Attempt to define what I'm doing

10:37 PM

There is a tension that I feel every time I think about writing. Part  of me says, "I want to do this as a Christian, for God's glory. I want everything that I write to point to Him." Then another part of me says "No you don't." The first of these I understand and embrace. Here's what I mean by the second. 

By identifying myself as a Christian writer, I run the risk of instantly being marginalized or lumped into the same category as writers of Christian pop fiction. A lot of the fiction that is being written by Christians has to do with heavy-handed preaching, loose copying of secular fiction (except that someone gets saved at the end), or ineffective attempts write good prose. It's kind of like Christian radio in that sense. What ends up happening is the power of the gospel is watered down or completely lost, and the only people who end up reading it are Christians who buy it because it is a 'Christian thriller'.  I don't want to be thrown into that group by announcing my intention to write Christian fiction/poetry. To be perfectly honest, I am hesitant to tell people  at my church that I am interested in writing because so often they ask me if I have read the newest novel by Frank Peretti. To be fair, I have read some of his novels and they are not bad. They are just in no way what I am getting at. I want to write fiction that will invite those who know nothing about Christianity to read along. I also want to write stories that will invigorate Christian readers. Hopefully it will be stories that will make people think, and maybe even squirm a bit.

The Car

4:28 PM


Here is a story of mine.  I've decided to just link to the google doc rather than post the entire story here. But I'll give you the first page or two here.



They bounced alongside the interstate on the abandoned dirt road, each silent, if not exactly in thought, in an attempt to look thoughtful. His right hand and her left rested on the center console, close enough to touch if either of them wanted to. His fingers tapped anxiously on the front lip near the clasp and hers dangled, almost slipping down into the shadow between the seat and the console. He scanned the bumpiness ahead with intensity, looking for any glimmer or waver in the air that would let him know the gypsy lady hadn’t lied. Susan, who could not believe the gypsy woman, rested her head against the side window, staring through her graying hair out at the dust. It  swirled around the car in billowing eddies that belied the clean, ‘new car’ interior. For five years she had put up with this pilgrimage as Arlin meticulously traced the route they had taken so haphazardly on their honeymoon twenty years before. She was ready to be with the nonsense.

Arlin believed in the gypsy ju-ju because he had to. The promise that being in an exact place where they had been in the past at an exact time of the day when they had been there would allow them to go back and relive the past was a narcotic to him. Susan didn’t believe any of it, but told Arlin that she did, sure that the tarot cards and fortune telling had been carnival tricks to fool the gullible and the desperate. On the way home from the fair, when he told her he wanted to try to find where they had stopped the morning after they got married so that they could go back and fix things, she’d simply added the idea to the long list of his deficiencies. She never thought he would take it so far as to go out and look for their old Chevy Malibu, though and only accompanied him because it was the only thing the worked on together.


If you want to read the rest, open this google doc.

Night and Day

1:27 PM

Another poem of mine. I still have edits I want to make. In fact, I removed the second half of the original poem because they were clashing a little bit too much.


At night, the lights from the barrios are the Milkyway.
At dawn, slum and slime wash
over the hills of houses.

The sun sucks life from the morning-glory.
That shriveled flower of the hill where nothing grows,
except faerie-girls named Flor,
All day they sleep off regrets,
Preparing their hidden blooms for night's enchantment

When those hovels are fields of fireflies,
the world is enchanted forest,
haunted by revolution, parity, and miscast god-
mother spells

Pistils and stamen quiver,
petals contort.
The wink and dance and fleeting payoff –
the hum of Flors' wings.
Every pin-pricked light gleams
burnished solidarity.
The fairies and ogres blow themselves out
at the stroke of dawn
when incandescent glass slips into second place.

Sunset on the Beach

9:46 AM


Here's a poem I wrote last fall.


Sometimes my daughter and I waltz on the beach.
I bow, she curtsies, and music rises from across the world.
How gracefully evening serenades the sea.
Does the foam know
those wind-whipped harmonies
are a dirge?

What if the star that winks our cadence
has already burst,
scattering dregs of afterglow
over our wishing?
Would the shattered spindle curse her
Even as she reaches almost far enough to touch
evening's first pinprick.

The sun is just over 8 light-minutes from my head. That half-circle
nesting on the horizon makes up 99.8 percent
of the mass in the solar system. And then there's Jupiter.
We are only an asterisk.
Why can't I just dance and wish for unicorns?

Until now, I've mostly hidden my faults.
And while she still orbits me,
Other lights, brighter,
more massive, threaten to collide.

Her clapping hands will always fit between my fingers, won't they?
I capture this moment. My fists are strong to clasp it to my heart.
The next wave laps my ankle and my daughter's hand
slips from mine as she dances up the beach without me.

The purpose of fiction

10:52 AM

One of the questions that most frequently rattles through my head is, "What is the purpose of fiction?" Actually, I wonder this about all art, but quickly dart into the fiction corner for fear of overwhelming myself. A related question has to do with the place of story. Story is not always fiction, and for me that's where things get a little muddled. Story lets us experience the life, the thoughts, the existence of someone else. The most effective stories welcome us in to such a level that they move us as we observe characters' actions and feelings. Many things can do this and some are extremely specific to the reader. Nostalgia, poignancy, and shared experiences jump out as examples of this. A reader's and a writer's cultures also affect this process greatly. Nevertheless story has always been a bedrock of each people-group and culture throughout history.

I understand, at least more than I do with fiction the importance of story. But fiction is a crazy concept. Here's why: It starts with a drive or urge inside someone to express an idea, an urge strong enough to compel that person to spend a long time thinking, planning, evaluating, and finally writing something down. Through the miracle of creativity, once vague or disconnected observations coalesce to form a coherent, meaningful, and hopefully understandable piece of work. This piece of work is unified throughout and is inextricably tied to the writer's world-view. In addition to all that, when well done, it can be a thing of beauty. That astounds me. The creative process runs its course and results in a beautiful contribution to the voice of humanity. That God would allow beauty to stem in such a way from a corrupt people is truly amazing.

But that's not even the best part. Take this beautiful labor of love and consider that it speaks to the experience of another soul who reads or hears it. A work of fiction can be paradigm shifting for the reader. The ideas, the flashes of insight, and the questions that percolated in the writer are able to effect change, stretch ways of thinking, and challenge the world-views of those who read it. Lives have been changed by reading fiction, both for good and for evil. Well written fiction can be terribly powerful, able to alter the course of a life, or even of history.
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