On Self-Reliance

There comes a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself, for better or for worse, as his own portion...     --  Ralph Waldo Emerson

Today I had the privilege of substitute teaching at Southside Christian School.  The teacher for the first-hour class, Honors American Literature, left instructions for the students to read an excerpt from Ralph Waldo Emerson's essay, "On Self-Reliance."

The students looked lost on their own, and I felt sorry for them. I hadn't read the piece for almost forty years, but I offered to read it aloud and discuss the meaning along the way. Time to pull out those oral interpretation skills I learned in college! Those analytical thinking skills too!

The combination of words and the human voice can prove amazing. A voice can bring energy and enlightenment to words that--while powerful--lie otherwise dead and confusing on a page. But life experience brings understanding to words too. I'm sure I understood the essay better today than I did when I read it as a high school or college student.

How convicted I felt as I read Emerson's line: "We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents." 

I look back on my life and recognize how often I've refrained from sharing my writing because I was afraid of what others would think, ashamed that I wasn't good enough, or hesitant to be branded a Christian author because the label might limit the breadth of my audience (yes, ironically, the audience I didn't have because I was afraid someone might criticize).

"Put your heart into your work and do your best," Emerson seems to urge us. "Accept the place the divine providence has found for you. Trust yourself. Every heart vibrates to that iron string."  

What iron string? The metaphor may refer to a tuning fork that vibrates when its true pitch is struck elsewhere.   The phrase makes me think of the verse, "The Spirit Himself bears witness with our spirit that we are the children of God"  (Romans 8:16). In other words, the truth of what is good or evil, what is beautiful or ugly, what is poignant or trivial, resonates with the enduring image of God that lies within us. This iron string is how we recognize truth.

As a writer, I can't deny who I am. I am God's creation, God's divine idea. I am made in His image. I am redeemed through His love. I am His unique handiwork.

Recently I exercised courage--the courage to self-publish. Where will this courage take me? I don't know. Perhaps not to greatness, for while many are called, few are chosen. I may not make a fortune, but I can use the gifts God gave me to inspire and encourage others in ways they might not have been otherwise.

“The measure of intelligence is the ability to change” -- Albert Einstein

Intelligence fascinates me--all varieties from social street-smarts to musical genius to engineering wonders and more. Intelligence typically refers to the capacity to understand, to reason, to learn--and that capacity can attach itself to any subject matter. Regardless of the field of interest, intelligence manifests itself in novel connections of ideas, creative problem-solving, and useful inventions.

I suspect that for writers of fiction, intelligence involves the ability to polarize issues. After all, how can one define characters or conflict without recognizing differences or discerning between good actions and evil behavior? But stories require another form of intelligence as well--the ability to combine diverse elements in meaningful and useful arrangements. 

I find in myself a struggle between analysis and synthesis: the former seems so much easier that I camp out there far too long. Good writers must possess a strong sense for meaningful story lines. The challenge is to create something similar enough to the audience's world to establish emotional connection, yet something different enough to be considered original. I find it's not easy to arrive anywhere close to displaying literary genius.

Thomas Edison held that genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration and that most people miss opportunity because it comes dressed in overalls and looks like work. "Many of life's failures are people who did not realize how close to success they were when they gave up," he said. "I haven't failed. I've found 10,000 ways that don't work."

 I find encouragement in Thomas Edison's intelligent and persistent attitude. He wasn't afraid to revise his work, to try another avenue toward success. He certainly met Einstein's measure of success.

On Talents

Use what talents you possess: the woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those that sang best.

 (Henry van Dyke, 1852-1933, educator, clergyman, author of "The Hymn of Joy")

When I taught middle school English, I used to make my students memorize one poem each month. Recitation seems to have fallen out of style in the world of education, but I loved that part of my upbringing. Committing to memory the music of language and thought made me feel rich inside.

One of the poems I regularly taught was Walt Whitman's "I Hear America Singing." Whitman capitalizes on the variety of songs: those of the mechanics, the carpenter, the mason, the boatman, the shoemaker, the wood-cutter, the mother, the young wife, the girl sewing or washing, the party of young fellows--all common folk, the fabric of Whitman's America. Opera stars and Broadway celebrities did not rate mention. How different from today!

Even then, I daresay common people didn't sing because they were good at singing. Few listeners, if any, would likely have paid to hear a common person sing. If they're not very good at singing, why do common folk bother?

Singing springs from us when we're happy, when we love what we're doing, when we revel in the world around us. We sing about things heartfelt or funny or sassy or wistful. We sing together to feel connected and uplifted. We sing when we're healthy. Whitman seems to suggest the strong melodious songs make America itself strong.

Singing is akin to writing. What would happen if only the best writers exercised their skill? We'd miss the unique blend that individuals offer, the rich views of lives different from our own. Therein lies one justification for continuing to write. I may not be much good, but my voice joins the multitude of noise-makers and makes the woods (the world) more interesting, more melodious.

Snidely Whiplash, Villain

Truly evil -- that's what an effective villain is supposed to be. And that--I have realized--is another area I need to develop. Plot is based on conflict--the good versus the bad, for example.

I'm still reading Plot and Structure, and the author James Scott Bell paraphrases Alfred Hitchcock on page 53: "The strength of a suspense story is equal to the strength of the villain." I've known for quite some time that I haven't fleshed out my villain (the red-bearded Savino) as well as I need to do. I suspect that's why my plot rambles and drags--the villain driving my plot is riding a tricycle. 

Can you picture Smaug riding a tricycle around the Great Hall of Thrain, chasing the burglar Bilbo Baggins? Or the White Witch ruling Narnia from a little red wagon pulled by a dwarf riding a bike with training wheels? Or Darth Vader racing after Luke SkyWalker in a pink Barbie PowerWheels with foot pedals?

There shouldn't be any sugar-coating for a villain. We all know that, and yet creating a truly evil villain requires work--thought, discussion about evil intent, the creation of backstory. Why is my villain so evil? I think I don't know because I'm too lazy or too afraid to dwell that long on evil intent.

Sometime ago, my son Caleb and I were discussing an article on comic books. The author of the article asserted that to create a really good story, the comic book hero (e.g. Spiderman) needs to be equally matched in strength and ability with the villain (Dr. Octopus). It's struggle that makes the story interesting, and if opponents are not equally matched, the game between them suffers. The difference between the two, the article explained, is that the hero is moral, while the villain is not (good versus evil).

I mentioned to Caleb that in my experience in life, most people I've met are a mix of good and bad. Often even the people who fall squarely in the bad category still have some element of conscience that can be evoked in certain circumstances. It was my thought that complex characters are more interesting, that characters who grow and change (and are thus a bit more unpredictable) capture readers' attention. Take Snape, for example (in the Harry Potter series).

At that point, my son was rolling his eyes. "Mom, I know you. You're going to try to redeem the villain in your book, aren't you?"

Well, the writers of Despicable Me did just that, didn't they? But no, I know better than to try something that complicated. Who do I think I am? J.K. Rowling? Snape often played the role of an under-villain. Redeeming the under-villain is one thing. Redeeming the real villain is quite another. There's simply no redemption for someone like Voldemort, and J.K. Rowling knew that. Yes, questions about hamartiology and soteriology arise. Is there such a thing as an unpardonable sin? Haman, Judas Iscariot, Goliath--is the blood of Jesus Christ efficacious to save even them? These topics may be debated in seminary, but in classic story-telling, I'm guessing there's a hands-down NO response.... not if you want a good story.

So my villain needs a make-over, a make-over suitable for a children's novel. Hmmm. I should send him to school. The red-bearded Savino needs a mentor. Maybe I need to re-read Wormwood's letters to Screwtape before I try to write Savino's resume.

Plot and Structure

Yesterday, I started re-reading a book that I had bought years ago: Plot and Structure by James Scott Bell. I bought the book because I fail miserably in the areas of plot and structure. I find characters, setting, and dialogue much easier to write.

I could try to make all kinds of excuses for why I never got past chapter two of the Plot and Structure (full-time job, laundry, time with the grandchildren, and so on). The busy-ness of life makes such a wonderfully legitimate reason for almost anything, doesn't it? Ha! But it doesn't write books, or sell them either.

So I started reading the book again. Ideas and encouragement are indeed helpful: 

• I realized that I need to take some of the backstory from Penny and the Seer's Ballad (the first children's adventure novel that I started working on) and infuse it into the introduction so that the dilemma draws in the reader. 
• I figured out that my style tends to be more literary; I tend to focus on setting and character more than action. No wonder I've let myself get side-tracked writing backstory for my fantasy land: Legends from the Land of Hoi. Hopefully, the seven short stories I've finished will come in useful sometime in the future.
• Surprise! I learned that to keep readers, I need to move the story along much faster. That fact spread woefully across my son's face when I button-holed him over the holidays and asked him to read the plot summary for the sequel Penny and the Song of Seven. The good thing is that his reaction made me pick Plot and Structure off the shelf again.

Time will tell whether I can persist in reading about how to plot without becoming overwhelmed with all the things that I need to change. Hopefully, you'll hear more from me!

David encouraged himself in the LORD his God. (1 Samuel 30.6 KJV)

David is a character--a writer--who's always amazed me. In the throes of adversity and despair, he calls out to God regularly. In distress, he cries so vividly that I feel his agony despite the millennia that divide our souls. David experienced plenty of trouble, some clearly of his own making.

Yet hard on the heels of his suffering, he turns without failing to look outside himself, to remember God. That ability to encourage himself, to find strength in the character of God (in His lovingkindness and forgiveness) buoys David's spirit. He dares to hope. His confidence grows so strong that he inspires others (in Psalm 130, David accomplishes the transformation of heart in eight short verses).

Oh, how I wish I possessed the unfailing ability to turn my thoughts to God! Too many times my thoughts stick to me. I bemoan the fact that my writing doesn't catch the eye of an editor or snag the heart of an audience. I despair that I've never really been published (not by a publisher who would actually pay for my work, that is). I, I, I....

As if I am the point of my writing career! And that, you see, is the problem. I am stuck on myself--certainly not very attractive. I need to be like David, who was stuck on God--the Ancient of Days who's infinitely fascinating and so full of goodness and grace that people can't help but wonder at Him or about Him.

Trusting God, as David did, doesn't come naturally. The act of trusting involves the submission of will, of my will to God's. Jesus talked about the simple trust of a child (Mark 10:14-15), and for me, that brings to mind a hymn I learned in my childhood, when my family attended a Missouri Synod Lutheran church.

The little white chapel was relegated to the three-to-five-year-olds. Heavy curtains sectioned off the room into six little classrooms. The light gray curtains with white flowers woven into the pattern did little to muffle the sounds of nearby teachers. I don't remember much about the classes, but afterward, the teachers swept the curtains aside, and we'd meet as a group.

The group leader was a lovely white-haired woman with a round, smiling face. She taught us a hymn, and we'd sing it together. I sang it easily back then. I sang with my whole heart, possibly even at the top of my lungs (as little kids are wont to do):

I am trusting Thee, Lord Jesus,
Trusting only Thee....

Here's the tune:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STQDajJsW30 (the music)


Teach me, Lord, to make much of You!

Memory feeds imagination.  - unknown

Hunchback Girl

When I was young, we lived next door to a silver-haired, hunchbacked woman. "Grandma Bloyer," we called her--though she bore no relation to us. I remember her distinctly, for she barely stood taller than I was.

Grandma Bloyer had spent most of her life working as a nurse. She had met all kinds of people, and her smart sense of humor served her well. In my mind's eye, I can still see my mother sitting at Grandma Bloyer's massive dining room table with a cup of coffee, chuckling over a story and shaking her head in disbelief at what a character Grandma Bloyer was.

My mother used to tell me that as a toddler, I displayed a peculiar knack for persistence, prompting Grandma Bloyer to dub me "Miss Determined." Apparently, my get-it-done attitude permeated my bedtime prayers, which ended with a childish and emphatic "A-MAN!" With her quick sense  of humor, Grandma Bloyer would mutter, "You'll get him, Katie. Don't worry!"

One evening, Grandma Bloyer came over to stay with me while the rest of my family was away. I have no recollection of where my parents and my older sister and younger brother would have gone without me, but I do remember having Grandma Bloyer's full attention. How often does that happen for a middle child? We played a game of checkers. She let me win, and she made me feel important that I'd done so.

I'm sure that the memory of Grandma Bloyer prompted my creation of Grandmother Upstairs on some conscious or subconscious level. I suspect that most people underestimate the magnetic attraction between the very old and the very young. The boundless energy and curiosity of youth fascinate and delight old folks: they bring back fond memories of being lithe and carefree. Conversely, the very young devour the attention and seemingly infinite knowledge that the very old bestow on them: they need the encouragement and validation of someone accomplished.

Even before she met Grandmother Upstairs, Penny learned about her from the loose-lipped doorman at the hotel where the old woman resided:

One of our best clients – a wealthy old woman who keeps to herself most of the time. Rather plain and a little deaf, I think. You see how tiny and hunched over she is, but she is rather spry for all that—an amazing old woman. Most everyone knows her as Madame Qiao. A flighty old woman—I mean that she comes and goes at odd intervals.

Long before I finished the first draft of my novel, I asked a friend with three children if she and her family would be willing to read and comment on the story as it was shaped at the time. They did so and informed me that the story line dragged at first; however, after they met Grandmother Upstairs, the children didn't want to stop reading:



The cat and the girl continued to climb until they reached the top flight. On the eighth floor, the sixteenth flight–the very top of the stairwell–Qiao Miao led Penny to a pair of large carved wooden doors on the landing. The doors swished open at their approach, and Penny was swept into the waiting arms of Grandmother Upstairs.

“Well done, my dear!” the old woman exclaimed, gazing fondly at Qiao Miao. She hugged Penny warmly as if she were greeting an old friend. Relief flooded through Penny’s being. She clung to the old woman, who stood no taller than Penny and was nearly as thin, except for her hunchback.

“Now, dearie! Oh, you must be exhausted, dear girl, so we’ll save the conversation for the morning. You’ve eaten, yes?”

And so Penny steps into another world and begins to unravel the mystery of her mother's absence and her family's secret ties to the land of Hoi. In Grandmother Upstairs, she finds a valuable friend and ally. She finds a woman who looks at the world from a different perspective, a woman who knows with a certainty things that others have dismissed or denied. The power of their friendship permeates the story.