On Words and Writing

I admit it. Everyday in my email comes Merriam-Webster's word of the day.* Not that I actually learn and use these words. But it's fun to get them.
Today's word: locofoco.
Okay--who cares what this actually means? Just saying the word brings a smile to my face.
Locofoco.
Hee-hee.
For those of you who care: "a member of the Democratic party in the United States."
Locofoco.
Can you use that in a sentence, please?

Remember how I talked about one of the greatest things about writing was getting away with stealing? I get to be a pirate!
Here's another great thing: when you're a writer, it's okay to hear voices in your head. In fact, it's encouraged.
I love being a writer.

*The story behind Merriam-Webster. There once was a librarian Merriam (little known fact: the song Marian from Music Man was pilfered from Merriam and Webster). Always her nose in a book. One day, she looked up to see the basketball great Webster hiding in a corner. Figuring he must be up to no good because anytime a jock hid in her library it was no good, she approached him.
But no! He was reading! Actually reading!
"Don't tell no one," he whispered, "But I love words."
They met in that corner everyday for seven months.
Until Webster's parents discovered them.
"For shame!" the parents said (together, because they talked in chorus often). "A librarian!" The parents grabbed the book away from Webster (again together, because the acted in chorus often), and shipped him on a bus to Indiana, because that's where all basketball players go.
"You will be one of the greats!" they said.
Poor Merriam. Her kindred spirit gone. Picking up the book discarded by Webster's parents, she hugged it to her.
Epiphany! The lightbulb flashed! They wouldn't be separated. They would find a way!
Though those were the days preceding email, she employed something called a pen and paper (you can look these items up in the dictionary or an encyclopedia). Back and forth, Merriam and Webster wrote letters collecting words.
One day, Webster met a guy named Britannica.
"Britannica, old boy," Webster said. "Will you marry my love and I?"
"And me," Britannica said.
"No, just the two of us."
Over the phone, Britannica pronounced them husband and wife.
They never saw each other again, Merriam and Webster, but they are forever bound (hee-hee, get it? bound?).

Coda: By the way, this is what's known as ternary.

On Genres

If Jane Austen were writing today, would she be considered chick lit?

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, A Pirate's Life for Me

I've always had a weakness for mafia and pirates. Maybe because I'm from Jersey and have a love affair with the ocean? Who knows.
But the truth is, I'm a thief. It's true. It's why I carry this little Nancy Drew notebook around with me. I'm casing the joint. I hear a snippet of conversation here or witness a child antic there, and it's gone. It's mine. I stash it away in my Nancy Drew notebook.
That's what writers do. They steal. I steal personality quirks and funny lines and crazy accidents. You may one day pick up a book of mine and think, "Hey, that looks familiar. Where have I heard that line before? Oh, yeah! I said it!"
It may happen.
My friend, Ang, knows this. I swear she has a shortcut key for the word, "Dibs." We'll be on an IM chat and someone will have this great line and before any of us can type lol or something to that affect, she's typed "Dibs!" Once, I beat her. But then I forgot to write it down, and now I've forgotten my dibbed line.
Writing is like hunting for buried treasure, if you ask me. During the rough draft, you look for the X marks the spot. Some people use a map. Others have a compass like the one in Pirates of the Caribbean that points you to your heart's desire, even if you don't know where that is.
Then you find the spot, and you start digging. Digging for theme and metaphors and character arcs.
Until you hit something hard. You heave it up, lift the lid, and thrust your hands into a chest full of gold coins and diamond necklaces and ruby earrings. The treasure slips through your fingers.
And then you have lots of money!
Okay, so maybe you rarely get lots of money. But you do have a treasure.
So be on the watch! I'm huntin' for buried treasure, matey! (And don't mind stealing supply on the way.)

Interviews that Teach*

*(sounds like one of those commercials that's supposed to inspire you to teach or become a Big Brother--not the 1984 type--doesn't it?)


At some point in my blogging life, I started following the interviews at Novel Journey. The other day (code for maybe yesterday, maybe six months ago), they did an interview of Dean Koontz. I should've posted a link then, but I forgot to, and let's be honest, most of you read Novel Journey. But for those of you who don't, whether you're a reader or writer, you might want to read his interview. I learned more from this than I did the couple of conferences I've been to.

Writing Influences

Of course, there are thousands and thousands of influences--more than I know. From growing up on Anne of Green Gables and Nancy Drew and Janette Oke to digging in to Austen and Dickens to discovering new loves like Anne Tyler and Richard Russo and Lisa Samson. From practicing piano and flute to studying the symphony to poring over Kierkegaard.
But there are two things that I keep in the front of my mind:

1. One dance scene from a musical of which I can't remember the title, and
2. Hebrew poetry.

First, the musical: I remember the musical not being all that great. One song from it frequently gets stuck in my head, rather one line from one song. Some musicals resemble a two-term presidency: the first act too wrapped up in impressing you that it comes off on the idiotic side and the second act concerning itself with the story. This musical was the same. The second act was good. I could've done without the first.
Nonetheless, this one scene captured me. To set the stage: three sisters come home after the death of their mother and rediscover themselves and each other (we've seen it before). They grew up dancing together, and in this one scene, the youngest sister resurrects a dancing song. I don't remember the details, but she had to call out the steps and moves to her older sister (step, ball, change sort of thing). During the dance, the sisters get into more and more of a heart-felt, serious talk, all the meantime puncuated by "step, ball, change." I loved it. I loved how something everyday acted as an ostinato during their heart-to-heart. It both added to the tension but also kept it from being maudlin.
I want this in my writing. Life intersects. Kids don't stop fighting over the Batman toy just because your best friend called in tears. It meshes together.

Second, the Hebrew poetry. Two things in particular: metonymy and symbolic parallelism. Metonymy is a figure of speech where a word or phrase is substituted with another associated with it. It's saying "The White House said" rather than "The President said." It's claiming that "the hand of God was upon him" rather than "He acted with God's power." Sometimes it's taking a piece of something to represent the whole, or the whole to represent just a piece. I could give you thousands of examples, illustrations sometimes beautiful, sometimes shocking.
I want this in my writing. Pieces substituting for a whole. A grown woman crying because she lost her favorite stuffed animal as a child when really she's grieving her lost innocence.
And symbolic parallelism. Two lines in Hebrew poetry, both metaphors, usually, that echo the same thought.
In other words, my lists.
I love my lists. I can't resist them. Like in the beginning of my book about a single mom:

One of these days I’ll be able to say “single mother” without retching or having visions of Craig’s death, one where he falls out of a boat at Lake Wallenpaupack and gets caught in the propellers, one where he gets lost skiing in the Poconos and eventually gets eaten by wolves, and one where he gets poisoned by one of the hers when she discovers another of the hers.

Lists of painful and untimely deaths.
Reading Hebrew poetry my whole life, is it any wonder I love metaphors?

This morning, part deux

Two things I want to continue from this morning:

First, the speaking was plain, old-fashioned fun, especially the eighth and ninth graders. We went through the hero's journey (using Wizard of Oz), then we used it to come up with our own plot. The kids will take those bones and write their story, adding ligaments and tendons and muscles and flesh and all that jazz. I can't wait to hear how they turn out next week. These kids have talent. The story? A beagle has to save his parents from a mad scientist.

With the sixth graders, we did a Halloween scene and practiced using the five senses to increase the scary factor (Mich, I thought of you the entire time with their haunted houses and cemeteries and werewolves and zombies and pictures with eyes that follow you). These kids had a harder time focusing, but the ideas shot out like fireworks.

It energized me, seeing brains open up (not literarly, for those of you still on the Halloween theme).

Second thing (still regarding creativity), you need to see a picture of my beloved Nancy Drew pad. It's small and goes every where with me. A friend saw it in Barnes and Noble and thought instantly of me. I'm glad she did. I suspect that I could not be a writer without it (especially considering the memory factor).

Imagine her worn on the edges, and filled with ideas: dialogue snippets, settings, observations while in the train station, and you have one of my best friends in this writing world.

By the way, Christianne, yes, the pic is from this year's ACFW, and good memory re: last year's pic. Impressive. The memory I used to have...

Celebrity Deathmatch

Welcome, folks, to today's celebrity deathmatch. In the one corner weighing in at feisty and beautiful (you didn't think we'd actually reveal a woman's weight, did you?) and wearing a red kimono dress with intricate embroidery and a gold brocade collar, we have loud Asian chick, Camy Tang. In the other corner, weighing in at deranged and tall and wearing a spacesuit, we have mad-genius physicist Randy Ingermanson.

Read about the deathmatch, and the jealousy factor in every writer's struggle at the Misfits today.

Writing to Communicate

I write to communicate, whether to be understood, to reveal evil or revel in
beauty, to tell a good story, to point to Someone transcendent.

To hear more about James Joyce duking it out with Jesus (okay, that might be a slight exxageration, but what's a writer if not hyperbolic?), go visit the Misfits blog.

A Season for Sleep

127:1 If the Lord does not build a house,
then those who build it work in vain.
If the Lord does not guard a city,
then the watchman stands guard in vain.
127:2 It is vain for you to rise early, come home late,
and work so hard for your food.
Yes, he can provide for those whom he loves even when they sleep.
Psalm 127 (a song of ascents, by Solomon)

A few weeks ago, it hit me. ACFW conference approacheth. Yikes! What had I been thinking all year? Had I been diligent to query magazines about articles? No. Had I been diligent to submit short stories? No. I tried to make it up in the past month, but funny thing about magazines and journals: they don't care if you're on a deadline. They still work at their own speed. Very inconsiderate of them, if you ask me.
I'd lay awake at night with a running list (and commentary on the state of my life) scampering through my mind. Is my pitch ready? Is it a fast ball? A curve ball? How about my proposal? My synopsis. Oh, the synopsis. Do I know enough people? Why, heck no. My husband's the networker. I'm the people watcher. (For those of you who are networkers, people watching is distinctively harder when you're busy meeting people instead of in a corner with your Nancy Drew notebook.) And Chris doesn't go to these writerly things with me. I have to network myself! Oh, the stress of meeting new people.
But here's the thing: unless it's what God wants, there's nothing I can do to further it. And I don't need to lose sleep over it. If it's what God wants, there's nothing I can do to thwart it.
Besides singing the Byrd's song (To everything--turn, turn, turn; There is a season--turn, turn, turn, which, in my soundtrack to life, is this week's theme, and which was originally written thousands of years ago, talk about your seasons), I had to accept reality. I've only been doing this fiction thing for about a year--since July 2006. I've written my pancake novel, so that's over and done with. I have a manuscript I love, and I have a manuscript I love working on. But this year, I need to focus on improving my craft and meeting people. Getting to know you; getting to know all about you (which was not originally from the GM commercials but from The King and I).
Now, resting in God, I'm sleeping better. My nightmares about the guy chasing me and showing up in the back of my car and where ever I go until I had to behead him, which was the only way he'd actually die, stopped (excepting one dream last night--I was wanted by the mafia and hid on the roof of a building, but you could take compartments of the roof and move them around like one of those puzzles where you move the squares around one at a time to find the picture of the tiger, but we started taking the compartment too far like the Willy Wonka elevator in the end (high above the buildings of Philly) until it started to lose its magnetic pull and we made it back just in time before it started to careen to the ground to find my old boss there with some cheerleader-type girl and George Bush). And my neck doesn't hurt when I wake up.

Byline

I'm up at the Misfits today. Here's a sneak peek:
"Oh, I've always wanted to write," people say when I tell them I'm an author. I get the varieties, the I-have-a-novel-in-me, the my-grandmother's-memoirs type, the I-blog-hence sort, the Madonna-wrote-a-children's-book-so-why-can't-I. You know, the I've-always-wanted-to-play-piano people.*
It gets better: I confess my inability to ride a bike and my near-death experiences attached to it.
*I dedicate the hyphens to Erin.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

Two things--no, three--happened today (well, yesterday by the time you read this post) that made me stop and consider my writing.
First, I had nightmares last night that kept me from sleeping well. Awake every half hour until I got up at six--yes, that's six in the morning, which I happen to consider an ungodly hour. When I'm queen of the world, it will be outlawed. My insomnia has decided to make itself known again the past several nights. Basically, the first seasoning in the recipe is exhaustion, which never bodes well in my thinking life. Well, I think I'm thinking brilliant thoughts, but I've been told they're not as astute as I might imagine.
Second (if I can remember after that rambling), there were some new comments on old posts found in my sidebar "pontifications." I don't pontificate much anymore. I don't have these posts that make my readers stop and go, "oooooh, wow" and snap, snap, snap with head donned in beret. Have I used up all my oooooh, wow thoughts? Has my shiny dulled? Or have I just gotten lazy?
Third, I did some research on possibilities for publication. I mean true publication, not just, "Heather Goodman is published on her blog" publication and found some interesting opportunities for memoirs (well, one in particular excited me before I discovered that it is no longer in publication--c'est la vie, which I think is French or something). When I started this writing journey thingie, I wrote just that. Memoirs. I had read Alexandra Fuller and Don Miller and thought, hey, why not? Surely I have something to recount.
Except I don't. Not a darned thing. Seriously? What do I have to tell? Well, there was the time when I was oh, about five and thought my younger sister was being hit by a car. You see, she was riding her Hot Wheels. (How I long for my Strawberry Shortcake Hot Wheels sometimes--we rode them around our patio making streets between the picnic table and benches and chairs complete with lights and everything.) When she (my sister, the story is about her, if I can ever stop interrupting myself--remember, no sleep) saw a car backing out of a driveway, like a good citizen, she stopped and waited. But her stop was too close to the car's path and the bumper knocked it down. I, being the responsible older sister, went screaming into the house, where my mother was. Cheryl's being hit by a car! Cheryl's being hit by a car! Dad was already outside and to her rescue. No damage was done.
The end.
See how much I loved her? I was devastated.
Of course, then there's the time when I almost beat her up because I thought she was cheating at Go Fish.
These stories lack something. What is it, what is it? Oh, interest. Yeah, that's it. I blame my parents. If they weren't so loving and caring, if only I had had a worse childhood, then I'd have all of these powerful stories to pen and ooooh, wow the world.
Hence my foray into fiction.
Who knows? Maybe I'll foray myself back. I'll pontificate and dredge up some repressed memory of getting lost at Woolworth's (Mom still insists she was only an aisle away, but I think that's her cover up). Or I can talk about the attempt to pay bills in our household, which is a comedy funnier than Bill Cosby's Himself (which never fails to have me snorting).


* Note to God: this is not a request for more hardship in my life.

What's My Line Again?

What constitutes work? Is it the paycheck? The sweat on your brow? Does it allude to a dislike of the task?

I struggle with this question because of my current situation. I work, right? I teach flute and piano lessons. I write. I speak. But between the part-time music teaching, the speaking gigs, and the odd writing or editing jobs (and when I saw odd, I mean odd), I can have as much to write off in taxes as I claim in income.

Which makes me feel like I don't work.

Merriam-Webster had 10 answers with work used as a transitive verb, most with their a's and b's and c's, plus 7 more for the intransitive use. And then there are the definitions of work as a noun.

Here's the number 1 answer for work used intransitively:

1 a : to exert oneself physically or mentally especially in sustained effort for a purpose or under compulsion or necessity b : to perform or carry through a task requiring sustained effort or continuous repeated operations c : to perform work or fulfill duties regularly for wages or salary

"A" is certainly true. I exert myself. There are sustained efforts and a purpose, and yes, under compulsion, I'd even say in the sense of a writer has to write. "B" is true as well. I continuously repeat the operation of typing the keys or telling my students to sit up straight, curve their fingers, focus their embouchure. "C"--well, that's the one I get stuck on. My music teaching - check. My speaking - mostly yes. My writing - huh? It's rare at this stage in the game that I get paid for doing what I do. I hope someday I'll get paid for it, not because the paycheck allures me but because that means getting to the next stage, a regular (keyword) paycheck for writing.

In the Bible, the English word "work" is used approximately 350 times. Occupation, service, workmanship; God's work in creation, a craftsman's work on the temple, Jacob's work for Laban, the Proverbs 31 Woman's work (which is plenty--have you read everything she does? makes me want to take a nap), skillful work, and work to be enjoyed (according to the author of Ecclesiastes), the good work that Christians are to do--the work which God has prepared for us and which is coupled with love, the work that God the Creator and Redeemer does inside of us, the work that puts food on our tables.

I don't want to make too many crosses here, say that they are all related. But a few of these struck me, like the craftsman's work on the temple or the songwriter's work because in that sense, my writing is work. Or the work to be enjoyed because yes, I enjoy my work, all of it. Or the good work that Christians are to do. What does that have to do with occupation?

That work is more than occupation because it infiltrates all of our lives, our care of our families, our interactions with our neighbors, our giving to the poor. But it is part of our occupation in that our occupation is a work of the Lord and to the Lord, no matter what man sees in it, no matter if man claims it lowly, like he may a janitor's position (and let me tell you from experience, that is some hard work there), or if man claims it worthy of millions of dollars, like a CEO of Microsoft. Or if man claims it noble but unworthy of mucho money, like the artist. No matter, it is worthy to be used by God.

So do I work? 2 out of 3 dentists say yes, and that's good enough for me.

Tension and Release

My piano teacher used to say this over and over and over again until I could feel the tension and release in my shoulders. Tension and release. It's what
music is built on.

At some point growing up--I'd like to think it was early on being the
prodigy that I am--I began wondering how this relates to eternity, when God sets all things right and restores everything to pure goodness. Music with no tension? Then how can we have a Beethoven's third? How can we have stories?

Find the rest at the Misfits blog.

ABA or CBA or ABCDEFG?

There's ABA, or American Booksellers Association (also a musical term describing ternary form, American Basketball Association, or Baseball perhaps, and American Bar Association, but although I am a musician, I'm not speaking of the first, and I'm neither a basketball player, baseball player, or lawyer, so that rules out the rest), and there's CBA, or Christian Booksellers Association. It's about publishing, fyi. The question is, which one do I got with?
I've vacillated between the two, and it has to do with philosophy, both of them good and desirable.
Let me preface by saying I don't like the term "Christian fiction." How do you determine which fiction is Christian and which isn't? Then there's the corollary, is it Christian enough? Then you get into wars of all sorts of things from cursing and drinking to the theology of angelology and trinity (which is dealt with less often than the former). And then there's the question of a non-Christian writing a work that reflects Christ more than he or she meant, and so is that Christian? I don't like these questions, and someday I'll talk more about that, but for now, know that that is not my ish here.
Now, back to our regularly scheduled program:
On the one hand, there's the philosophy of Christians being in the world. Salt and light. Christians being present in the ABA world. Talented, beautiful, and Christian. This is the philosophy I typically strive to live. Does it matter if I'm a Christian playing Mozart or a non-Christian playing Mozart? No, not really, as long as I'm playing it beautifully. I think Christians should be in normal life, not in a bubble. Business women CEO'ing a dot com company or lawyers prosecuting and defending or musicians playing Mozart and writing original songs or writers coming up with stories that can be read by anyone who knows the language. This would be the world of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Flannery O'Connor.
On the other hand, Tevye, there's the philosophy of Christians, who believe in the Creator God and His Imago Dei in every human, standing up to be patrons of the arts, including writing. Showing the world that we care about beauty, that we see the horrors and the death and the evil and all the wrenching of lives and relationships and all the effects of the Fall, that we believe in reconciliation and redemption and hope. Showing the world that we don't want to just fight them. We want to lead them. As a group. As the Church, the Body of Christ. This would be the world of J.S. Bach and Handel.
See what I mean? Both are beautiful stances, in my opinion. So the question remains: which one for me?
I think at this point in time in my life, I'll pursue CBA. There are problems, as there would be if I chose ABA. There are things that frustrate me. Heck, that's life. But I'm passionate about writing. I'm passionate about Christ. I'm passionate about what can be. There are those who are passionate about writing, passionate about Christ, and passionate about what can be in the ABA world. Perhaps that will be me someday, another day.
Who knows.

Welcome, Higher Calling

It's official. I'm joining the Higher Calling Blog Network. For those of you following my blog already, no worries. Nothing will change. But you might want to hop on over to their reader and see what the fuss is about. It came from The High Calling zine, which is dedicated to folks who see their job and life as their ministry.

That being said, what does this mean for me? Does this mean I feel these pressures to write dynamic posts that wow the public? Of course. Love me, love me. Throw flowers at the stage. (No, sir, I said flowers, not tomatoes. Please put the tomato down.) Does this mean that I have to cut out the silly and lighthearted? That I can't tell you that at this very instant I'm writing this post with an English accent (more of a Julie Andrews proper than Jason Statham street)? Higher Calling is about work and God and theology, isn't it? Does that mean no more stories about my charred dinners?

I don't believe so, no. It all flows together, now, doesn't it? My work of teaching piano and flute lessons, writing, and speaking and my life of laughing and crying and the whole bit. (Take it from someone who was found to randomly break out into song and dance - yes, dance too - at the office. Known for it, actually.) It's all seamless like a fine cloth. I don't mean that you go to work in your pajamas (unless you telecommute or model for JCPenny's catalog) or that you chat with your girlfriends on Tuesday night about profit margins. Well, you might. But what I mean is that it is all to glorify God, and it is all infused with loving the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and mind and loving your neighbor as yourself.

Now, personally, as a writer, I don't always know where the pen stops and life starts. It's all one and the same. I see something, such as the Porta Potty company named Oui Oui Enterprises and think, now wouldn't Marnie laugh at that. Or see a lonely child and wonder how Itzel would love her. My characters inspire me, and sometimes I think, shouldn't it be the other way around? When I write a post, it's just preparatory for writing about Marnie, who hasn't figured out if she's poking fun at life or if life's poking fun at her.

So lift a glass with me (Shiraz, coffee, chocolate milk, or otherwise). Here's to silliness and laughter and tears and burnt dinners and philosophizing and theologizing and to friends, because the friends I've made this past year in the blogging world have pleasantly surprised me.

Harry Potter Spoof

For a good laugh, check out the article of fellow Misfit, Chris, in the Wittenburg Door about Harry Potter. Remember, it's a spoof.

Writing Meme

D'Ann tagged me. I haven't done one of these in a while.

1. What's the one book or writing project you haven't yet written but still hope to?

A novel about a couple who meet in Africa on missions projects and impulsively get married. Meanwhile (back at the ranch), an African woman (who becomes close to the new bride) struggling to survive. Okay, so I confess, I don't know the actual story, but someday I want to write about these characters. Story to follow...

2. If you had one entire day in which to do nothing but read, what book would you start with?

So hard to pick because how can I communicate who I am based on this one question? I'd start with the latest Harry Potter since that is the book I'm in the middle of right now. Then I'd read Jodi Piccoult's Nineteen Minutes, because that is the book I interrupted to read HP. Then I'd get back to From Homer to Harry Potter, my nonfiction read, which often gets put down for a fiction. Then I'd pick up (because it's a really long day, of course), Anna Karenina from my shelves because it's been gathering dust for too long eyeing me, sometimes winking and fluttering her lashes.

3. What was your first writing "instrument" (besides pen and paper)?

If journals don't count, then a computer, first a hand-me-down desktop, then my laptop.

4. What's your best guess as to how many books you read in a month?

Some people keep lists. Not me. I don't know how many I read. 4? 5? Maybe 6? Depends on the month and the life around the month.

5. What's your favorite writing "machine" you've ever owned?

I guess my laptop right now OR really, my Nancy Drew notepad that goes everywhere with me. It houses some fun observations (and hugs walls as it creeps up steps).

6. Think historical fiction: what's your favorite time period in which to read? (And if you don't read historical fiction--shame on you.)

Does Jane Austen count since when she wrote she was contemporary? Or Dickens. Pirates. Okay, so I haven't read anything pirate-y yet - oh, that's not true! I read Treasure Island, and we'll count Robinson Crusoe because I want to though it has nothing to do with pirates. I love pirates and the mafia, so I need to read more pirate-y and mafia-y (the 1920s for the mafia would be the most romantic, methinks).

7. What's the one book you remember most clearly from your youth (childhood or teens)?

50 Jeanne pts to the first person who guesses this. Seriously, folks, if you can't guess this, you've never actually been to my blog.

I tag all the Misfits: Ang, Chris, Jen, Jenny, Mich, and Mike

Fringe Benefits

I’ve been told that the “unpublished” genres are international fiction and fantasy. Huh? Granted, with CBA, the books I read come from word-of-mouth recommendations (aka the Oprah way), then I order them on Amazon. I don’t wander around LifeWay or Mardel’s like I do Barnes and Noble, Borders, or Half-Price Bookstore, mesmerized, entering in wonderment as if transported to a magical land and leaving hours later.
But browsing the ABA world, I find bestseller shelves flooded with memoirs of other countries and novels set in Africa and India and Latin America. And consider other literature sources, magazines like Vanity Fair and Time dedicating an issue to Africa and international films getting more visibility and becoming more mainstream, having their own Oscar categories as well as infiltrating mainstream categories (i.e. Volver).
More and more care about what goes on in other countries as the globe shrinks. As Christians who know that each of us have been created by God and that every tongue, every language, every nation, will confess Christ as Lord, shouldn’t we care even more about the world, our neighbors?
Then there’s fantasy. So why, if it is true that fantasy does not sell, does Tom Shippey say (as quoted in From Homer to Harry Potter, an excellent book worthy to be read by writers, especially those of the fantasy bent, readers, and Christians, and eventually I’ll get a review of it up here), “The dominant literary mode of the twentieth century has been the fantastic”? (I believe he includes scifi and horror in the “fantastic” category.) Some Christians have a hard time with the magic and sorcery, and I want to respect that. On the other hand, as Homer to HP says, myth is the “embodiment of truth.” They want to get back to the true meaning of myth, not as something false, but as stories that express the identity of a people and their worldview (cf. C.S. Lewis’ The Discarded Image, another must-read, by the way). The gospels, then, are myth. But I digress. I’ve talked about all this before. And Mike Duran also had a lovely post about it as well. Back to a semi-point (does anyone have a pencil sharpener, preferably a metal one attached to a wall that gives your hand blisters when you turn the crank or crank the turn and only occasionally works and makes a horribly annoying sound so that the entire class stares you down as you sharpen your pencil in the middle of a math examine?), with the groundwork laid by Tolkien, Lewis, and Sayers, with the advantage that fantasy has to address real issues in a way that get lost in contemporary, “real” literature, with the resemblance of the gospels to fantasy with the presence of the supernatural invading the natural, why is fantasy in the CBA world off the beaten path?
Truth is, if I could, I would write fantasy. But I can’t. And that’s okay because I love what I write, contemporary women’s fiction with a twist of ginger (a.k.a. sarcasm—don’t ask me why the one represents the other, but it does to me). Sometimes these stories are set in other countries. After all, my master’s emphasized cross-cultural studies and my heart is more often elsewhere other than the States. Sometimes they occur right here in my neighborhood or my grandmother’s kitchen.
All that being said, seriously, can someone explain to me why these two categories are the Genres-That-Must-Not-Be-Named? (That sounded rough, but I am honestly asking the question.)

Going Japanese, I think I'm going Japanese, I really think so

It's possible that there may exist just a tiny bit of sci(hypen)fi out there that I like. But don't tell my husband. (By the way, as a protest to my dying keyboard, I'm spelling the missing keys in parenthesis. Or dropping them completely. I realize this makes the protest nonsensical because my keyboard feels nothing and readers suffer, but I have to register my complaint in some form or fashion.)
Back to sci(hyphen)fi. My husband loves it. He likes Star Trek in all its carnations, Battlestar Gallactica (although I don't think he watches this one as much anymore), the one with McGuiver (now saving the world through hypertechnology rather than gum). And I've found that (oy, can I say it?), sometimes I might possibly tolerate Star Trek: Enterprise. Not the others at all, mind you. But Enterprise. Interesting plots, and I like the characters. I first got into scifi through a show called Eureka on the SciFi channel. I like it because the characters are quirky, and you've got a non(hyphen)genius as the sheriff who is just as confused as I am throughout the show. (By the way, new episodes coming in July.)
A couple of the Misfits are scifi/horror. Now horror would be too much because I suffer from nightmares as it is (last night's thanks to Ang (hypen) she'll know what I'm talking about). And I like what these Misfits write. And I remember liking Brave New World and the like in high school.
Here's what I'm discovering: scifi's are stories. Many components use futuristic or such aspects, but they're still stories. I don't like them if they completely depend on hightech future stuff. But stories are stories, and I always love stories. Heck, one of the novels I want to write someday may even be construed as scifi.
Luke, I am your father. But don't tell anyone.

More Misfit Merits

What a stellar writer's group I've managed to sneak in! Besides the accolades I've mentioned afore, more kudos are due. The finalists list for Genesis is out! And on that list are:
Angie Poole
Chris Mikesell
Jenny Cary
My chest swells with pride. I feel proud that I was able to read these excerpts on the ground floor (and told them first how much I love them). Good job, misfits!
Oh, I don't think I ever posted that, in addition to all this (for only $19.99), Chris also won the Jesus Vs. Cthulhu contest in Coach's Midnight Diner (an offshoot of Relief). Cthulhu is some creature that sci-fi/fantasy people know. I had to be told, and I'm not sure I remember. But I know this: the story is good. Funny. Poignant. All those words you're supposed to use.
And don't forget to watch those bookshelves in 2008 for Mike Snyder's upcoming book! (I'd link to his blog, but let's be honest here. He never posts. Too busy writing actual books that publishers fight over, so I'll save myself the trouble.)