Failing and Falling and Such

This summer I blew the job opportunity of a lifetime. It was an out-of-nowhere opportunity to get my foot a door, to work with incredibly talented people, and learn a crap-ton about writing. The phone interview went splendidly. I was articulate, I didn’t talk too fast, I answered all the questions in a satisfactory manner. The Skype interview went well. I was slightly less articulate, but not anything horrible. Then they gave me an editing test. Now, editing is something that I love passionately. I get excited about it and I am good at it. At least that’s what I told myself.

I completely bombed this test. And not just didn’t-do-well. Embarrassingly bombed. I tell myself it happened for a myriad of reasons (it was a crazy test, I was tired, I felt rushed, etc.), but in the back of my mind there is doubt. What if you’re really not any good at this thing that you love? My inner self asks. Shut up, I’m amazing, I always reply. But still the doubt remains.

Today someone offered to give my resume to a company that I would cut off my pinky toes to work for. I froze inside. What if I’m not good enough? What if, miracle of miracles, I got the job and was horrible at it and they had to fire me because I was incompetent?

Thinking about failing that editing test makes me want to throw up, then lay down in bed and cry and never attempt anything ever again. I really, really wanted that job.

But it also made me angry at myself, perhaps angry enough to get me off my lazy butt and read and write and edit and become the best editor ever. One day I am going to pull out that crazy editing test and edit the be-jeebers out of it. Then I’m going to frame it. How else are we supposed to grow except by trying and failing, then getting back up and trying again?

So here’s me turning over a new leaf. I’m going to write. And write, and write, and take opportunities that come my way, and learn from failure.

Narrative

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about stories. More specifically, I have been wondering why non-Christians these days seem to write more compelling stories than Christians. If Christians have the best story ever written, why can’t we write good stories?

If you know me, you know that I have a deep and abiding disdain for Christian fiction as peddled by stores such as Lifeway (*shudder*). If it is labeled “Christian Fiction” or, as the secular bookstores like to call it, “Inspirational Fiction,” I would rather burn it than let it take up space on my bookshelf. It is trash in a pretty wrapper. Well, I will be magnanimous, most of it is.

This wasn’t always so. Think of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Dorothy Sayers, Flannery O’Connor, and my absolute favorite, the ever-engaging G.K. Chesterton. All Christians, all fantastic writers. Maybe it was the time in which they lived, but they could WRITE, and they could develop characters. Dorothy Sayer’s most famous character, the brilliant and well-dressed Lord Peter Death Bredon Wimsey, is a skeptic. He never “becomes a Christian.” He isn’t supposed to. But we love him anyway. No Christian writer nowadays would write such a character. If you love a character, you must save him. But it is far more in line with his character that he not be saved. And that hurts not a little.

Trust the Narrative. People wonder why there is evil in the world, but very callously speaking, it wouldn’t make a very good story if there wasn’t. But can’t we trust the Narrative to come out right in the end? Can’t we trust the Narrator? Part 1 came out all right. Part 2 is shaping up to be even better.

If you know me, you will also know that at this moment two of my favorite writers are Joss Whedon (a TV/film writer) and Neil Gaiman (a novel/short-story/graphic novel/TV/movie writer). Whedon is a self-proclaimed atheist. The Jewish Scientologist Gaiman, if he is not an atheist, is at least agnostic. Why is it that they write better stories than any modern Christian writer that I’ve come across? (And that is not a full-fledged recommendation; Gaiman’s books are in the adult section for a reason)  Whedon even writes “Christian” better than Christians do, if that makes any sense. His stories often shout out Truth, albeit muffled and inaudible. But the gold is there, under the tarnish. Whedon writes “Christian” so well because he is compelled by the narrative. The True Christian as a character is awesomely compelling, though many non-Christians (especially in Hollywood) fail to acknowledge that. But so is the tortured soul, the bad guy who does “good,” almost unwillingly. What makes that unregenerated soul do good? That’s something that the Christian author rarely explores. They write the bad character to move the narrative along and then dispose of him in a righteous way at the end.

Along similar lines, why is it that God must be absent (for all practical purposes) from stories for them to be compelling or believable, or not sickeningly affected?

Maybe God is too big for a story written by man. Maybe He should always be in the background and rarely in the forefront, excepting, perhaps, in a dream. If He were to appear in a story, all would be resolved. That wouldn’t make for much of a story.

But then again, He showed up in His own story, and boy, was THAT compelling!

I’m still working it all out. Chesterton says that a Christian should be able to deeply contemplate sin and sickness and suffering in a way that non-Christians cannot, because the Christian doesn’t (or oughtn’t) get lost in it. The Christian keeps a fast hold on the rope that leads out of the darkness and doesn’t let it swallow him whole.

At the same time, the Christian can more fully contemplate Joy and Love and Adventure, because he knows from whence they proceed. The child who feels the most safe has the most fun. When did we lose this attitude towards life?

Chaos v. Romance

When I was at University, as the British so charmingly say, I took a class that was popularly referred to among the students as “The Harry Potter Class.” Its official name was something to the effect of “Religious Themes in Fantasy Literature.” Much duller, don’t you think? The class explored religious themes in the genre of fantasy literature from its (arguable) birth in the Catholics J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis to its secular manifestation in Harry Potter to the undeniably anti-theist Golden Compass trilogy by Philip Pullman.

Fast-forward a few years. Last week I finished a book of short stories by the clever and ever-engaging Neil Gaiman. I do not know what Mr. Gaiman’s personal views on religion are, but a good guess is that he is not an orthodox Christian. In one particular story, a young school-boy recounts the day when he made the connection between the Chronicles of Narnia and the Christian Bible. He feels cheated and reluctantly ceases to believe in Narnia.

What do these two events have in common, you ask? They both caused me to wonder: Why is the anti-theist metanarrative considered more true than the Christian one? For both Pullman and the character in Gaiman’s short story, the discovery of an underlying Christian worldview in C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia forever scarred them. Gaiman’s character came to the conclusion that writers shouldn’t have any sort of agenda in their writing. Pullman came to the conclusion that if Lewis could do it for Christianity, he could do it for atheism, or rather, anti-theism (It seems to me that Pullman hates God more than he doesn’t believe in God’s existence).

So why is it somehow sneaky or wrong or unsportsmanlike to write a story, particularly a children’s story, with underlying themes that point us to God? I have a theory that every story-line every written is contained in the Bible. Are the stories of Chaos more real than the stories of Restoration? Is Sodom or her sister Gomorrah more genuine than Zion?

I hated Pullman’s series. If his miserable view of the world is true, I would rather, with Puddleglum, be “on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it.”[1]

There is such a difference between the endings of The Chronicles of Narnia (and even Lord of the Rings) and Pullman’s series. Pullman’s story ends with life and separation. Two young people who are very much in love, but must forever live apart for no good reason (that I could tell). The Last Battle ends with death and restoration. The children from our world die in a train crash, but are reunited in Aslan’s country for endless holiday.

No, the people in the Narnia books don’t have perfect lives (Lemony Snicket’s thoughts on the nauseatingly saccharine “Littlest Elf” come to mind). They have to fight, there is pain, friends die and betray, but in the end, everything that is sad comes untrue[2]. For Pullman, this isn’t an option. God is just a power grubbing liar, the pitiful shell of a being who deceives others into believing that he is the Creator.

Why, then, are those stories, bent on propagating the lie that God does not love us, more true that the story of the Prince who died to save His Bride? Which one causes your blood to boil and your heart to race and goose-bumps to break out all over your skin and fierce joy to flood your soul? I contend that it is the fairy tales that speak to our souls. Even if you do not believe in the Christian metanarrative, it is the most compelling and most captivating story there is or ever will be. And the best part about this fairy tale: It’s true.

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[1] C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair

[2] Sam Gamgee, “Gandalf! I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue?” J.R.R. Tolkien, Return of the King

My Summer in Pictures

Now that Fall is beginning to creep into the air, here are some summer memories:

It rained. A LOT. That creek wasn't there the day before.

We fostered a sweet puppy, who LOVED his squishy. 

The rain made the sunlight more brilliant. 

 I love cooking at my parents' house. Ratatouille!

Hosted some tiny pyromaniacs at our annual Independence Day Party 

Went blueberry picking with sister and friend.

Aren't sunflowers so... sunny?

Went to the beach.

Traditional Saturday pancakes.

Gorgeous sunset.

Not Living in the Real World

I do still exist, though it's been a while since I've posted. I'm back living at my parents', have a new job, and am working on acquiring friends. The friends are largely elusive, though, and will have to be tracked to their regular haunts, flushed out, and tranquilized... Oh, wait, no. But they are elusive. I have been catching up on almost four years of family relationships, though, so I'm not dying of loneliness.

Pictures and daily thoughts to follow, maybe. Since I started this blog for my mother it may be hard for me to keep it up now that I get to see and talk to her every day.

If you're lucky, I still might post my story about Sheep (specifically Lambs).

In Which My Plans are Thwarted

So... This post was supposed to be about Sheep (specifically Lambs), but as often happens in this life, my best-laid schemes have "gang agley," as Robert Burns so deftly stated. Instead, this happened!

How, might you ask, did I come to be in New Jersey? Let's just say that the Dutch authorities are adamantly against foreigners overstaying their visas (long story, misunderstandings abounding between my Dutch employers and their government). It's quite an experience, starting the day as usual, then packing up your whole life and leaving a country in less than eighteen hours.

The Positive Side of all of this is that I got to come home early and spend almost a week in New Jersey with my sister, brother-in-law, and favorite nephew!

As a side note: NEVER travel with a guitar or more than two bags (neither of which should weigh more than 30 pounds), and I think one of my shoes is flying around on a Southwest airplane.

My Next Post....

....will be about SHEEP! And more specifically LAMBS. My new favorite thing.