Into the Fire

Most of you would never have this problem . . . but I did. Until today.

I had an identity crisis. Not for me, but for my work. What exactly is it that I write, for cryin’ out loud? Apparently, my books do not really qualify as novels. Yes, they’re fiction. But under all the qualifiers and all the breakout principles and all the professional assessments and all the endless instructions about what is right and proper and effectual and will sell (!), I had to accept the fact that I must not be writing “novels”. So what is it that I’ve written anyway?

And then I heard the word in my head as I was groping for identification of my work. Somehow “epic” felt incomplete and by original definition refers to narrative poems, even though it’s been attached to large novels such as those of James Michener.

Saga: any long narrative

Narrative: story or description of actual or fictional events

Hallelujah!! I write “sagas”. You have no idea how meaningful that word is to me. It is exactly what I write.

It doesn’t matter that no one on planet earth is supposed to read them anymore. It doesn’t matter that they don’t interest Christian publishers because they don’t pass any of the jumpstart tests. Not to mention how expensive they are to produce. It doesn’t matter! I now have a definition of my work. Something I can recite with confidence—that confidence in simply knowing the correct term for my, uh, books.

How many times have you heard these words: “Write your passion!” or “Write from your heart!” or “Write your story!” Well, I have done that, and when I did, I produced sagas. Not what those instructions intended I’m sure. Editors want to carve them up and rearrange them and eliminate significant portions of them insisting they don’t stick to “THE STORY”. Well, what is the story without the details which make it a story? My stories are sagas! Wow. How freeing that word is. The perfect description.

It’s okay if you roll your eyes and shake your head. I’ve been on this journey for awhile, and I understand if this makes no sense to you. The persistent question is why do you want to write something that nobody wants to publish? That nobody wants to read. It isn’t about what I want to write—it’s about writing what I need to write to tell the story I need to tell. That’s what it’s about.

I’d love to write a mystery, a suspenseful page-turner. But I don’t think I can. I love reading them, and I’ve read a lot of them, and I admire the authors who do it so well—it’s a thrill ride. But I’m not wired to write them. My heart is geared toward relationship, and for those of you who’ve had them (I know: facetious and uncalled for), you know they’re not easy nor are they simple. The complexities of relationship—both between individuals and between people and God—are as diverse as hair styles. Although similar, no two are alike. They’re innately personal, and although often stereotyped in books and films, relationships capture the gamut of emotions which can make them unpredictable and volatile or sensitive and compelling or careless and empty. Rich fodder for very involved . . . uhhh, sagas!

So, this epiphany has done nothing to further my writing career, but it has brought a fresh and real sense of identity, and I needed that. I really did.

Father, thank you for this revelation. Thank you for each character and story to go along with them. Thank you for supplying words and thoughts and long playing tales. Your imagination is endless while mine is so finite. You give incredible pictures and unique creations, so many different styles and formats, phrases and descriptions. You are marvelous, endless, ever creating. You are the Master, the Author, the Creator. You are everything good and perfect. Glory to you! Praise to you! Hallelujah! Thank you, Jesus. Fill me, Holy Spirit, to overflowing.