Into the Fire

Passionate thoughts about the world of writing and the Power of God

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    dissonance: 1.A harsh or disagreeable combination of sounds; discord 2.Want of agreement or consistency; disparity; variance

    dissonant: 1.Harsh or inharmonious in sound; discordant 2.Disagreeing or at variance

    (Both definitions exclude the musical components of defining the words.)

    I confess to being the dissonant voice in the audience of Christian fiction. I have been "at variance" with a large portion of the proffered fare. The "clean and chaste" moniker attached to much of what is published in many of the genres can be so sanitized it stretches the word "fiction" to the enth degree – so much so as to be unreal.

    We're all familiar with the accepted demographic of Christian publishing. And although those who constitute this group have so far supported the industry with their dollars, producing a profitable business for publishers, this group is restricted by its preferences for reading material.

    It would seem to me that a business which relies on the fickle pleasures of an audience would be willing to take more chances in expanding that audience rather than catering to a distilled group which will inevitably evolve due to, if nothing else, aging of both authors and readers. There are no guarantees their replacements will step into their discarded shoes. At present, the mainline Christian publishing entities show no inclination or desire to create change, gradual or otherwise. In other words, readers who prefer a stouter and more "real" form of redemptive literature will scout their acquired favorite authors who dare to take chances with their work – and in rare instances are allowed to do so – and support them if they're allowed to remain in Christian publishing and even if they're not.

    Those of us dissonant readers who are also writers of fiction will continue to create the kind of faith-containing stories we desire to read and select the only outlets available to us – if we can find them.

     

    Father, you know the plans you have for us. Help us to walk behind you and allow you to lead us where you want us to go. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.  

     

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    Woe to you, O destroyer,

    you who have not been destroyed!

    Woe to you, O traitor,

    you who have not been betrayed!

    When you stop destroying,

    you will be destroyed;

    when you stop betraying,

    you will be betrayed.

     

    Isaiah 32:1 (NIV)

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    Turnaround

     

    We've all read those stories. The protagonist or another prominent character does a 180 and we react with a "Huh?"

    For no good reason(s) prior to the actions, we read along to find the character acting . . . well, out of character. It might be convenient or the deux ex machina device, but whatever it is, it doesn't work for most serious readers.

    No one likes to be blind-sided while involved in a story. Most of us don't mind being hood-winked by a good mystery, even out-witted by a cunning criminal, but a character suddenly behaving the opposite of who he's been throughout the story? No.

    The author loses credibility when he resorts to convenience, to changing a character without warning.

    Turnarounds are expected in many story types. We hope for them, look for them, wish for them. But when they come too fast, they're a lazy ploy and we feel like we've been cheated. At least I do. 

     

    Father, we all wish to become better at who we are, at what we do, and most of all we want to obey you the instant we know how and where you're directing us. Help us, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

     

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    Fewer writers use paper and pen to construct their novels, but regardless of how each individual approaches the process, writing that novel happens in multiple ways. Some of us ponder a character for a certain length of time before we jot a single word. Others of us are inspired by a scenario and go immediately to the keyboard. Whether it's the lyrics to a song, the eavesdropped conversation, or the picture in a magazine, something motivates the writer to commit words to a page.

    Some stories flow like a canoe floating downstream. The work is minimum and more concentrated on selecting right words because the plot moves without great effort and the characters have minds of their own.

    Other stories drain our energy, strain us to complete a paragraph, nag us when we escape to find some peace, and pull every ounce of creativity out of us like a diseased tooth. Nothing easy or smooth. It takes sheer determination to continue with plenty of breaks away from it. Occasionally these turn out well. If we don't shelve the effort in its initial stages, after all it demands of us, chances are we're in for the long haul and somehow in the end it will have been worth it. Hopefully.

    Writing "it" is rarely easy or without problems – some minor, others major – but when a story compels us to write it, write it we must . . .

     

    Lord, help me to get back to those I must finish. Please, Lord. Apart from you I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

     

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    Mask

     

    Some things cannot be concealed in our writing. One of those things is when it's not who we are, it won't ring true. I'm not saying that a story written to please or satisfy an editor or publisher won't sell. I'm not saying it won't have appeal or that it won't observe the technicalities and techniques of writing novels. What I am saying is if we write a book to please others, including a particular audience, but we produce something that isn't us, we will know it even if no one else catches on.

    Passion can't be borrowed and adorned like a piece of clothing. It can't be conjured like a wicked spell. It doesn't come naturally to all writers or people, but putting words on a page to create a story needs to pull that passion lever and inspire our devotion and excitement to create a story that surpasses who we are in the everyday and soar to who we will always be in the fictional arena of make believe. If a story doesn't invoke that kind of passion in us, why should we expect it to stimulate a reader looking for an authentic experience?

    Granted: even passion does not insure adoration, sales, pubicity, or noticeable increases in attention or recognition, but it insures that we can give readers the result of something that compelled us to write it. We can stand up with it and for it and we can offer disclaimers for those who will not like it but still say with conviction we love this story. Regardless of flaws or perceived flaws, in spite of doing whatever we chose to do, the opposite of what we've been told to do, and suppressing our fears, we can sing to ourselves in our best Frank Sinatra imitation, "I did it my way." Meaning: I listened to the Lord and this is the result.

    I refused the "acceptable norm". I suspended all focus on what is "common in publishing". I ignored all the "typical no-nos". And I can say with quiet confidence: I had to do it this way. Thank you, Lord, for giving me the courage to be who I am.

    When it's not you, you'll know. Even if no one else does.   

     

    Father, we need to be who you designed us to be. We need to do what you've ordained for us to do. We need to see your plans before ours and act accordingly. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

     

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    Those who know me understand my makeup. Passionate: right or wrong. I don't "feel" things lightly. I don't take things lightly. I don't do things lightly. I invest in what impresses my heart and soul and compels my attention.

    So what? you ask. So this isn't always an easy way to live, but it's my way to live. By "not easy" I refer to emotionally which is often ordered by the spiritual. Some things are too heavy to bear – and to bare – and I've learned to adjust the adaptation meter. If I can't handle it, I have to turn away. I have to. Turn. Away.

    If I'm not careful, the sorrow of the soul will send me to my depths as I feel the pain and anguish of so many life circumstances. Of so many kinds. For so many. 

    God built me to be resilient. To bounce back up after being toppled. The ony way I can accomplish this resiliency is to resist the investment in those things that will tear me apart and leave me unassembled. Some things have come close.

    I'm not complaining. This is who I am. The Lord gave me the passion and must always instruct me where to apply it. Without Him it would all be misdirected as it so often was in my life before Him.

    Are you consumed by passion? Do you feel the pain of others? The joy? The sorrow?

    Passionate: right or wrong. That's me. 

     

    Father, thank you for creating us, for giving us our unique but linked signature humanities. We are desperate for you – whether we know it or not. Thank you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.  

     

     

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    http://www.amazon.com/Alcatraz-Lost-Pearl-Tattoos-ebook/dp/B0053RCLIO/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1364738137&sr=1-1&keywords=Alcatraz+The+Lost+Pearl+by+Aleshia+Robinson

    http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/alcatraz-aleshia-robinson/1102840849?ean=2940012890856&itm=1&usri=2940012890856

    Aleshia Robinson begins her e-book series with Alcatraz, The Lost Pearl published by Authenticity Print. Reciting the story from her first person POV, Katherine Boydstein's life transforms from idyllic to traumatic, tragic, lost, and recovered. Deciding the name of Alcatraz fits her changed existence, her life entails all that the name implies.

    The story itself is a bit difficult to review because of spoiler revelations which would be unfair to readers. Alcatraz is a short novel filled with the angst of a 14 year old girl who experiences in a relatively short period of time more than any young person should have to know in a lifetime. About midway through the story she turns 15 and begins a journey that takes her to a Hollywood tattoo parlor where her gifted art skills are eventually put to use, although the transition from a gifted natural young artist to a tattoo artist needs some development.  

    In a story which involves investigating the religions of the world, Alcatraz can't escape the supernatural influences occurring at unlikely stops along the way of her life's journey. And, although the various individuals who fill her head with information about different religions encourage her to experience them for herself, none of them match the undefined sense of being pursued by the unnamed god who continues to ring true for her, the One whose eyes follow her.

    This is where the story bogs down because it morphs into textbook definitons and descriptions of many religions becoming treatises and testimonies from characters practicing their particular faiths, composing the bulk of the latter half of the book. During this time we get glimpses of Alcatraz's intense search for truth while conforming to the meaningless escapes of her acquired friends.  

    There are some minor contradictions missed in the story along with the typical typos found in e-books. The strengths in the book come with Aleshia's ability to capture the nuances of a 14 year old girl who is transformed by trauma and tragedy, adapting as a 15 year old to the hardness of life thrust upon her and to the choices she makes, and with her strong voice, Aleshia Robinson captures the pain and purpose of a young girl whose world is shattered by the uncontrolled menaces of life. Given a hopeful ending, this story concludes with the logical question, "What's next?" 

    Aleshia Robinson intends her novels to minister to those who've experienced the savaging and hurtful episodes in life and recommends the lovegodandtattoos series for ages 18 and up.    

    Find out more about Aleshia Robinson here:

    http://www.lovegodandtattoos.com/

     

    Father, you know Aleshia's heart and soul, and you've given her gifts and talents to express those hard things people can experience in this life. I pray you would continue to refine her skills and give her more stories to tell as you bless her life lived for you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

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    Then he opened their minds so they could understand the Scriptures. He told them, "This is what is written: The Christ will suffer and rise from the dead on the third day, and repentance and forgiveness of sins will be preached in his name to all nations, beginning at Jersusalem. You are witnesses of these things. I am going to send you what my Father has promised, but stay in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high."

    Luke 24:45-49 (NIV)

     

                          
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    May His resurrection be yours today. Thank you, Jesus.

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    Cowering and hiding behind the hysterical yelling crowd of men and fewer women, some sobbing with tear-streaked cheeks and hands held over their chests, I watched in fear and horror as I caught only glimpses of the bloodstained man with swollen features who kept crashing heavily to the ground unable to sustain the weight of that bound tree upon which he was destined to die. The rabid guards grabbed a member of the crowd and shoved him into position to carry the load, dragging the scourged and beaten man to Golgotha where the crucifixion would be done.

    I held back my own tears. A male, young or old, cannot cry under these circumstances. Especially in this murderous group. But I remembered him. He was the one who took my lunch and somehow blessed it to serve the biggest crowd of people I’d ever seen assembled out in the open air. It was some time ago, but he was unmistakable. I knew it was him.

    I was grieved beyond measure, watching the ravings of these people, some who’d been there that very day he’d served us lunch while he continued to speak of God as if he knew Him and then demonstrated the love of this God by healing those who weren’t expected to ever see good health—such as cripples and the very infirm who would never get well—that is, until he put his hands on them and asked who he called his Father to touch them. Then they would straighten up and become whole! And I can testify they stayed that way. The other amazing things he did were unexplainable. My great aunt had brought her young son, a distant cousin of mine, for this man’s touch. We all knew he had a demon. Sometimes he would fly into a rage and inflict pain on himself, crying and screaming foul words.

    Before she could approach the man, Jesus called out to her and my cousin, addressing a spirit by name and silencing it just as it began to howl. He touched my cousin and the transformation was instant. I’d never known the boy to be any other way but afflicted, insane, I thought. I marveled at his new countenance, no longer contorted and raging. He was a fine looking boy after all. He bowed down with his face to the ground and touched the feet of the man who’d freed him somehow, weeping in gratitude. I remember I sneaked away amidst some tall brush and convulsed with tears.

    That was only one experience. I heard of many more. I saw many more. And once, briefly, he saw me in the crowd of listeners. His eyes connected with mine. I don’t know how I knew he was looking at me, but there was no mistaking it. A hint of a smile crossed his lips as he held my gaze. It was indescribable, a penetrating, warming notice which sent my skin into prickly bumps and my heart pulsed frantic with joy. He knew me. I mattered to him.

    Then here he was about to die at the hands of a crazed mob of both religious and heathen men anxious for this cruel death. It made no sense to me! There was nothing I could do to stop this execution. The helplessness was overwhelming. I’d seen the miracles, I’d heard the words he spoke, felt them ignite me with an understanding of truth I’d never known. Maybe this was part of what he spoke about. It was impossible to imagine it, but surely with the power he’d shown, he could’ve stopped this, right? I tried to recall some of those words, to put them together in my mind—see if I could make sense of this. But I could not. I couldn’t think straight. Seeing him so brutalized and knowing the worst was yet to come. What could I do?!

    Then I realized if he had asked his Father to help others, perhaps I could ask this Father to help the son. And, surely, he would. Maybe this was the plan, but I couldn’t fathom it. It was then I caught the brief look before he closed his battered eyes. Recognition! He knew me! The barest hint of a smile—how could it be? I was imagining it, I’m sure. But it felt the same as before and produced the same results. Somehow it gave me hope that this wasn’t the end! No, somehow it had to be a beginning. Foolish as it was, stupid as I felt for thinking it, I couldn’t let go of it. I couldn’t.

    When they raised him up, I had to leave. My stomach ached from holding back my grief. I ran away then and found solitude. I wept as I’d never wept before. And I asked the Father to spare the son. To do some miracle I couldn’t imagine or describe. And then I wept some more.
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          Cross-at-sunrise

    Father, you're here, there, and everywhere. For everyone. Jesus, we're desperate for you. Holy Spirit, draw the lost, the confused to Jesus. We're all desperate for you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

     

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    Your sins. My sins. Penalty: death. Paid in full. On the cross. By Jesus.

    You need Him.

     

    God, we're desperate for you. Jesus, only you can save us. Holy Spirit, thank you for making us new little by little. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.