Life, the Universe, and Everything

Life, the Universe, and Everything, Publishing Miscellanea, Writing Craft

On Writing Irreligious Books

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One of my minor hobbies is ferreting out corners of the internet dedicated to people who want to think about the intersections between Christianity and art, and about how both the consumption and creation of good art are immeasurably beneficial to faith practice. Finding new iterations of this crossroad is always lovely and a little disorienting. Lovely, because these are things I dwell on a lot, and it’s nice to find other people doing the same. Disorienting, because there is a definite tendency in groups like this to focus on a very specific sort of creative as a model for the Good Christian Artist.

By which I mean, the sort of creative who makes explicitly Christian art.

Don’t get me wrong. I love some explicitly Christian art, by which I mean art that proclaims itself to be about Christianity, rather than discussing faith more obliquely (if at all). I have consumed many an inspirational romance in my time, and grew up haunting the church library (but I also haunted the public library and my school library–I am an equal opportunity library haunter). I was raised on CCM (contemporary Christian music, for those who aren’t In The Know) and spent countless hours on the school bus playing Steven Curtis Chapman and Jaci Velasquez on my CD walkman. The Christian Fantasist’s Holy Trinity (CS Lewis, JRR Tolkien, and Madeleine L’Engle) are the bedrock of my existence as a speculative fiction author–though one could make a case that their fiction work is only rendered explicitly Christian in light of their nonfiction writings.

But I also love a lot of art that very definitely does not fit the explicitly Christian framework. My current favorite fantasy series, The Lumatere Chronicles, couldn’t be considered allegorical, even if you squint. Virginia Woolf’s work helped me get through my teens and did more to impact my own literary voice than anything else. When it comes to television, I’m still off-base, as my favorite comfort watch is Star Trek in its many forms. No one would call music by Noah Gundersen or Ingrid Michaelson or Sleeping At Last explicitly Christian, either. And yet I find so much of goodness and truth in all of these things, despite the fact that they contain no stand-in figure for an omnipotent deity. No hands raised in the name of Jesus.

And then there’s me. A person who, as aforementioned, thinks a lot about the interplay of faith and art, and who makes art for a living, but who doesn’t do it in the manner of Good Christian Artists. I don’t write for a primarily Christian audience, or work for a religious imprint–I publish for the secular market. My books aren’t allegories–they don’t even mention any sort of higher power, much of the time. At the end of the day, though, there is this: I am a Christian, making art to the best of my ability. Does the way in which I choose to do so and the audience I choose to render my work accessible to preclude me from being a Good Christian Artist?

I hope not. I’ve never been much good at preaching to the choir. Or preaching to anyone, for that matter.

The conclusion I’ve come to is this: that as a Christian, you can create religious or irreligious art, but both can be done in faith. Religious art is the explicitly Christian kind–the sort that says “Yes, there is an answer to your questions, and this is it.” It’s instructional by nature–a signpost in the wilderness, a map that points to the road out, and tells you what you’ll find at the journey’s end.

Irreligious art, created in faith, doesn’t offer answers so clearly. Irreligious art is about comfort on the road. It’s not a signpost or a framework, but a friend along the way. A companion who says “I know you’re lost, but I think you ought to keep going. I believe there’s something beyond this, and that you haven’t yet fully become what you’re becoming. I trust you’ll get there in the end, though, and I’d like to walk beside you for awhile.” It is, in the literal sense, an act of encouragement. If a piece of irreligious art is truly Christian, the one who’s taken it in should feel a little stronger, a little more hopeful, a little more fit for the journey. They may not have been told what they’re looking for, or why, or how to find it, but they’ll know that the search itself and the act of struggling for transcendence are profoundly meaningful.

I’m not much of a mapmaker, myself. I still feel pretty lost most days, even if I’ve glimpsed the journey’s end. I’m not exactly sure how I’ll get there, and sometimes my faith in the outcome turns to doubt. But I’m a good walker. I can put one foot in front of the other and just keep going, in spite of doubt or darkness or moments of despair. So that’s what I bring to the table, as a Christian who makes art. Not a signpost, but a piece of my own stubborn soul. A companion for the journey–a fellow walker who may not be sure of the road, but who’s headed further up and further in, and wants to pass some time side by side.

Craft Advice, Life, the Universe, and Everything, Publishing Miscellanea, Writing Craft

Four Tips to Break a Reading Slump

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A standard piece of publishing industry advice is that you need to read voraciously in any genres you plan to work in, or already do work in. If I had a dollar for each time I’ve heard this, I wouldn’t be precisely rich, but I’d certainly have enough ready cash to take my family out for a very nice dinner.

This is a maxim that used to make me feel like a failure as both a reader and a writer.

Why? Because for the past eight years, I’ve been in the mother of all reading slumps. It started not when I had kids, but at the time that I started juggling working as an author with having kids. Parenting is a singularly all-consuming endeavor. Writing for publication, likewise. And they both involve a LOT of reading. Reading Goodnight Moon fourteen times in a row (or in our family’s case, an infamous storybook called DW’s Guide to Preschool). Reading your own novels fourteen times in a row, your sense of enthusiasm for them withering into disdain with each successive pass (I always say that the best part of publishing a book is knowing I never have to read it again).

Like I said. Both parenting and publishing require a lot of reading, but not the sort that exactly sparks joy. More the kind that progressively saps your will to live. So for eight years now, I’ve been in a reading slump so vicious that I was lucky to read four or five books in a year, outside of those roles. Mostly I stuck to magazines with glossy pictures of immaculately-maintained English countryside gardens. That was, for a very long time, the only form of print that didn’t make my brain feel like imploding.

And throughout it all, I felt really bad about the fact that I didn’t read more. I wasn’t current on the big, highly-praised break out titles in my category and genre. I wasn’t even current on books my own author friends wrote. At the end of the day, if I had an hour or two to spare, the last thing in the world I wanted was to pick up another book. I gamed instead, or watched Star Trek, or juicy costume dramas.

I’m here to tell you that if this is where you’re at, there is nothing wrong with you. And you don’t need to feel pressured to undertake an activity that feels so off-putting you’d rather sit and stare at a wall. Sometimes, we’re just not in a reading season of life, even as self-proclaimed bookworms. Sometimes, we’re in a season of life where we have to read so much for reasons beyond our own pleasure that choosing books for fun is out of the question. None of the fun is left. It has all been sucked out of the pages.

But it will come back. And there are some gentle ways you can implement to hasten its return. I know, because this year, I set out to break my reading slump. To a degree, I managed. Here are the steps I undertook to do so.

Log Every Book

If you read to your kids, or for professional development, or in some sort of work capacity, log it. Those are valid reads. They don’t suddenly fail to count because you undertook them for a reason outside of personal pleasure. This year, I hit that magical place where my kids are older enough to follow more complex chapter books, and was able to introduce them to a lot of stories I absolutely adored as a kid. Was I technically reading them for myself? No. But I read them, and I logged every last one. My favorite resource for this is Storygraph, though your logging system can be as simple as a pen and post-it note.

Visit Uncharted Territory

If you are required for any reason to read in a particular category or genre, do not, and I repeat, do NOT, try to force yourself to read within it for pleasure as well. My sainted Oma Bergmann was fond of saying that a change is as good as a rest, and as usual, she was right. This year, I managed to maintain interest in books I was reading just for me by staying completely outside of YA as a category, and speculative fiction as a genre. I read a couple of adult novels (women’s fiction). But mostly I read nonfiction. I’ve always loved a well-crafted nonfic, and diving down rabbit holes related to whatever my passion of the moment happens to be is one of my defining traits. Right now, I’m super interested in creating an enriching and rewarding home education experience for my kids, so I read a lot of books on that topic.

Try think outside the box when attempting to find reading material that suits. Foray into nonfiction, poetry, romance, mystery novels–whatever might actually get you excited about a book when that enthusiasm has waned.

Don’t Be Afraid to DNF

For those who aren’t familiar with the term, in book circles, DNF means “Did Not Finish”. I am a huge proponent of DNFing with abandon, and have been since before my current reading slump. Unless you are required to complete a book for some reason, life is just too short to slog through something you don’t enjoy! If the first chapter or first few pages don’t seem like your cup of tea, stop, and move to the next thing. The world is full of books–somewhere out there is one you’ll like better. But pay attention to patterns–if you keep DNFing books within a specific genre or category, maybe it’s just not for you right now. Maybe you should shift gears and implement Tip #2.

Having Fun Isn’t Hard When You’ve Got a Library Card

Acquaint or reacquaint yourself with the local library. If you follow the advice laid in Tip #3, you’ll need to. All that DNFing will get expensive if you buy every last thing you read! The library is a booklover’s buffet–there’s tons to choose from, and you can pick whatever looks good for you. But unlike a buffet, it’s free and you can return whatever you don’t like. If, like me, you’re strapped for time and your attention is fragmented while at the library (I go there with the kids, and library trips are primarily structured around their needs as readers), make liberal use of the holds system. Pick out a variety of titles that you think you might enjoy, reserve them via your library’s online system or over the phone, and then simply pick them up at the front desk at your next visit. This process, more than anything else, has facilitated my return to the domain of the written word over the last year.

Hopefully if you’re in a reading slump of your own, some or all of these tips and tricks will be helpful to you. But the most important thing is to be gentle with yourself–there’s no moral virtue implicit in finishing a certain number of books a year, or even in being a reader at all. While many books contain stories of great value, books are patient–they’ll still be waiting when you’re ready for them.

From Me to You, Life, the Universe, and Everything

Touchstones and Retreat: A 2021 Retrospective and a Look Ahead

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Last year at the end of December, I wrote this post, taking stock of everything that had happened since 2020 began. I had chosen inward as my word of the year for 2020, and oh boy, did I get more of an inward turn than I bargained for! I selected inward out of an instinctive need for more balance in life and more margin, as over the previous years, I’d begun to feel increasingly stretched thin. But instead of the balance I expected to get–the kids starting school fulltime, enabling me to juggle work and life more effectively–we all received something else entirely.

Lockdowns, masks, vaccines, border closures. The chaotic personal and public responses to a pandemic that found us all wrong-footed. It was not what I expected from my year of turning inward. And it was a very, very hard adjustment.

So for this past year, now in its twilight moments, I chose a different sort of word. Touchstone. A reminder to focus on the things that ground me–that serve as a reminder of the beloved prayer all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. And my touchstone year, as hoped, has turned out to be a healing one.

My greatest touchstones of 2021 weren’t the ones I expected. I’d anticipated they’d be personal in nature–moments carved out to just dwell, revisiting books and music and films that I love. I envisioned a touchstone year being mostly about me, holding onto my own comforts for dear life. And in a way, 2021 has been about touchstones I love, but not about grasping them tightly. It’s been about holding them out to others.

2020 felt like the kind of year that had the potential to break me. 2021, in every meaningful way, has been no different. And yet I’ve rested in it. The isolation and seemingly insurmountable schedule of simultaneous work and school has shaken out into something…manageable. Something where I’ve been able to find incandescent moments of joy.

I didn’t expect homeschool itself to become a touchstone, and yet it has. It shapes our days, giving them structure and excitement and zest. We’ve found a rhythm that works, a range of subjects that sing for us. Long ago, homeschool was something Tyler and I considered for the kids, but dismissed as it seemed like it wouldn’t end up being a good fit. Well, it is. In fact, it fits like a glove. Monday has become my favorite day of the week, because we can get back to our schoolroom and our work of learning about the incredible, intriguing, endlessly lovely world we inhabit. Through the rocky start of going from public schoolers on a Friday in the middle of March to homeschoolers the following Monday, we’ve done a long, slow creative work and come up with something beautiful.

We walk (a lot–outside time is essential for cheerful spirits and healthy bodies). We read. We write. We problem solve. We craft and sing and watch and explore, query and measure and investigate and plan. But most of all, we follow our joy. Learning should be an activity founded on enthusiasm and excitement, not a matter of drudgery. And I love the opportunity to ensure that’s the shape it’s taking for my children.

The second greatest touchstone of the year for me has been books. And while I thought it would be primarily books I read on my own, the touchstone stories have primarily been ones the family shared together. This year, we got into a habit of bedtime read alouds. We’ve shared The Wind in the Willows, Charlotte’s Web, Farmer Boy, A Wrinkle in Time, Misty of Chincoteague, all of Narnia and Dinotopia, Jane of Lantern Hill, Stories of the Saints, and The Jesus Storybook Bible. It has been a marvelous journey, sparking imaginations and featuring several movie nights with popcorn to enjoy film adaptations of books we finished.

So. Those are the bright spots, and they have been all the brighter for shining at a time when the global state of being is bleak.

There have been pitfalls and fraught moments as well. Though I’ve managed to strike a tentative balance between homeschool and work, work itself remains an uncertain thing. No career in the arts is a safe bet, and I count myself lucky every time I sell a book. I want to do this forever–it is, without exaggeration, my dream job, and connecting with readers makes every moment of uncertainty worthwhile. But the reality is, that anything beyond the work of crafting an excellent story lies outside my control. I cannot in any meaningful way impact sales numbers or success. All I can control is the book itself–the characters and themes that rest between the pages.

The story and only the story, I’ve realized over the course of the past year, is my publishing touchstone. It is easy for things beyond that–platform-building and trade reviews and royalty reports and Best Of lists–to feel like they matter most. They don’t (or shouldn’t). What matters is me and the words, and that at the end of every story, I get to place a book on the shelf that I’m proud of. That I know got the best of me, right now, as I am.

That is why, for 2022, I’ve chosen the word retreat to define my year. Touchstone brought joy and balance and wonder to the mothering and teaching side of my life. Retreat, I’m hoping, can restore those things to the creative and the author in me. Here is the sense I’m using it in…

Retreat

1. an act of moving back or withdrawing
2. a quiet or secluded place in which one can rest and relax
3. a period of seclusion for the purposes of prayer and meditation

Retreat is both a strategic act and a sanctuary, and I’m hoping to tap into both those facets of it throughout 2022. In honor of my upcoming year of retreat, I’ve already taken a good hard look at how I spend my creative energy and engage in online spaces. I’m pulling back from platforms that I loved but where I felt an obligation to deliver a performance in service of selling a product.

That’s not me. I write books, and you can buy them or not buy them–I prefer you do the first, but I have no interest in spending my time cajoling you into it šŸ˜‰ I have a great deal of interest in growing as a creative and working on my next projects. In becoming a better and more thoughtful crafter of words.

So I’m retreating to spaces that foster deeper and more meaningful modes of communication. This blog, my email newsletter, and a printed, sent-to-your-mailbox newsletter which will start up this spring and which I’m very excited about (sign ups are here). I am hopeful that this intentional withdrawal, coupled with some deep thinking about the whys and whats of my work–why I continue to create stories, and what I want to say with them–will have the same rejuvenating process for my creative existence that focusing on touchstones did for parenting and educating.

But whatever the outcome, I’m looking forward to seeing what the journey brings.

From Me to You, Life, the Universe, and Everything

Deep Magic and a Rosemary Tree

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As a teen, I was a witch.

Or what I understood to be a witch, and what, I think, a lot of people would understand to be one too.

I grew from a line of impeccably faithful evangelical Christians into someone who snuck out not to meet romantic prospects or to go to parties, but to wander the nearest forest with a kerosene lantern and undertake rituals in a clearing among the pines. I did not follow a book, or have any sort of guide. I did not call on dark spirits. All I knew was that the Earth and the things living on it had a voice, and that I wanted to speak with them. That they were a choir, and I wanted to join their music.

In my twenties, I was a Christian. Or what I understood to be a Christian, and what, I think, a lot of people would understand to be one too.

I grew from a teen who haunted forests into a young adult who craved structure and care–to be tenderly shepherded by an all-knowing and loving power. I spent my time not among the trees but in a sanctuary. I followed a book; I had a multitude of guides. All I knew was that the children of God had a voice, and that I wanted to speak with them. That they were a choir, and I wanted to join their music.

The children of God, as it turns out, can bite in ways the woods do not, and I am a cautious person. Once bitten, twice shy, was an adage coined for careful souls like me, and it is difficult to unlearn wariness when every day, the fold is shown to hold new wolves in sheep’s clothing. But I’ve never yet lost my faith in the shepherd I sought out–that, I’ll carry with me till I die.

I am trying to unlearn wariness. Wariness of my scars and wariness I was taught in the sanctuary, of opening myself to the world around me. Of listening to the Earth, and the things living on it.

Which brings me to the rosemary tree.


I brought her home last month, because I knew I needed her. Rosemary is a good and giving plant; a steadfast and nurturing friend. Rosemary, since she was made (“Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb that yields seed, and the fruit tree that yields fruit according to its kind”) has been for clearing the mind and body, for opening the same, and for protection. Mine is proving true to type, good and giving, steadfast and nurturing, a daily reminder that there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. That all nature sings as round us rings the music of the spheres.

There are two things I believe whole-heartedly, down to the core of my being: that the spheres are turned by a good and loving power, and that the universe we inhabit is full of beautiful aliveness. That the rosemary tree and I each give up glory when we fully and joyously live the lives we were made for. When we give, one to another; me tending her, her tending me, each as we are able. I worship, not just because of the rosemary tree, but with her.


I want to speak with the things whose voices I unlearned. I want to join the great music and the great dance. I want, everywhere, to see glory, and to reflect back what I have seen.

For you shall go out with joy, And be led out with peace; The mountains and the hills Shall break forth into singing before you, And all theĀ treesĀ of the field shallĀ clapĀ theirĀ hands.

Isaiah 55:12

Most High, all powerful, good Lord,
Yours are the praises, the glory, the honor, and all blessing.

To You alone, Most High, do they belong,
and no man is worthy to mention Your name.

Be praised, my Lord, through all your creatures,
especially through my lord Brother Sun,
who brings the day; and you give light through him.
And he is beautiful and radiant in all his splendor!
Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars,
in heaven you formed them clear and precious and beautiful.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Wind,
and through the air, cloudy and serene,
and every kind of weather through which
You give sustenance to Your creatures.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water,
which is very useful and humble and precious and chaste.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Fire,
through whom you light the night and he is beautiful
and playful and robust and strong.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Mother Earth,
who sustains us and governs us and who produces
varied fruits with colored flowers and herbs.

Praised be You, my Lord,
through those who give pardon for Your love,
and bear infirmity and tribulation.

Blessed are those who endure in peace
for by You, Most High, they shall be crowned.

Praised be You, my Lord,
through our Sister Bodily Death,
from whom no living man can escape.

Woe to those who die in mortal sin.
Blessed are those who will
find Your most holy will,
for the second death shall do them no harm.

Praise and bless my Lord,
and give Him thanks
and serve Him with great humility.

St. Francis of Assisi

The book I followed has led me to other books. The room full of guides has given way to a history and a world full of them. I am caught halfway between two things–between the witch and the Christian I was. But I am convinced that there is no need to give up magic simply because you call it miracle. That the meaning and potency and importance of things is not diminished simply because the power they hold is granted by something outside themselves; by something greater.

But ask the beasts, and they will teach you; the birds of the heavens, and they will tell you; or the bushes of the earth, and they will teach you; and the fish of the sea will declare to you. Who among all these does not know that the hand of theĀ LordĀ has done this?

Job 12:7-9

I keep the Holy Family on my window sill. I keep them there to remind me of magic: that the divine had a mother, a country girl with nothing to recommend her besides the depth and breadth of her faith. Of her openness to the extraordinary, because when her world was infringed upon by angels, her response was “let it be to me according to your word.“

I keep what I would have once considered witchcraft on my window sill, and what, I think, a lot of people would understand to be witchcraft too. It is a little thing, a bundle of cedar (for protection and cleansing) given to me as a gift, and clippings from the rosemary tree I am working and worshiping with. I draw in breaths of its resinous smell to focus, to help me find the still point, and to remind me of miracles: that I am alive in a world of bright living things. That the universe is full of wonders I will never understand, that I am loved immeasurably, and my sole duty is to love in return.


Whether it is the Holy Family or the rosemary tree that draws my focus and holds it, reminding me to give up glory, it is all worship. It is knowing that the children of God–in all their shapes and guises–have a voice, and I am speaking with them. That they are a choir, and I am adding to their music. And I think, in these moments, that I too, have the Spirit of God.

Amen and amen, and so may it be.

From Me to You, Life, the Universe, and Everything, Poetry

Multitude

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In January, geese fly overhead
Arrowing their way to the lake beyond the wood.
They pass over
And pass over
And again, they pass over
In their ones, their tens, their hundreds,
Until breathless, you realize, their thousands have come and gone.
They appear before dusk, when the clouds are soft and small, the sky pink like spun sugar,
And they sing as they go, that wild, ululating cry.

They know nothing of plagues, or how the world has ground to an unstable halt;
How in that grinding the Earth seems fit to tear itself apart.
They know only that it is warm in January–warm enough to feign a spring,
And perhaps they’re right.
Perhaps it is spring, and we have shifted the seasons as we grind down the Earth.
“Look,” you tell the small souls in your charge. “Look up from your books
And see what they are teaching you.
There is one,
There is ten,
There is a hundred,
And a thousand.”

They look up with wonder in their eyes, and no book could teach this–
How the finite can seem to last forever.