The Gift

Yesterday I received a gift. While I was showering, I had an idea for a short story. I got dressed and--since my computer was already turned off--I grabbed a notebook, sat down with wet hair, and wrote over 900 words of a short story.

Once in a while, some poetry or a story idea will come suddenly and fully to me. There is no way to explain it as anything other than a great gift.

Like the occasional decent shot that keeps me from throwing away my golf clubs, a writing gift arrives just often enough to keep me writing.

Fine Line

This morning I've been working on a poem called "Fine Line" that's about the delicate balance between genious and insanity. It seems to be a fine line that many writers have crossed, if the high incidence of suicide among highly creative types is any indication (Hemingway, London, Plath, and a host of others).

The instructor for a writing course I just finished attributed the high incidence of suicide, and especially alcoholism, to the self-destructive nature of writing fiction. He spoke of the difficulty in returning to reality after countless hours submerged in fantasy.

I have long noted the high incidence of suicide among highly creative people and believed that only a fine line separates genius from insanity. But I'm not really sure if the reason lies solely in lengthy immersion in fantasy and the ensuing difficult return to reality. It may certainly be a large factor, but I think part of the cause of the creative person's mental problems may be a sense (however incomplete or unarticulated) that he is not using his gifts for God's glory. Deep down, something just doesn't feel right.

As Augustine wrote:
Fecisti nos ad te et inquietum est cor nostrum, donec requiescat in te... (Confessions 1:1)

Latin

Latin is a language of great economy. Strunk and White probably loved it; it omits unnecessary words. It not only dispenses with articles, but it also avoids all kinds of conjunctions. Its participles exemplify its terseness. A two-word Latin participle is often best translated as a new clause containing several words. Dale Grote calls it "promoting" the participle to a clause.

I've been reviewing Latin at a rate of one Wheelock chapter per week, doing as many of four sections of exercises as possible--all for no credit.

Why am I spending hours each week reviewing Latin without credit? Because it's been nine years since I took two elementary Latin courses and I need the review to be able to do my current directed study of two advanced Latin courses necessary to meet the foreign language requirement for my degree.

My first directed study project is translating the book of John from the Vulgate. Since I hope to have it completed before Thanksgiving, I spent some time yesterday determining the deadlines necessary to meet that goal. I had the first two chapters complete and was working on the third. If I can do the entire fourth chapter today, I will be on my new schedule: a chapter each week from now until Thanksgiving. The chapters average 45 verses; the longest is 71 and the shortest is 25. Since I have to look up a lot of words, it takes me a long time to translate 45 verses.

If Latin translation was the only thing I had to do during any given week, it wouldn't be a problem. But I have several different work commitments and a family. Sometimes I need to travel or work outside my office, and I know from experience how far behind on my regular deadlines that can make me.

I might even enjoy studying Latin if it were the only thing I had to do. Its economy leads to a flexibility in translation that can be exhilarating.

Balance

The concept of balance has occupied my mind a lot lately. I not only balance many different commitments, but I have also been contemplating balance in genre and register.

Why must a writer be fenced into either a fiction or non-fiction track? Isn't it possible for someone to write well in both genres? I know that is: Marilynne Robinson is a prime example.

And is it possible to write with literary excellence, but still appeal to a popular audience? Well, yes: Gilead is a prime example.

I don't want to stake a claim in either the fiction or non-fiction camp. i want to be free to pitch my tent in either one. And I don't want to live under a tarp, but I don't need separate sleeping rooms and a screen porch either.

It's a matter of balance.

Covert Christianity

My dream has never been to write the Great American Novel. My dream has always been to write the covertly Christian Great American Novel, and to write it with literary excellence.

On the off chance that the above statement may lead some of my many readers to question what I mean by "covertly Christian" and "literary excellence," I will explain and forestall any iundation.

The "covertly Christian" novel does not preach; it is not didactic; it does not necessarily have a conversion scene. Its protagonist is not perfect and its antagonist is not the AntiChrist. Its sole purpose is not to beat the reader over the head with salvation, but to show the reader truth. It does this by telling an interesting and engaging story, with believable characters and dialogue, that is published for the popular market.

But I think the way the story's told is as important as the story itself.

The novel written with "literary excellence" strikes the reader with its vivid imagery, meaningful figures of speech, powerful verbs, and other poetic elements. Sadly, most of these elements are absent in nearly all of what is published as Christian fiction.

I'm not even sure there should be a genre called "Christian fiction." I think Christian writers ought to write excellent fiction, based on a core Christian worldview, in the popular market.

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson is a good example, although the protagonist's theology is sometimes questionable. Gilead shines with luminescence; it's a doxology. The author shows God's beauty and joy in the ordinary moments of life, and the reader is moved to praise.

Assigned Plagiarism

In all my courses on poetry and all the books I've read on writing poetry, I had never run across the term centro until yesterday. Apparently a centro is a type of poem constructed entirely of borrowings from other poems. My current creative writing assignment is to write a centro based on borrowings from assigned readings of Adrienne Rich, Kamau Brathwaite, Sylvia Plath, Wole Soyinka, and Amiri Baraka. Before yesterday, I was familiar with only Rich and Plath. As a white woman, I identify most closely with their voices.

This is an interesting assignment because I need to arrange the borrowed words, phrases, or lines of five words or less in a manner that creates a recognizable self. The poem must include the word "I" at some point.

I've mined the most gold from Rich, although I've loved some of Plath's lines for years. I discovered some lovely lines in Soyinka, three good consecutive lines in Baraka, and valuable religious references from Brathwaite that I intend to lift entirely out of context and use for my own purposes.

All of which seems remarkably like assigned plagiarism.

Comments appreciated on this result:

Dulce ridens, dulce loquens

I am a galactic cloud,
An instrument in the shape of woman,
Going like a fat gold watch,
Trying to translate pulsations
Of a dialect called metaphor;
Scanning the didactic storm,
Making the air wince,
Fighting a career of pain,
Moldering like wedding-cake,
Eating crumbs of my life,
Remaining a distant profile
Of intimate revelation;
Reading while waiting
On the whatnot of life
In Babylon’s boom town.

Strewn in sunlit shards,
Fragments and rough drafts glitter
Like frozen geodes
Showering down in the grate.

Faith-flimsy wings
Distort true vision
Of bright, bright baubles;
Blue like bubbles and light,
Blue balloons of peace
Filling up the heavens.

Dies Irae:
Savior of the broken herd,
Grant me mercy at thy word.

I want to stand
Prancing, proud and unafraid
On the rare selective heights
Of every sacred mountain,
Praisin’ the glory of the Lord,
While a far sea moves.

Do Not Panic

One of the most difficult things about blogging is to keep the writing from degenerating into a self-centered whine. Especially when one is hosting a bridal shower on Saturday afternoon and organizing a family reunion for Saturday evening. Yes, the same Saturday. And, yes, there is a reason. But somehow, right now, the reason doesn't seem so reasonable.

Anyway, it's difficult to come up with something that seems even slightly creative or moderately intelligent when all one's effort is concentrated on not panicing.

"DO NOT PANIC" in large, friendly letters.

Mirrored Sin

When it comes to the sins of the children, there's a paradox in parenting. Part of what upsets a parent who views sinful behavior in a child, especially an adult child, is the surprise. The parent has tried to inculcate godly beliefs and behaviors and seems, for the most part, to have succeeded. That flash of ugly behavior is as surprising as a snake's strike.

But there's also an element of recognition. When I really think about why certain behaviors distress me so much, I realize that it's because the sin mirrors my own.

The paradox consists of surprise and recognition. While my first thought is: How can my child act like this?, my more considered second thought is: Why wouldn't my child act this?

To Blog or Not to Blog

There are days when it is better not to blog. It's important to write daily, but not every day's writing ought to be open to public purview.

Spinning Wheels

After spending most of last week out of my office in work that I don't particularly enjoy and tend to resent, I am trying to sidestep the anxiety-producing trap of feeling as if I am ineffectually spinning my wheels.

It may be a problem of focus. My many commitments make it difficult to concentrate on each one and do it well. I end up flitting like a hollow-headed butterfly from one thing to the next, giving none of them the attention required for excellence.

Today's prayer: traction.

War of the Worlds

Yesterday afternoon my husband, daughter, and I watched The War of the Worlds at matinee prices. I'm really glad we didn't pay regular admission.

Never having read The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells, I can't compare the movie to the novel. But I suspect the movie's primary story line about a divorced dad alienated from his kids was not part of the original alien-invasion tale whose radio broadcast caused mass panic.

The divorced dad's struggle to reclaim the affection and respect of his children interested me more than his struggle to save their lives, but wasn't interesting enough for me to recommend the movie. I agreed to see it only because it was a way of spending time with my husband and daughter. We had a good time together, but going to suspenseful movies is not my favorite thing.

The thing I really hate about going to the theater is sitting through the previews. It's bad enough to pay good money and watch disturbing images in a movie that I choose to watch out of my own volition, but it's appalling to be subject to horrible visual and auditory stimuli being indelibly impressed on my mind without choice.

Yesterday's previews included a film called Cry Wolf, apparently about a serial murderer on a college campus, and The Devil's Rejects, which is absolutely evil incarnate. And, oh, yes! The one that really scared--and perhaps scarred--me: Willie Wonka with a very feminine Johnny Depp in the title role.

My suggestion: attend weekday matinees and come in at least ten minutes after showtime. That way you can avoid most of the disturbing previews and still find a good seat, not to mention saving admision costs!

Count of Monte Cristo - 2

I finished reading The Count of Monte Cristo yesterday afternoon. Friday night I noticed that I was only about a third of the way through the novel, even though I was on page 435. It was then I realized that the volume is divided into two books with the pagination starting over in the second book. The book consists not of 649 pages, but of 616 plus 649 pages! But Dumas has an incredible ability to keep the reader eagerly turning all of those 1,265 pages.

I thoroughly enjoyed the book's themes of retribution and repentance, under the overarching theme of God's providence and sovereignty. Along the way, the reader sees the heights of human intellect as well as the depraved depths of the human heart.

Most modern authors would want readers cheering the wronged protagonist and believing his trail of vengeance justified. Dumas shows the reader that vengeance is God's, sometimes through the instrument of human hands, and that repentance trumps vengeance.

The most important line in the novel is found at the end of the book, in a letter the Count writes to a friend: "...pray sometimes for a man who, like Satan, thought himself for an instant equal to God; but who now acknowledges with Christian humility that God alone possesses supreme power and infinite wisdom" (Book 2, p. 648).

Camping at home

Rather than making me covet recreation vehicles, regularly walking through the campgrounds has been increasing my appreciation for our location.

If we want to feel like we're camping, all we have to do is open the windows. We can even roast s'mores around the firepit and then lie in bed, smelling the wisps of smoke that waft through the window and watching the light from the dying fire flicker on the blind. All the sounds and smells of camping combined with all the comforts and conveniences of home!

Honeysuckle

As the morning sun blesses the treetops, the honeysuckle outside my office window remains in shadow. Bare branches tremble as a sparrow flits among them and plucks a red berry from a green-leafed branch.

From the firepit in our backyard, the honeysuckle looks full of green leaves. From the flower garden in our front yard, the honeysuckle's dead branches are hidden by a huge blue spruce.

But from my office window, I see into the heart of the honeysuckle. I see the red berries hiding beneath green leaves, and I see the dead wood.

That old honeysuckle is a lot like me. So much of what I produce is nothing but wooden rhetoric, straw destined for burning, but by God's grace the occasional red berry grows.