The Master's Artist

Duh

Duh

 

The stupidest book endorsement/review I read this year: It's impossible to open this book at any point and not begin reading.

Why the publisher chose that review to include on the back cover is beyond me. But then again, I'm not an academic, so perhaps there's some high brow significance to that I'm missing. (Maybe Mark can explain it to me off list, so he doesn't embarrass me with its obvious yet simplistic profundity, because everyone knows I don't need help embarrassing myself.)

Anyway, it's the eve of a New Year and I'm the absolute wrong person to send you into it with profundity. But, as it happens, New Year's Eve falls on a Saturday and it's my day to post. I could be obvious and talk about what a year we've had at The Master's Artist; discuss my plans to fail miserably at my New Year's resolutions; ask you all to list your goals for the coming year. And while taking the easy route is usually my preference - I don't like to think too deeply on weekends, or, well, ever - I'll resist that glass of bubbly and just write about what I usually write about: Nothing of Significance. It goes great with fish or beef.

My book buying has far outpaced my book reading this year. Sometimes I wonder if I love the idea of books more than actually reading the books. Just being honest.

And it's not as though I buy only leather-bound, ooh-she-must-be-really-brilliant titles.

I suppose what has kept me from devouring the titles, or only taking a nibble, besides time constraints, is discovery. As I mature in Christ it's difficult for me to devote time to books that tackle themes in a humanistic, ungodly way. I respect the questions and the right to ask them, yet I flinch at the answers, or the postmodern chant of "there is no right answer."

Yet, with some exceptions, I've stopped buying "Christian" fiction because most has the depth and scope of a child's wading pool. Yes, yes, there are some very shallow mainstream books, too. I'm not looking to explore that argument again.

Then, inevitably, the question turns to me: Can I do any better?

I have a whole new year to answer that.

 

Heal Thyself

Heal Thyself
Physician, heal thyself. She didn't say it in so many words, but that was the gist of it. We were driving to my parents' house -- or more precisely, she was driving and I was wondering why the MINI Cooper doesn't have a handle for the passenger to seize during the turns. She'd spent the last eight hours making gifts, and I'd spent them revising my recently completed manuscript. I was up to page 87, wracked with misgivings.

"It's so easy for you to tell what's wrong with other people's stuff," she said. "Why is it so hard with your own?"

Why, indeed. I'd been asking myself the same question. My dilemma of the moment was that I really liked the first thirty pages or so of the manuscript, and I worried that the next fifty weren't as good. Why did I like them? Because my workshop partners did. Why was I worried about the ones that followed? Because my workshop partners haven't read them yet. But why did I need someone else to tell me if the pages were good? I read other people's manuscripts all the time, and I can see right away what's good and what needs to be changed. Why can't I do the same thing with my own work?

One reason -- and I'm ashamed to admit this -- is that I love most everything I write. A few weeks ago, Michael Snyder blogged about the opposite problem. Stephen Koch says that, in the process of revision, at some point you have to just trust what you've put on the page. I have no problem with that. I trust too soon. So when I come across something in a manuscript that I really don't like, that's saying something. When I hate it, I really hate it.

She listened to all this absent-mindedly. It was nothing new. Whatever stage I'm at in the writing process, I tend to ramble on about the theory behind it and my own related colorful, idiosyncratic hang-ups. I imagine it all starts to sound like the same old gibberish after a while. As I wrote the current manuscript, I made her read pages each day. I've done this before, of course, but this time there was a breakthrough. Usually, after she reads, I pump her for feedback, asking if she noticed this or if she appreciated that. In the past, she's withered under this scrutiny, but recently she has learned how to nod and say, "Hmm, that was good." Her eyes get this far away look, like she's mentally re-savoring the relevant passages. Eventually, of course, I caught on that her response to everything was the same -- but I still enjoyed it.

Writers are like puppies. Eager for approval. I clutch manuscript bone-like in my teeth, dropping it at her feet and panting for a read. Like the dog, I don't care much about the sincerity of the "Good boy!" -- only the enthusiasm matters.

Around this time last year, in addition to all the other leaf-overturning obligations I was contemplating, at the top of my list was finishing a novel. Back then, I had in mind a different book than the one I've just written -- but I'm going to go ahead and consider this a New Year's Resolution success story. Now, with 2006 looming large in the imagination, I suppose my resolve needs to turn toward seeing this revision through. I'd like to do something else, too: develop the skill to do to my own manuscripts what comes so easily when I critique someone else's. That might be akin to a surgeon resolving to operate on his own brain, but so be it.

Whatever your ambition is for the coming year, I hope you will fulfill it. I'll do my best to urge you along, and hopefully you can do the same for me.

J. Mark Bertrand
Want more? Read my writing weblog, Notes on Craft

One Moment in Time

*Prayer Request: It's not coincidental that I posted this today. We've received a call that my nephew has been in an accident, and will be airlifted to the nearest hospital with the facilities to address his injuries. He's a married father of two young children, and a strong Christian. Please pray. I'll update when I know more. Thank you. - Donna

Update! Click 'comments.' 

One Moment in Time

Yesterday I breathed a sigh of relief. The frantic pace that begins the week of Thanksgiving let up - a little. I always have two or three irons in the fire, and happily so. But in the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas Day I have a whole blacksmith shop fired up.

For the past two days, I've attempted to slow down, take a few deep breaths, and re-evaluate 2005 in anticipation of goals set for 2006. Tonight my husband and I had a relaxing dinner with another couple. When we dropped them off, Mike ran in the house to get a book he'd raved about during dinner. I came home, got into my PJ's (new ones I got for Christmas), and read the entire book. In one sitting. If I had received this book any other evening, I have a feeling it would have collected dust before I settled down long enough to read it.

In the book, 90 Minutes In Heaven, the author, driving home after a minister's conference, collides with a semi-truck that crossed into his lane on a two-lane bridge. He is pronounced dead at the scene. The book tells of Don Piper's experience in heaven, and then, much to my surprise, focuses more on his life after the accident - a long, painful journey back to some semblance of health, and the renewed sense of purpose he receives.

As I read that book tonight, I thought of the twists and turns my life has taken this past year. While the events have not been nearly as dramatic as Rev. Piper's, the Lord has led me down paths I never dreamed I'd walk. Each Master's Artist has contributed in one way or another to my progress. I strive to write with the wittiness of Mike, the heart of Jeanne, the grace of Mary, the wisdom of Deb, and the depth of Mark, along with the sardonic humor of Jules. The rest have influenced me as well, and for that, I am deeply grateful. Rev. Piper had a difficult time accepting the help of friends. I hope during the coming year I can help others, and increase my circle of writing colleagues and friends, and learn to accept help with grace. We need each other.

One moment can change your life on planet earth. One decision changes your life for eternity - the decision to make Jesus Lord of your life. I've been in a reflective mood this week, and this book has only increased my desire to fulfill my purpose in life, to be what God would have me be, do what He'd have me do, and play my bit part in this drama we call life - even though this is only the first act, and the 'curtain call' only the beginning.

Chris Wells

This summer Chris Wells of CCM Magazine asked me to refer him to great writing by Christian African-American authors. Well, I've done more than that here and at CFB. I'm penning a new term-Gospel Fiction.

Oftentimes, I'm asked what's the difference between Gospel Fiction and Christian Fiction. There isn't a difference. All authors write from where they stand, regardless of color. The uniqueness of work written by African-Americans from what I've read so far--and remember this genre is only five-years-old--is its ability to include dominational settings without alienating other Christian views; its clever inclusion of sermons and psalms, and an unashamed, authentic voice that doesn't concern itself with political correctness, homogenized faith, intimate physicality, and stream of conscience prayer in asides. Simply- gospel fiction is about praising God through the story and making him the third element of the triangle to complete every relationship involved. Now onto the list...

Dee's Best 5 African-American Gospel Fiction of 2005.

This compilation is based on rankings by Dee's Books Reviewed-reviewer service, Christian Fiction Blog mailing list nominations, Dee's Books Reviewed bookstore owner compiled books sold stats, Amazon.com readers ratings, and Romantic Times BookClub Reviews by Dee Y. Stewart.

 

5. Crossing Jhordan's River by Kendra Norman-Bellamy

Kendra is one of the hardest working writers out there right now. She had at least four books on shelves this year and another one on the way in March.  But this book unlike her Grace Series is in my opinion her soul-searching romantic best.

4. A Heart of Devotion by Tia McCollors

Can't be anything but biased when it comes to Tia McCollors. We crit this book in our writer's group-The Atlanta Black Christian Writer's Group. We prayed over this book, so I have loads to say about the process of this book. But what I like about it from a readers standpoint is that its not syrupy sweet and Tia has a gift of creating these characters that seek God as if he were air, as if it should be. Be prepared for Zora's Cry this spring.

 

5. Crossing Jhordan's River by Kendra Norman-Bellamy

 

 

Kendra is one of the hardest working writers out there right now. She had at least four books on shelves this year and another one on the way in March.  But this book unlike her Grace Series is in my opinion her soul-searching romantic best.

4. A Heart of Devotion by Tia McCollors

Can't be anything but biased when it comes to Tia McCollors. We crit this book in our writer's group-The Atlanta Black Christian Writer's Group. We prayed over this book, so I have loads to say about the process of this book. But what I like about it from a readers standpoint is that its not syrupy sweet and Tia has a gift of creating these characters that seek God as if he were air, as if it should be. Be prepared for Zora's Cry this spring.

 

3. Good to Me
Denise Stinson and the Walk Worthy crew have cranked out some gems this year. Plan to discuss this year's line in detail this week. But Good to Me was a good read to me.  Great writing, pacing, plot. Good to Me.

 

2. What Ana Mae Left Behind by Felicia Mason

I'm not a fan of stories where the reader has to learn about the main character threw flashbacks, letters found in the attic or any of those Bridges of Madison County type devices. But Ana Mae did leave something behind that was larger than her small fortune, that needed to be told, and found, in order to enrich your soul.

 

1. Dark Things by David M. Humphrey, Sr.
Best book written by an African American Christian writer ever! Fast paced, medical thriller. Universality. Great prose. Moody Press needs a tap on the hand for not publicizing this book better. And why didn't I find this book in Lifeway?

 

 

Go to Christian Fiction Blog to see the Complete Top 10, then 25 of 2005 this week and my discussion about a novel that deserved to be on the list-Athol Dickson's River Rising

 

 

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(sing it!) Abdullah the Ramadan Camel

(sing it!) Abdullah the Ramadan Camel

 

I had written a depressing, why-my-holiday-sucks, entry that would have made Suz proud. It had a little bit of everything - why commercialism ruins Christmas for me; why my in-laws ruin Christmas for me; why I ruin Christmas for me. I'm down with Jesus, yo, but Santa can kiss my booty. Not a very Christian sentiment, I admit, but when your spirit has been hoofed-to-mince meat by maniacal reindeer, well, sometimes the verbal stocking stuffers are all you have.

But, why send you off to your Pfeffernusse and fruit cake on a down note? I'll just send you off with this: Merry Christmas, every day.

Ready or not

Ready or not, here it comes. And it's not a spectator sport.

Christmas means different things to different people...a child's smile reflected in a bicycle mirror...scowling Wal-mart greeters who've had it up to here...resolutions and more resolutions...the Grinch, Rudolph, & Frosty...perfectly good belts suddenly in need of an extra hole or two...fretting over lame gifts (given and received)...a few extra days off...George Bailey and a box of Kleenex...basking in the blessings of family, friends, and community...thoughts of suicide...binging on football or chocolate or eggnog...remembering loved ones and longing for things eternal...lights and tinsel and gingerbread...caring for orphans and widows...the very real fear of becoming an orphan or a widow...long, glorious naps...drinking for all the wrong reasons...celebrating our Savior's birth.

But Christmas is also a story--The Story, in fact, with a beginning, middle, and end. It boasts a great opening line, lots of interesting character development, humor, suspense, special effects, drama, mystery, and some serious Author Intrusion.

It also includes you and me.

Like it or not, we have a role, complete with speaking parts.

Artists sometimes have a tendency to withdraw, to observe from a safe distance, gathering fodder for our next creation. As they say on Seinfeld, 'nothing wrong with that'. But my prayer for us this Christmas is that we'll engage at every level, that we'll embrace the Bigger Story in all its forms and facets, that we'll dare to be cheesy, that we'll sing loud and long, that we'll allow our eyes to mist, our hearts to swell, and our hands to get dirty.

I'm also praying for a helicopter. I've always wanted a helicopter.

Merry Christmas!

individuation

after reading emerson's self-reliance:

There is 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, for worse, as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till.

individuation

individuation

after reading emerson's self-reliance:

There is 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, for worse, as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till.

and

Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying their perception that the absolutely trustworthy was seated at their heart, working through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids in a protected corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers, and benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort, and advancing on Chaos and the Dark.

then turning to his essay, the poet:

The breadth of the problem is great, for the poet is representative. He stands among partial men for the complete man, and apprises us not of his wealth, but of the common-wealth. The young man reveres men of genius, because, to speak truly, they are more himself than he is. They receive of the soul as he also receives, but they more. Nature enhances her beauty, to the eye of loving men, from their belief that the poet is beholding her shows at the same time. He is isolated among his contemporaries, by truth and by his art, but with this consolation in his pursuits, that they will draw all men sooner or later. For all men live by truth, and stand in need of expression. In love, in art, in avarice, in politics, in labor, in games, we study to utter our painful secret. The man is only half himself, the other half is his expression.

furthermore:

The poet does not wait for the hero or the sage, but, as they act and think primarily, so he writes primarily what will and must be spoken, reckoning the others, though primaries also, yet, in respect to him, secondaries and servants; as sitters or models in the studio of a painter, or as assistants who bring building materials to an architect.

For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings, and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word, or a verse, and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations.

i find myself strangely comforted in my isolation. strangely assuaged in my singular grief. that i cannot find words to bridge the gap of understanding between my fellow prose-writers and myself. i cannot fashion a conveyance out of ideas and thoughts, but i must sit, still and silent, upon my little island being faithful to God at work in me.

i write this to encourage you who might feel similarly isolated in your calling. at writers' conferences i go and wonder why i'm there. sure i'm a writer, but not in the way or for the reasons many are. i don't hold the craft in awe, i detest networking, i avoid chitchat (after spending time recently with a claustrophobic, i realized, i'm chatophobic). i merely try to be faithful to the whispers i hear. the echoes of poetry written before time.

i cannot hear these things when the voices of men ring in my ears. i am not so quick of wit as many who can banter and this near-real-time ongoing conversation taxes me to the limit more often than not.

i've spent a bit of time with fromm, and his thoughts on love are:

only non-conformists can love, for it takes a person not an automaton to truly love.

yes, i feel it rise up in my soul. then his mention of individuation spawned my certainty about the need for writers, all writers, poets, be they christian, llamas in cars (thanks dave), or whatever, to separate from the herd. to find himself in the Will of God. and no place other.

i look too, don't get me wrong. the looking is human. but i've realized, what i'm looking for cannot be found. only sought. (or as augustine says, when God is found, he must be sought. just this morning i read henri nouwen say it this way: "God must be sought, but we cannot find God. We can only be found by him." yes. that is it.)

sharing writing tips is helpful. writers' guidelines are good. workshops are great. but honing one's craft before the Master, that is where it is at. and if He sees fit to lift you up, praise Him. otherwise, rest in your calling and be faithful to it. even when it seems you are most alone. for i assure you, you are not. of that, i am certain.

For the Good Things

An excerpt from "Before Dawn"...

 

"Are you telling me that the Ritz Carlton is booked to capacity?" My husband, Joe asked the guest services clerk, Rhonda. "That never happens. Can you check again?"

Rhonda looked at my belly; then at me; then back at her computer screen. Shook her head. "Sir, there are no rooms available tonight."

"Any rooms nearby?" I asked.

"With the Microsoft Tech Conference, Vibe Music Fest and NBA Finals all in one weekend..." Rhonda bit her lip. "Atlanta's booked solid. Sorry."

Joe turned and looked at me with those Bambi brown eyes that sucked me into his world six months ago. They made me feel safe, because I always knew what he was thinking. But I couldn't bare riding in that truck another minute let alone to Decatur or Marietta. My hips were feeling crampy and I just needed to sit still for a minute.

He turned back to Rhonda and whispered. "She's in her final trimester. My wife needs to rest like two hours ago."

***

Rhonda hooked us up with a construction trailer out in the back where they were adding a new wing to the building. "Look, the contractor are gon' for at least two days. Soon as a room is available, I'll key you in."

Joseph handed her a wad of money and shook her hand. "Bless you, Rhonda."

Before she closed the door, she peeped back in. "You sure she doesn't need to go to Northside. Look like she's about to pop."

I shook my head. "I'm good." I wasn't completely sure, but I prayed the belief into truth.

She nodded her head and left us to the trailer and the task at hand-- to have this baby sight unseen and definitely before dawn.

 

Christmastime is the best story time of the year. This time is one of the few when children will actually sit down and allow you to read a story to them. It's a time when old family members can sit by the fireplace and reminisce with their children and grandchildren about the good ol' days and be truly heard. Yes. Christmastime is story time. And reading has a place in the home again.

 

It's also a time when believers, who may have backslidden or believers who straddle the fence to pull it in for a little while and exercise a little discipline Like my uncle Herbert, the family drunk, who wouldn't take a sip on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. This time of year brings about change. We make changes. We make allowances for the good things.

 

I haven't slept since Thursday, because Selah was sick. I almost cried when I realized that I missed my article deadline at the paper. When I called my editor, she said. Take care of the baby, take care of yourself and get it in when you can. She honored my commitment and loyalty to her... another allowance for the good things.

 

My story--albeit a snippet--is my attempt of recreating the Christmas story in a contemporary form. As a writer, sometimes I find myself dissecting a matter to understand it. Oftentimes I dissect biblical events to find some clarity. Was Joseph poor if he was searching for a room in the inn? Was he simply sent away because there were no rooms? Was Mary mad for them getting there too late? This story borders on obsession for me during this time. Not so good.

 

On my blog, I sometimes hold a discussion called Why Fiction Matters? It's a subject that tries to explore the concept of taking reality and pulling it apart into a universal anecdote so that the message of the event reaches its full potential. HBO's the Girl in the Cafe is a great example of this concept as it sets two characters admist the G8 Summit with a goal to tackle the theme of humanity and love. I marvel that the Christmas story that has been translated and transformed through the centuries is still fixed in at least its universal message of covenant, fulfillment and reunion. Whether Christ was born in autumn or July or December 25 or after two days of sleep deprived labor the story still stands. Another allowance for the Good things. I hope our works will stand just as long. Don't you?

 

Be blessed this Christmas.

 

Writing to see what the end's gon be,

Dee

Come Celebrate Christian Fiction with me Here.

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No good deed goes unpunished,

No good deed goes unpunished, as I can attest to sitting at my desk, staring out at the snow I helped shovel a few hours ago. We have a neighbor who is widowed, and remembering the Bible passage about helping the widows, I trekked over, with a kid-size shovel in hand, and cleared her sidewalks and front porch. The Motrin IB and heating pad haven't eased the pain of my service, and now that I've shared my deed done in secret, I've probably forfeited any heavenly reward. Guess I'll have to go find an orphan to give some hot chocolate to.

I blame my employer; if they weren't so cheap as to not pay overtime, I would have been at the office today and saved myself the back ache. Stupid cheap GM.

What does this have to do with writing? Absolutely nothing, I suppose, except telling the story got me to write a bit. That's a small victory.

Actually, I write every day. I work for a newspaper - well, it's more of an advertising rag that includes news - and write about every aspect of the community I live in. That's certainly not as sexy as saying I work for The New York Times or The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, but I've come to understand the importance of community journalism, and despite the numerous complaints I hold against my company (the corporate culture, not my fellow employees, who I thank God every day I get along with), enjoy to some extent the work. I can see that I've had a positive impact on the newspaper, and I hope, the community.

My husband and I recently celebrated our eighth wedding anniversary, which is a bit of a miracle considering we've nearly murdered each other during our very dark times. We met at a newspaper - he was given the beat I had developed, which made me hate his guts for a few seconds - and married six months later.

I can't say I had any grand life plan when we met. I knew since age 13 I wanted to be a journalist, and the lure of NYC tempted me at times. My professors and editors had confidence in what they labeled "ability" and "talent" to one day make it as far as I wanted to go.

Like I said, I didn't have my life mapped out, but getting married at 22 and having a baby 18 months later (yes, do the math - I didn't have to get married) wasn't what I dreamed of doing at night as a teen. But it happened, and I'm glad it did - my husband and two daughters are the joys of this earthly life.

So, though my plans with writing were never solid, I've had to let go of some visions. As exciting as NYC can be - we have yet to bring the girls there, but it's something we hope to do next Spring, especially now as my sister-in-law lives in Manhattan - I wouldn't want to live there with the girls. I also don't have the time to devote to "making it" in writing. (When we lived outside Washington, DC, where my husband was a reporter on Capitol Hill for more than five years, most of the reporters he rubbed elbows with were single or divorced - the high price for "making it." He was chastised at times for putting family above work, and after a half-decade of it, decided he'd had enough.)

I've recently decided to stop beating myself up for not more actively pursuing fiction writing. I work more than 40 hours a week, and my hours aren't nine to five at all; I have two young girls to care for (though, thank God, they aren't in public school or day care; we've worked out a schedule where one of us is home, or else we have an excellent babysitter who is here with them for a few hours when needed); a home to tend to; and my lover and best friend, my husband, who after eight years is still the person I want to spend my time with. (Go ahead, sing it: You're still the one ...)

And, we've finally found a great church where we worship and fellowship. I don't know about you, but if I don't get spiritually recharged around mature, godly people, I start cussing like a truck driver and plotting all sorts of mayhem against stupid people who tick me off. In other words, the flesh starts stomping the crap out of the Spirit. (And I start using "Spirit" and "crap" in the same sentence.)

I do struggle with contentment, despite these epiphanies. What if remains my favorite phrase for flogging my bruised ego. But I guess it all comes down to what we say here on The Master's Artist: Trust and obey. Help widows and orphans, don't persecute stupid people, and be still and know that HE IS THE LORD.