it is characteristic of Aslan, as Lord of Narnia, to do for his people what they cannot do for themselves. He heals, he saves -- he even dies for them when there is no other remedy. But it is not clear that when Lewis was discovering his 'depth under depth of self-love and self-admiration' he yet understood the deepest character of the God in whom he now believed. He was still trying to strip away his own skin, but every day, whether he knew it or not, he was moving closer to the recognition that it was not just any God but the God of Jesus Christ into whose hands he had fallen, and that if any radical change in him were ever to happen, his own powers of insight and determination would not be adequate to the task. Only the claws of that God could penetrate to his very heart."
(~~The Narnian, pp. 134-135)
Besides the insight this gave me into Lewis' transformation, it also gives me much to ponder about myself and about the Lord. What makes me most grateful is the realization that once we've been transformed by Jesus into our real human selves, we can't really ever go back to being dragons again. Like Eustace, we may still have dragonish moments (or even days!) when we lapse into old ways and sins and thought-habits, or when we listen to lies about who we are. In those times we may begin to feel the scaly skin trying to creep back. But we can turn to the Lord and ask him to peel it away again before it can thicken and grow. We can trust that he will, and that he will, when necessary, "velvet his paws" (to use another wonderful image from Lewis' Aslan). For the Lord is both strong and gentle, and in his grace he longs to do for us what we cannot do for ourselves.
I have moments like that sometimes. The other night I was feeling all "stuffed with self" -- full of impatience, uncharitable feelings, sharp tones -- and then feeling guilty because I knew that perhaps the worst part of all was how focused I was on my own sense of failure and self-pity. It was only after a time of prayer and confession that I felt stripped clean, made "real" again, reminded I was a beloved daughter, redeemed and whole.
I've always loved the scene in Dawn Treader and the marvelous transformation of dragon-Eustace back into human (but perhaps truly human for the first time) Eustace. But I have a deeper appreciation for the scene now, having read Alan Jacobs' beautiful reflections on it, woven skillfully into his reflections on C.S. Lewis' own gradual transformation as he moved from an atheistic materialism, to recognition that there was "a" God, to a final recongition of and surrender to the triune God. Lewis himself described part of that transformation (in Surprised by Joy) as the feeling that he was a lobster who had lost his hard shell. But somehow I never made the obvious connection between that description and the scene he wrote about Eustace.
Jacobs writes:
"It is especially noteworthy that Eustace's own attempts to remove his scaly skin are ineffectual. To peel off his skin is 'a most lovely feeling,' but he is just the same after doing so
-- just as Lewis himself had been exactly the same after 'breaking the neck' of a prideful thought, or several prideful thoughts. Eustace skins himself three times before realizing that his best efforts are inadequate. It is only Aslan who has the strength (and the love) to do the job properly -- that is, to turn Eustace back into a boy again -- and Eustace welcomes the gift, even if 'the very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart.'
But then it is characteristic of Aslan, as Lord of Narnia, to do for his people what they cannot do for themselves. He heals, he saves -- he even dies for them when there is no other remedy. But it is not clear that when Lewis was discovering his 'depth under depth of self-love and self-admiration' he yet understood the deepest character of the God in whom he now believed. He was still trying to strip away his own skin, but every day, whether he knew it or not, he was moving closer to the recognition that it was not just any God but the God of Jesus Christ into whose hands he had fallen, and that if any radical change in him were ever to happen, his own powers of insight and determination would not be adequate to the task. Only the claws of that God could penetrate to his very heart."
(~~The Narnian, pp. 134-135)
Besides the insight this gave me into Lewis' transformation, it also gives me much to ponder about myself and about the Lord. What makes me most grateful is the realization that once we've been transformed by Jesus into our real human selves, we can't really ever go back to being dragons again. Like Eustace, we may still have dragonish moments (or even days!) when we lapse into old ways and sins and thought-habits, or when we listen to lies about who we are. In those times we may begin to feel the scaly skin trying to creep back. But we can turn to the Lord and ask him to peel it away again before it can thicken and grow. We can trust that he will, and that he will, when necessary, "velvet his paws" (to use another wonderful image from Lewis' Aslan). For the Lord is both strong and gentle, and in his grace he longs to do for us what we cannot do for ourselves.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Earth and Heaven
Continuing to read Amy Carmichael, and am struggling through a few thoughts this evening. In one of the meditations, she speaks of "trivial" things in our lives that we sometimes let sidetrack us from the real purpose of our lives, serving God. Essentially she is saying that there's nothing wrong with "recreation" or various pastimes in our lives, as long as they will not cause a leakage of spiritual power. She also adds that certain things that might be fine for one person (would not cause them to be distracted, or led astray, or lead to addiction...these are my words here, not her's, but I think they capture the gist of what she means) might not be fine for another person in a different situation or with a different temperament. Again, I'm paraphrasing and extrapolating, but I think this is what she's getting at.
And I appreciate that insight. In fact, I think it's a good one to ponder, to use for reflection when we're involving ourselves in a lot of time and effort in any kind of activity -- does this help or hinder my spiritual growth? My relationship with God? My "gladness and singleness of heart" to quote the Book of Common Prayer?
At the same time, I wrestled a bit with her continued reflections on keeping ourselves separate from the world. She writes "Those of us who are God's emissaries are to treat the world (not just its corruptions, but its legitimate joys, its priveleges and blessings also), as a thing to be touched at a distance...It is not that He forbids us this or that indulgence or comfort; not that He is stern, calling us to a life of harsh asceticism, as if that would make Him more pleased with us. No, it is that we who love our Lord, and we whose affections are set on the things that are heaven for us today -- we voluntarily and gladly lay aside things that charm the world, so that we may be charmed and ravished with the things of heaven."
What she is saying, I think, is that our allegiance is to a "higher Kingdom" (as she calls it later on) and my heart resonates so deeply with that. My heart also resonates with the reality that as the people of God, made for eternity, we will always in some sense be wanderers and exiles on earth, with no permanent home. On the other hand, and this is where my more sacramental understanding of life comes into play, I am a created creature living in a good (though fallen) creation, and I am an encultured being. All that I know and understand and can meditate on concerning heaven and ultimate things and the Kingdom (and what all that is like) is mediated to me through the "stuff" of this world -- creation, yes, but also words and pictures (especially the inspired words and pictures of the Scriptures). Earth and heaven are deeply connected, made by the same good God, and though "sundered" now deeply connected again by the incarnation, death and resurrection of Jesus. I keep thinking of Jesus telling Nathanael how he would see heaven open, and angels ascending and descending on the Son of Man (a passage I heard a sermon on last week). Jesus came to earth to open heaven, and to himself be that "ladder," that "bridge" between the two. And because He came, we know that there will be times and places in our lives, even here in exile on earth, where we will know, like Jacob who had that first vision of the ladder of angels in Genesis, that "surely God was here in this place and I did not know it."
Not that I think Amy Carmichael would have any problem with what I'm saying. And I've wandered far afield. I think her general point is very sound; she's clearly not advocating a full retreat from the world, nor an ascetic kind of withdrawal from the world, simply a cautious and careful drawing back from the "vain things that charm (us) most" and threaten to pull our attention from the ultimate realities that really do matter most. It's probably a word I need to hear more than I realize, living in such a deeply materialistic culture, a culture that spends all its time and energy worrying about and worshipping the things we can see, and either ignoring, debasing, or deciding that the things which we can't see are simply "not there."
In the world, but not of it. Just passing through, and yet called to passionately love. Walking carefully, and yet trusting lavishly. Loving the gifts, but never satisfied fully with anything less than the Giver. That seems to be our call.
And I appreciate that insight. In fact, I think it's a good one to ponder, to use for reflection when we're involving ourselves in a lot of time and effort in any kind of activity -- does this help or hinder my spiritual growth? My relationship with God? My "gladness and singleness of heart" to quote the Book of Common Prayer?
At the same time, I wrestled a bit with her continued reflections on keeping ourselves separate from the world. She writes "Those of us who are God's emissaries are to treat the world (not just its corruptions, but its legitimate joys, its priveleges and blessings also), as a thing to be touched at a distance...It is not that He forbids us this or that indulgence or comfort; not that He is stern, calling us to a life of harsh asceticism, as if that would make Him more pleased with us. No, it is that we who love our Lord, and we whose affections are set on the things that are heaven for us today -- we voluntarily and gladly lay aside things that charm the world, so that we may be charmed and ravished with the things of heaven."
What she is saying, I think, is that our allegiance is to a "higher Kingdom" (as she calls it later on) and my heart resonates so deeply with that. My heart also resonates with the reality that as the people of God, made for eternity, we will always in some sense be wanderers and exiles on earth, with no permanent home. On the other hand, and this is where my more sacramental understanding of life comes into play, I am a created creature living in a good (though fallen) creation, and I am an encultured being. All that I know and understand and can meditate on concerning heaven and ultimate things and the Kingdom (and what all that is like) is mediated to me through the "stuff" of this world -- creation, yes, but also words and pictures (especially the inspired words and pictures of the Scriptures). Earth and heaven are deeply connected, made by the same good God, and though "sundered" now deeply connected again by the incarnation, death and resurrection of Jesus. I keep thinking of Jesus telling Nathanael how he would see heaven open, and angels ascending and descending on the Son of Man (a passage I heard a sermon on last week). Jesus came to earth to open heaven, and to himself be that "ladder," that "bridge" between the two. And because He came, we know that there will be times and places in our lives, even here in exile on earth, where we will know, like Jacob who had that first vision of the ladder of angels in Genesis, that "surely God was here in this place and I did not know it."
Not that I think Amy Carmichael would have any problem with what I'm saying. And I've wandered far afield. I think her general point is very sound; she's clearly not advocating a full retreat from the world, nor an ascetic kind of withdrawal from the world, simply a cautious and careful drawing back from the "vain things that charm (us) most" and threaten to pull our attention from the ultimate realities that really do matter most. It's probably a word I need to hear more than I realize, living in such a deeply materialistic culture, a culture that spends all its time and energy worrying about and worshipping the things we can see, and either ignoring, debasing, or deciding that the things which we can't see are simply "not there."
In the world, but not of it. Just passing through, and yet called to passionately love. Walking carefully, and yet trusting lavishly. Loving the gifts, but never satisfied fully with anything less than the Giver. That seems to be our call.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
"...More Than Seven Stars"
I can't remember when I first learned about Amy Carmichael. Probably in a missionary story time during a Good News Club when I was a little girl. Born in Northern Ireland (like C.S. Lewis!), she lived 1867-1951, and was a missionary in India for fifty-six years. Faithful to sharing the Gospel in word and deed, she is perhaps best known for providing refuge to countless children who'd been dedicated to "service" in Hindu temples as prostitutes.
I read some of her devotional writings when I was in college, and for a long time, I kept these words of her's up on my wall: Guard Against Depression. Bear Evenly With All That Is Uneven. Never Be Shocked Out of Loving. I think they were her words of advice to a new missionary. I have recalled those words so many times over the years, needing to heed them again and again. I was thinking about them the other night, during a time of some tears when I found I was both struggling with some depression, and also feeling very "uneven" in many places in my life. I went to the shelf to pull down the one book I knew we had by Amy Carmichael, and to my surprise, found we had another one I'd never read (probably picked up in one of the countless seminary library sales we enjoyed during our six years as students and staff). I love it when God brings a book to my attention in ways like this -- to find a gem sitting quietly on your own shelf, and to realize it's a book you really need right now, is a beautiful thing.
It's called You Are My Hiding Place: A 40-Day Journey in the Company of Amy Carmichael. These are devotional readings arranged by an author named David Hazard, and apparently he had a lot to choose from. Carmichael was ill and bedridden for almost the final 20 years of her life, as he explains in his introduction, and her writings were both prolific and profound.
I've read a handful of the meditations, and a few of them have jumped out at me, but the one that's perhaps spoken the most comfort to my heart is Day 3, "No Insignificant People." In this meditation, Amy Carmichael speaks of God's lovingkindness, and how the Bible is full of stories that show how God in his great love for us speaks to our fears of insignificance. One of her examples is John on Patmos, in the book of Revelation:
"John, looking through the thin veil of time into eternity, saw his Lord --the Lord he had seen pierced -- now holding in His hand seven stars. John declares, 'I fell at His feet as though dead.' Immediately -- just as though this fallen one mattered more than seven stars, as though there were no stars -- 'He placed His right hand upon me.' (Revelation 1: 16-17) ...Isn't it beautiful that there was no rebuke at all for [his] human weakness?...He comforts. He lays His right hand on the soul wounded by weariness, or fear, or any kind of weakness at all. And he says, as if that one were the only soul in all the universe: 'O man, greatly beloved, fear not: peace be unto thee. Be strong -- yea, be strong!' (Daniel 10:19, Rotherham)"
I read some of her devotional writings when I was in college, and for a long time, I kept these words of her's up on my wall: Guard Against Depression. Bear Evenly With All That Is Uneven. Never Be Shocked Out of Loving. I think they were her words of advice to a new missionary. I have recalled those words so many times over the years, needing to heed them again and again. I was thinking about them the other night, during a time of some tears when I found I was both struggling with some depression, and also feeling very "uneven" in many places in my life. I went to the shelf to pull down the one book I knew we had by Amy Carmichael, and to my surprise, found we had another one I'd never read (probably picked up in one of the countless seminary library sales we enjoyed during our six years as students and staff). I love it when God brings a book to my attention in ways like this -- to find a gem sitting quietly on your own shelf, and to realize it's a book you really need right now, is a beautiful thing.
It's called You Are My Hiding Place: A 40-Day Journey in the Company of Amy Carmichael. These are devotional readings arranged by an author named David Hazard, and apparently he had a lot to choose from. Carmichael was ill and bedridden for almost the final 20 years of her life, as he explains in his introduction, and her writings were both prolific and profound.
I've read a handful of the meditations, and a few of them have jumped out at me, but the one that's perhaps spoken the most comfort to my heart is Day 3, "No Insignificant People." In this meditation, Amy Carmichael speaks of God's lovingkindness, and how the Bible is full of stories that show how God in his great love for us speaks to our fears of insignificance. One of her examples is John on Patmos, in the book of Revelation:
"John, looking through the thin veil of time into eternity, saw his Lord --the Lord he had seen pierced -- now holding in His hand seven stars. John declares, 'I fell at His feet as though dead.' Immediately -- just as though this fallen one mattered more than seven stars, as though there were no stars -- 'He placed His right hand upon me.' (Revelation 1: 16-17) ...Isn't it beautiful that there was no rebuke at all for [his] human weakness?...He comforts. He lays His right hand on the soul wounded by weariness, or fear, or any kind of weakness at all. And he says, as if that one were the only soul in all the universe: 'O man, greatly beloved, fear not: peace be unto thee. Be strong -- yea, be strong!' (Daniel 10:19, Rotherham)"
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Happy Birthday, A.A. Milne!
Yes, it's the anniversary of A.A. Milne's birthday. He was born 124 years ago today, January 18, 1882. We celebrated this morning by reading some of his wonderful poems in Now We Are Six. I also posted a review of that book on the epinions website, where I'm an active reviewer. If you want to check it out, it's entitled "Now We Are Six (Or Perhaps One Hundred and Twenty-Four)" and can be found at http://www.epinions.com/content_217924275844
I think Booper's favorite poem in the collection is "Sneezles" but then it's hard not to get the giggles over lines like: They said, "If you teazle/A sneezle/Or wheezle,/A measle/May easily grow./But humour or pleazle/The wheezle/Or sneezle,/The measle/Will certainly go."
I checked out a couple of websites on Milne as I was writing my review, and discovered something interesting: he studied under H.G. Wells! There's a literary connection I would have never made. (I wonder if there's a literary version of the movie game "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon..."!)
I think Booper's favorite poem in the collection is "Sneezles" but then it's hard not to get the giggles over lines like: They said, "If you teazle/A sneezle/Or wheezle,/A measle/May easily grow./But humour or pleazle/The wheezle/Or sneezle,/The measle/Will certainly go."
I checked out a couple of websites on Milne as I was writing my review, and discovered something interesting: he studied under H.G. Wells! There's a literary connection I would have never made. (I wonder if there's a literary version of the movie game "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon..."!)
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Spending Time With C.S. Lewis
If my posts seem somewhat "Lewisian" for a while, blame Alan Jacobs! On Friday I finished his wonderful book The Narnian: The Life and Imagination of C.S. Lewis. This is a new scholarly biography of Lewis published by HarperSanFrancisco in 2005. Jacobs is a professor of English at Wheaton College in Illinois. I don't think it's going out on much of a limb to say this will become, for many people, one of the (if not "the") definitive biographies of Lewis' life and work.
I'm not really qualified to say that, having mostly read bits and pieces of other biographies and articles about Lewis' life over the years. Of course I've read Lewis' own Surprised by Joy, and I've also really enjoyed Humphrey Carpenter's reflections on Lewis in his book on The Inklings. I thought I had a pretty good grasp of at least the outline of Lewis' journey to faith, and his life work as teacher, apologist and storyteller.
But Jacobs' book just overwhelmed me by giving me a powerful sense of Lewis as a person. It's written in beautiful, clear prose; it paints a portrait of Lewis that is, on the one hand, highly respectful of his amazing imagination, mind and heart, and on the other, doesn't try to gloss over his real human foibles and struggles (pre OR post conversion). There's a tendency in some circles, especially among those of us who share the same Christian faith as Lewis (and anywhere near his Christian tradition, as I do since I'm Episcopalian) to make Lewis into a bit of a plaster saint. In fact, when I was in seminary he was affectionately referred to as "Saint Jack" most of the time. How Lewis himself would have chuckled to have known he would be lauded for any particular sanctity. I think he would have seen himself a "saint" only in the humble sense of one of a communion of many fellow-travellers, walking in the way of Jesus.
I do plan to post some notes and reflections on a few of the specific passages that moved me -- though it's hard to know where to begin. I cried most of the way through the last chapter and the afterword, both because they were written with such heart, and because I felt as though I had spent several days in Lewis' company, and would miss him. Biographies don't usually have this kind of effect on me!
I think Jacobs has done a real service to literature about Lewis too, in that he is at great pains to look at his life (from start to finish) through that lens of "imagination." The main question he tries to keep front and center for most of the book, either explicitly or implicitly, is what caused Lewis, late in his life, to write stories for children? And not just any stories, but works of such depth and imagination and love that they have become for many children, over generations, some of our very favorite stories, books we want to inhabit again and again? When you think about it, it does seem somewhat unlikely, at least on the surface, that an Oxford tutor, later Cambridge professor of medieval and renaissance studies, a bachelor for most of his life (with relatively few contacts with young children) would "suddenly" in the decade of his 50s, start writing the Narnia stories. Some biographers, like the controversial A.N. Wilson, have apparently postulated rather eccentric theories for it. But Jacobs' take seems true at its heart, and true to a careful reading of the best sources about Lewis' life (including his own books and letters). When you really begin to trace his love of story, of fantasy and faerie -- when you begin to see what most profoundly shaped Lewis in his life choices, his turn to faith, his sense of himself -- then the fact that he began to write the Narnia stories doesn't seem odd at all, only oddly satisfying and somehow obvious.
I followed up The Narnian with a very quick read through of C.S. Lewis: Letters to Children. It's a very slim volume, but worth its weight in gold, and it gave me at least one more day of time "with" Lewis. A few of the letters are oft-quoted in biographies but it was enjoyable to read them in full and in the context of other letters he wrote to children over the years. What struck me, beyond Lewis' warmth and humour, is how patient he was -- how much time he really gave to answering the same kinds of questions over and over again from young readers. Clearly too, they often sent him their own stories and poems, as well as drawings and paintings they had made based on his stories. He didn't just thank them for these gifts, but commented on them -- charitably but also thoughtfully, sometimes even offering helpful artistic critiques of the poems. There's not a condescending note anywhere. He respected these children and their growing imagination, and one feels he understands them in part because like him, they love stories. He also encouraged children in their faith lives in beautiful ways. One of my favorite lines comes in a letter he wrote to a girl named Ruth less than a month before he died:
"If you continue to love Jesus, nothing much can go wrong with you, and I hope you always do so," he wrote. And then added, "I'm so thankful that you realized [the] "hidden story" in the Narnia books. It is odd, children nearly always do, grown-ups hardly ever."
May I always stay child-like enough to realize the "hidden story" wherever it peeks out at us.
I'm not really qualified to say that, having mostly read bits and pieces of other biographies and articles about Lewis' life over the years. Of course I've read Lewis' own Surprised by Joy, and I've also really enjoyed Humphrey Carpenter's reflections on Lewis in his book on The Inklings. I thought I had a pretty good grasp of at least the outline of Lewis' journey to faith, and his life work as teacher, apologist and storyteller.
But Jacobs' book just overwhelmed me by giving me a powerful sense of Lewis as a person. It's written in beautiful, clear prose; it paints a portrait of Lewis that is, on the one hand, highly respectful of his amazing imagination, mind and heart, and on the other, doesn't try to gloss over his real human foibles and struggles (pre OR post conversion). There's a tendency in some circles, especially among those of us who share the same Christian faith as Lewis (and anywhere near his Christian tradition, as I do since I'm Episcopalian) to make Lewis into a bit of a plaster saint. In fact, when I was in seminary he was affectionately referred to as "Saint Jack" most of the time. How Lewis himself would have chuckled to have known he would be lauded for any particular sanctity. I think he would have seen himself a "saint" only in the humble sense of one of a communion of many fellow-travellers, walking in the way of Jesus.
I do plan to post some notes and reflections on a few of the specific passages that moved me -- though it's hard to know where to begin. I cried most of the way through the last chapter and the afterword, both because they were written with such heart, and because I felt as though I had spent several days in Lewis' company, and would miss him. Biographies don't usually have this kind of effect on me!
I think Jacobs has done a real service to literature about Lewis too, in that he is at great pains to look at his life (from start to finish) through that lens of "imagination." The main question he tries to keep front and center for most of the book, either explicitly or implicitly, is what caused Lewis, late in his life, to write stories for children? And not just any stories, but works of such depth and imagination and love that they have become for many children, over generations, some of our very favorite stories, books we want to inhabit again and again? When you think about it, it does seem somewhat unlikely, at least on the surface, that an Oxford tutor, later Cambridge professor of medieval and renaissance studies, a bachelor for most of his life (with relatively few contacts with young children) would "suddenly" in the decade of his 50s, start writing the Narnia stories. Some biographers, like the controversial A.N. Wilson, have apparently postulated rather eccentric theories for it. But Jacobs' take seems true at its heart, and true to a careful reading of the best sources about Lewis' life (including his own books and letters). When you really begin to trace his love of story, of fantasy and faerie -- when you begin to see what most profoundly shaped Lewis in his life choices, his turn to faith, his sense of himself -- then the fact that he began to write the Narnia stories doesn't seem odd at all, only oddly satisfying and somehow obvious.
I followed up The Narnian with a very quick read through of C.S. Lewis: Letters to Children. It's a very slim volume, but worth its weight in gold, and it gave me at least one more day of time "with" Lewis. A few of the letters are oft-quoted in biographies but it was enjoyable to read them in full and in the context of other letters he wrote to children over the years. What struck me, beyond Lewis' warmth and humour, is how patient he was -- how much time he really gave to answering the same kinds of questions over and over again from young readers. Clearly too, they often sent him their own stories and poems, as well as drawings and paintings they had made based on his stories. He didn't just thank them for these gifts, but commented on them -- charitably but also thoughtfully, sometimes even offering helpful artistic critiques of the poems. There's not a condescending note anywhere. He respected these children and their growing imagination, and one feels he understands them in part because like him, they love stories. He also encouraged children in their faith lives in beautiful ways. One of my favorite lines comes in a letter he wrote to a girl named Ruth less than a month before he died:
"If you continue to love Jesus, nothing much can go wrong with you, and I hope you always do so," he wrote. And then added, "I'm so thankful that you realized [the] "hidden story" in the Narnia books. It is odd, children nearly always do, grown-ups hardly ever."
May I always stay child-like enough to realize the "hidden story" wherever it peeks out at us.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Invisible Friends
Dana and I finally got back to reading more of The Godbearing Life today. This is a book by Kenda Creasy Dean and Ron Foster; its subtitle is The Art of Soul Tending for Youth Ministry. We started reading it months ago (in August, I think) when we were really excited about the Christian Education position we were jointly interviewing for at a church in Virginia. (We had thought there was a possibility we would be hired to do youth and children's ministry as a team.) The interview turned out to be a difficult experience -- communication problems, the church in a big transition period and not very clear about what they wanted (beyond what we weren't). Maybe our disappointment over that door not opening is part of the reason we bogged down in the book this fall, although we really liked it from the start. Lots of good food for thought, and as pertinent as ever (if not more so) now that D. is working part-time as the youth minister for our church here again.
We were in chapter 7: "A Circle of Friends: Inviting Spiritual Friendship" for just about forever, I think, but we finally pushed on and read the rest of it together today. And the final part of the chapter turned out to be worth the wait. Dean and Foster talk about the different kinds of friends we need/cultivate/long for in our lives: companions (ordinary folk who share faith with us, and daily life and help); mentors (spiritual advisors who who pass their wisdom on to us, and help us discern where we're going); soul friends (or anmchara, deeply special friends who help us pay attention to what's going on in our souls); invisible friends (the saints who have gone before, and people who inspire us/nourish us from a distance, such as writers, former pastors/teachers, etc.); and finally, outsiders who are inside your circle (people from outside the Christian community who help us experience the diversity of God's world, and who keep us challenged to be faithful doers and sharers of the Word).
I think I need to keep reflecting on this list. What struck me as I read it is that I can claim a fair amount of general companions, invisible friends, and even outsiders on the inside. But I feel woefully deficient in mentors or soul-friends. It also really hit me that I've not been very good at mentoring others recently, and once upon a time that seemed to be a big part of my life and calling (especially mentoring younger Christian women). The past several years have had many seasons of loneliness; I used to pray with great longing for God to send a soul-friend my way here in Ambridge, but I've not prayed that way in a long time. Perhaps it's time to start again, and to add prayers for someone that I too can "mentor."
I do love reflecting on the notion of "invisible friends" -- in part because I've been teaching church history for the past couple of years, and I've come more and more to value the lives and witness of Christians who have walked before us. I also think with gratefulness of writers and poets (both ancient and contemporary) who have nourished me. It excites me to think that the great "cloud of witnesses" described in Scripture now includes C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien! I'm continuing my almost breakneck readthrough of Alan Jacobs' incredible biography of Lewis: The Narnian. I didn't mean to gulp it down, but some books just ask to be read that way and this is one of them. Very hard to put down. It deserves a post (or more than one post) of its own. I think I will finish it in the next few days...
Booper asked for the lovely picture book Hoot for bedtime story tonight. We've read it a lot lately. She's so delighted to have a "new Jane Hissey book" (as she says with great delight almost every time we pick it up). Thank the Lord for public libraries! Hoot is an owl who lives on top of the nursery cupboard in the same nursery that Old Bear and his friends live in. She's a very tidy owl -- likes to sort socks. Boop gets great satisfaction out of the end when Hoot leaves all the matched socks in pairs on the bedpost before she goes to bed (in the morning, because owls go to bed in the morning, of course). Yesterday when I went in to get her up from her nap, I saw that she had taken off her purple socks and hung them on the side of her bed just like in the book! Life imitating art once again.
We were in chapter 7: "A Circle of Friends: Inviting Spiritual Friendship" for just about forever, I think, but we finally pushed on and read the rest of it together today. And the final part of the chapter turned out to be worth the wait. Dean and Foster talk about the different kinds of friends we need/cultivate/long for in our lives: companions (ordinary folk who share faith with us, and daily life and help); mentors (spiritual advisors who who pass their wisdom on to us, and help us discern where we're going); soul friends (or anmchara, deeply special friends who help us pay attention to what's going on in our souls); invisible friends (the saints who have gone before, and people who inspire us/nourish us from a distance, such as writers, former pastors/teachers, etc.); and finally, outsiders who are inside your circle (people from outside the Christian community who help us experience the diversity of God's world, and who keep us challenged to be faithful doers and sharers of the Word).
I think I need to keep reflecting on this list. What struck me as I read it is that I can claim a fair amount of general companions, invisible friends, and even outsiders on the inside. But I feel woefully deficient in mentors or soul-friends. It also really hit me that I've not been very good at mentoring others recently, and once upon a time that seemed to be a big part of my life and calling (especially mentoring younger Christian women). The past several years have had many seasons of loneliness; I used to pray with great longing for God to send a soul-friend my way here in Ambridge, but I've not prayed that way in a long time. Perhaps it's time to start again, and to add prayers for someone that I too can "mentor."
I do love reflecting on the notion of "invisible friends" -- in part because I've been teaching church history for the past couple of years, and I've come more and more to value the lives and witness of Christians who have walked before us. I also think with gratefulness of writers and poets (both ancient and contemporary) who have nourished me. It excites me to think that the great "cloud of witnesses" described in Scripture now includes C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien! I'm continuing my almost breakneck readthrough of Alan Jacobs' incredible biography of Lewis: The Narnian. I didn't mean to gulp it down, but some books just ask to be read that way and this is one of them. Very hard to put down. It deserves a post (or more than one post) of its own. I think I will finish it in the next few days...
Booper asked for the lovely picture book Hoot for bedtime story tonight. We've read it a lot lately. She's so delighted to have a "new Jane Hissey book" (as she says with great delight almost every time we pick it up). Thank the Lord for public libraries! Hoot is an owl who lives on top of the nursery cupboard in the same nursery that Old Bear and his friends live in. She's a very tidy owl -- likes to sort socks. Boop gets great satisfaction out of the end when Hoot leaves all the matched socks in pairs on the bedpost before she goes to bed (in the morning, because owls go to bed in the morning, of course). Yesterday when I went in to get her up from her nap, I saw that she had taken off her purple socks and hung them on the side of her bed just like in the book! Life imitating art once again.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
As If I Needed More Persuading...
Jane Austen is definitely near the top of the list of my favorite writers. There are only a few writers whose work I read over and over, and she's quickly become one of them. I say "quickly" because until about six years ago, I had not read much Austen at all. (How I got through an English Literature major without reading a single one of her novels I'll never guess.)
Oddly enough, it was a film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice that compelled me to really dive in and read Austen. I'm one of those literary purists who usually gripes about movies not being nearly as good as beloved books, but this was one case when a movie actually inspired me to read the source material again. I had read Pride and Prejudice once, maybe a year before I saw the A&E/BBC five-hour version. I liked it, but for some reason it didn't fully capture me -- at least not enough for me to go reading other books by Austen. Then I spent a week in Connecticut in January 2000, helping to care for my sister when she was recuperating from surgery, and she and I spent five wonderful hours together watching that faithfully adapted P&P movie starring Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth. I was amazed by how funny it was, and how romantic. I went back to the book, and suddenly it was as though I knew how to read Austen. The dialogue seemed to jump off the page.
From then on, I was hooked. I went on to read everything I could find -- all six of the finished novels (I haven't read Sanditon, in part because I know it's incomplete, and in part because I like knowing there's still some Austen fiction in the world I've yet to read). And since that winter, I've gone back numerous times to the novels, re-reading most of them in full, some of them more than once.
For some reason, winter tends to be the time I go back to Jane Austen. I'm still trying to figure out why her novels seem so perfectly suited to my reading tastes during the cold, bleak, grey months of winter here in the Ohio River Valley. Perhaps because they lend color and beauty and romance to prosaic, grey days. Perhaps because, living as I do in a very small town, where my sphere of experience is also quite small, these tiny "bits of ivory" (as Austen liked to call them) just make satisfying sense.
This January is no exception. I found myself going back to the shelf to read Austen's last completed novel, Persuasion. I just finished it a few days ago; I think it's only my second complete read-through of the book. I had forgotten how much I loved it. As if I needed any more "persuading" regarding how wonderful a writer this woman was!
Anne Elliot is a very different kind of heroine than Lizzie Bennett or Emma (probably my two favorite heroines, though I think Anne might be creeping her way up the list...I like Elinor Dashwood too). She lacks the "witty sparkle" of Lizzie or Emma, but what she lacks in sparkle, she makes up for in solidity and maturity. She is, of course, the oldest of all of them -- and has learned many of life and love's most difficult lessons before the novel starts. There's a warmth and elegance to this book, and a deeper dignity to the romance.
After I finished reading it, I popped in a library copy of the 1995 film -- mostly because I wanted to see Sophie Thompson play Anne's hypochondriac sister Mary Musgrove. She didn't have tons of screen time, but what she had she made the most of! Great performance, and a nice film all the way around, though it felt a bit rushed toward the end.
Oddly enough, it was a film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice that compelled me to really dive in and read Austen. I'm one of those literary purists who usually gripes about movies not being nearly as good as beloved books, but this was one case when a movie actually inspired me to read the source material again. I had read Pride and Prejudice once, maybe a year before I saw the A&E/BBC five-hour version. I liked it, but for some reason it didn't fully capture me -- at least not enough for me to go reading other books by Austen. Then I spent a week in Connecticut in January 2000, helping to care for my sister when she was recuperating from surgery, and she and I spent five wonderful hours together watching that faithfully adapted P&P movie starring Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth. I was amazed by how funny it was, and how romantic. I went back to the book, and suddenly it was as though I knew how to read Austen. The dialogue seemed to jump off the page.
From then on, I was hooked. I went on to read everything I could find -- all six of the finished novels (I haven't read Sanditon, in part because I know it's incomplete, and in part because I like knowing there's still some Austen fiction in the world I've yet to read). And since that winter, I've gone back numerous times to the novels, re-reading most of them in full, some of them more than once.
For some reason, winter tends to be the time I go back to Jane Austen. I'm still trying to figure out why her novels seem so perfectly suited to my reading tastes during the cold, bleak, grey months of winter here in the Ohio River Valley. Perhaps because they lend color and beauty and romance to prosaic, grey days. Perhaps because, living as I do in a very small town, where my sphere of experience is also quite small, these tiny "bits of ivory" (as Austen liked to call them) just make satisfying sense.
This January is no exception. I found myself going back to the shelf to read Austen's last completed novel, Persuasion. I just finished it a few days ago; I think it's only my second complete read-through of the book. I had forgotten how much I loved it. As if I needed any more "persuading" regarding how wonderful a writer this woman was!
Anne Elliot is a very different kind of heroine than Lizzie Bennett or Emma (probably my two favorite heroines, though I think Anne might be creeping her way up the list...I like Elinor Dashwood too). She lacks the "witty sparkle" of Lizzie or Emma, but what she lacks in sparkle, she makes up for in solidity and maturity. She is, of course, the oldest of all of them -- and has learned many of life and love's most difficult lessons before the novel starts. There's a warmth and elegance to this book, and a deeper dignity to the romance.
After I finished reading it, I popped in a library copy of the 1995 film -- mostly because I wanted to see Sophie Thompson play Anne's hypochondriac sister Mary Musgrove. She didn't have tons of screen time, but what she had she made the most of! Great performance, and a nice film all the way around, though it felt a bit rushed toward the end.
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