The Vastly Immeasurable Value of Few Words--Inkblots

Oxford Creative Writing Master Class nearly filled for April!

Five Blots this chilly evening (with more snow predicted for the morning), and chatting about final editing, dangers of "find and replace all" (beware, something will always glitch), better to find next and inspect carefully; make the Word program do what you want it to do rather than be the patsy of grit (sand). John is in final editing on Saving Grace, a labor of love for some years, great cover art, the final push to publication, and a real book in hand, more important thematically now than ever. John has said over the years of writing this book and learning his craft in the process, that if one abortion-minded young woman reads it and does not consent to killing her baby in the womb, he will be happy. May it have this effect on many. There's a lesson in this about how a writer measures success. 

I want to briefly distill the important elements of good writing that we explored and honed this evening (below are pasted notes more relevant to the specific writers who penned the words). Cheyenne is entering a UK unpublished novel contest and must write a 350 word synopsis as part of her entry process (you can read her first draft below). In a synopsis, be concise, every word must have work to do. Avoid proliferation of names, especially if there could be any confusion. Keep the main character and the main plot in the forefront. A synopsis is often the debut of a writer's ability to a publisher, contest judges, potential distributor, and reader, hence, one must spend careful time writing, rewriting, revising a good synopsis. Rules that are important in your manuscript are equally, or, if possible, more important in a synopsis: Show don't tell. Avoid vague language. Be concise. Use action verbs. Diagram your entire plot on an anatomy of fiction timeline (status quo, inciting moment, rising action, etc.). Try writing your synopsis in sonnet form, fourteen lines of iambic pentameter. This will do many things for your writing, but it will certainly force you to be brief and to choose words that are loaded with meaning and purpose. 

Next, we discussed when to end a chapter or episode. Hannah wrote a frightening ending to an episode, but added a touch more than was needed. Keep your reader in suspense. End a chapter with the protagonist uncertain, off balance, teetering. Don't stabilize the situation or character at the end of a chapter (there are exception to this). Generally, if a chapter begins in stability and certainty, it must end in uncertainty. If the episode begins with uncertainty, it should end with something else, either more uncertainty, or a interlude of certainty (or perceived certainty).

We also discussed shifting points of view within a chapter, when there is no obvious break. This can throw readers off balance, confuse them, lift them out of verisimilitude; it is so unlike the way we experience reality. If the shift in point of view is necessary (they are not always necessary), then signal your reader that the shift is happening with a chapter break, or an internal division of some kind, extra space, *** in that space (which I used to use but don't really like anymore), or, as Daniel Silva does from time to time, create an internal chapter break with space and a drop-cap first letter to the new point of view. I return to caution with shifting points of view. It is not for the novice and can have perilous results. There is a reason for the rule to stick with one point of view, your protagonist's. Break it to your peril. 

I concluded with a brief word about the non-fiction book I'm beginning. I’m calling it tentatively God Sings, comparing and contrasting how God and his people sing in the Bible (there’s tons of this) with how we are attempting to do so in the glare and glitter of an entertainment ethos. More coming on that front, God willing.

Register today for the final spots available in my writing intensive literary tour of middle England, Oxford Creative Writing Master Class, April 2-9. "The Oxford Creative Writing Master Class was above and beyond my wildest dreams. I learned so much about writing, history, theology. OCWMC has truly changed my life," so said one of my recent OCWMC grads. Check it out today, but do not delay, bondbooks.net or email me at bondbooks.net@gmail.com. 

Desperate for adventure, or anything to distill the monotony of her life, JULIET [why caps?] goes hiking, and finds a sprawling, upside-down tree. [Can you make us hear the chomp?] It swallows, transporting her, and she wakes in a different [sounds too vague, bland] place where she arrives at the town of [I wouldn't use the name in the synopsis] Umi no Machi: a Japanesque town with a medieval [can you use more specific language? what makes her feel like it's medieval?] feel. 

[keep us in Juliet's point of view] There, a woman named DAYNA warns of impending doom [specific kind of doom? Sun will die... invading army...], but the townspeople pay no heed. Raiders attack in the night, but Juliet evades their clutches. She, Dayna, and the UNKNOWN begin a quest to rescue the townspeople.

While on the trail, Juliet slips up [slips up how?], causing Dayna to demands answers concerning Juliet’s past. 

[under cover of darkness] Finally, they catch up to the raiders and rescue the townspeople under the cover of darkness, but Juliet is ambushed and captured. The Unknown [is he called this or his name?] rescues her, and she learns his name—ADNAN. 

During an attempt for Juliet to return home, the three are taken prisoner and led to TRISTAN, who forces them to help in his uprising against KING JAIIN. 

They are separated during an attack. Seeking refuge, Juliet meets HANIEL and MARI, two of Tristan’s trusted rebels. She embroils herself within the uprising, while dealing with conflicting feelings concerning Tristan, the uprising, and all the secrets surrounding her. 

Aware of how she is looked upon by the rebels, Juliet accuses Tristan of using her, and he agrees to let her leave on a foray with Haniel, but the king’s men take her. She escapes and, on foot, makes it back safely on the verge of collapse. 

Juliet urges Mari to go be with her niece [too many people in this sentence] who is expecting a baby, and soon after realizes Tristan cares for her [which her?]. Without Adnan to counsel her, Juliet decides to commit to the uprising, but when Tristan asks to court her for the sake of his people, who see her superstitiously as the Otherworlder, she turns him down. 

Juliet and Haniel leave to warn his and Mari’s village of wandering raiders, but they’re too late; everyone is dead and there are no survivors. Angry at what she has seen, Juliet agrees to fight with Tristan, and agrees to his courtship proposal.

In general, I would strongly suggest that you kill names, tighten prose, ramp up the dilemma that Juliet finds herself in with Tristan making advances. Draw the anatomy of fiction and place each episode of rising action on the diagram. This will clean the story arc in your own mind and help with writing the synopsis. Additionally, you could write the whole plot in iambic pentameter 140 syllables, a sonnet. This forces you to choose your words careful, each having important work to do.

Hannah read next, a romp in the forest. “Mommy, look at the flowers!” Charlotte ran off the trail and darted over to a cluster of small pink flowers surrounding the base of a nearby [what kind of tree?] tree. Amber stopped and slipped her backpack off her shoulders to dig around in it for the book she’d brought to identify plants with.

As she thumbed through the pages, she occasionally glanced up to watch her daughter. Another few pages and she stopped.

“Hey, Charlotte, those are-” Amber froze when she looked up and didn’t see her. She turned around in a circle. “Charlotte?”

No answer, except for the wind rustling the firs and cedars around her. “Charlotte, answer me,” Amber said, moving further up the path. “Charlotte!”

She checked behind a rhododendron shrub. Nothing. Her stomach twisted.

Could the Woodsman have gotten her?

Amber shook her head at the sudden thought. “It’s just a fairytale,” she told herself, her steps and heartbeat quickening. “Charlotte!”

She wasn’t behind the huckleberry bushes either. Amber didn’t bother to pause even for a second to grab the backpack as panic propelled her off the path.

Her prayers became more desperate as time passed quicker than she wanted. When sunset came, there was still no sign of the curly-haired little girl.

Amber tried to force herself to continue despite her legs feeling like jelly and the fact she didn't know where she was.

But one more step and she stumbled onto her hands and knees. Her shoulders heaved as hot tears dripped down her nose onto the dirt.

She remained that way for another few [be specific on time] minutes.

A rustle in the bushes startled her and she sat up, wiping at her red-rimmed eyes as a sliver of hope ignited. “Charlotte?”

A doe and her fawn appeared, and her shoulders slumped. The animals seemed to regard her for a moment, then turned and walked away.

Amber’s throat tightened, her eyes refilling with tears. A sudden squeal startled her and her head turned.

“Charlotte?”

Another squeal. Amber scrambled to her feet and rushed forward in the direction she thought it had come from. She batted at branches which tugged at her clothes and hopped over moss-covered logs. Her ears picked up more squeals. If they came from Charlotte, it sounded like she was happy.

           The trees became sparse, eventually ending at the edge of a small [small is not a helpful adjective here] slope leading down to a meadow full of [specific] wildflowers.

Among them was Charlotte, running to and fro, picking as many as she could. Amber nearly collapsed from relief. She opened her mouth to call, but was stopped short not just by the sight of her daughter running up to a newfound companion, but that person’s appearance as well.

Her eyes darted from the gas mask to the trench coat to the work boots and back to the mask.

Charlotte had found the Woodsman...or had the Woodsman found her? [leave off this final line and end the chapter]

Dave reads next. Rewriting older manuscript.

Steven laughed out loud inside his car as he watched [could you name him so the pov shift is more natural down the page?] his prey walk into the jewelry store. This is going to be more fun than I thought. I get rid of this big ugly guy, then take his girlfriend as the spoils. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He hated humidity, and here he was stuck in a small car in Knoxville. Even in the middle of October, the humidity was still bad until late afternoon. He looked back at the store, the big guy was still in there standing at the counter yakking with the clerk. Come on, how long does it take to pick out a stupid ring? He turned the key in the ignition and turned the air conditioning on full blast. Steven re-checked his guns. He wanted to be sure there was plenty of tranquilizer darts for the girl. From what he’d been told, she was a feisty one and he didn’t want to deal with fighting her after possibly having to fight the big guy. A slight glint caught his eye. The first target was on the move. He came walking out of the store with a smile on his face and a small bag in his hand. Ugh. This guy’s got it real bad. Steven slipped the car into gear and followed him up S. Central street. He let out a groan when his target turned into a diner just a couple blocks later. He pulled the car over and left the engine running. Five minutes went by and Steven started banging his head on the steering wheel. He picked up his guns for the third time and started to get out when they both came bouncing out the door. Finally! He watched with baited breath as they walked down to a Suburban parked on the street. He smiled as he saw them climb in and pull into the light Thursday afternoon traffic. With shaking hands, he pulled out a few car lengths behind them. [these shifts in pov can be moments where readers get confused, and confused readers usually stop reading] Bruce swerved a little as he pulled into traffic, making Alexis laugh. “What’s up? Your arm still not healed up all the way?” “Nah, it’s fine, my hand just slipped a little.” He smiled sheepishly as he rubbed his left arm. It was still a little weak after being in a cast for six weeks.

...“Alrighty, I won’t be long.[this should be a coma]” S[this should be lower case s] he said as she walked away. Attributions are not capitalized. ...“Hmmm. Must have been a S[no cap]quirrel or something[coma and lower case s].” Said Bruce.

...Just a few minutes [Moments later--be concise] later, they were all [a]lone in their favorite spot, right next to the lake. The sun broke through the morning overcast and warmed them up a little as they set up their [little twice in same sentence--find a better adjective] little picnic.

I felt like the proposal scene was stalling a bit, then the brother assassin appeared. John suggested changing the girl's name so it wouldn't make readers think of chatting with cutting edge technology. Gunfire would have been heard by other hikers on the trail. Silencers maybe?

Snow and the Best Laid Schemes of Mice and Men

I took this after sitting on the tarmac for two hours

Most of us keep our composure just fine--as long as things are going just fine. We plan things out and have this odd expectation that the million-and-one variables (and people) out there will simply comply, fall in line with out plans, do as we have ordained. You know, "My will, not thine, O Lord, however foolish it be." We do this--we?--I do this almost everyday. Even when my declared theology shouts otherwise in my ear.

I was musing on this from sunny Central Valley Fresno California this past weekend where I was keynote at the Christian Writers Seminar hosted by Fresno Pacific University. Between my two plenary addresses, a TV interview on the importance of teaching history to our children, two Sunday morning messages on 7 Biblical Reasons Every Christian Ought to be a History Geek, and an evening exhortation on Psalm 46--I kept watching the weather in Snowmageddon Puget Sound. My wife was reporting to me about the 18" of snow that had dumped on our farm, how pretty it looked, but how much more work it was to keep all the animals fed, watered, and warm. She had not even tried to drive down our steep driveway onto the icy roads. Schools were all closed, as were many roads. Trees snapped under the weight of the snow and ice. Power lines were down throughout the region. Law enforcement urged people to stay home, do not drive unless it is an emergency.

As I boarded the Alaska flight (bumped up to first class), the pilot told us that SeaTac Airport was covered in compact snow and ice and more snow was falling. The flight attendant mouthed to us to be prepared to land in Portland since she thought there was no way he would try to land in the middle of a winter storm. Who would do that? He did, expertly, one of the smoothest landings ever. Then we sat on the plane for two hours, just sat, waiting for a gate to open. And sat some more. As it would turn out, that was the simplest part of the next twenty hours for me.

Ordinarily the shuttle from the park and ride near our little farm to the airport took one hour. This was not ordinarily. The shuttle never showed up. So I took public transport to Tacoma, but many routes were closed, so had to detour to get the connection that would link to bus 100, the Narrows Bridge, and homeward. Bus 100 never showed up. I was dressed for seventy degree CA weather. It was dark and cold. My finger was shaking so much I was having trouble texting. And my phone had 6% battery. Then 5%. Then 4%. There were no Lyft cabs moving anywhere. Finally spent the night on my son and daughter-in-laws couch; I'm several inches longer than that couch.

In the morning, my daughter-in-law dropped me at the bus 100 stop again. I waited, in the cold, chatting with an older woman who was waiting in the cold for the same bus across the Narrows to the Peninsula and home. It never came, again. I checked my Lyft app. There were only three brave drivers crawling the city streets. But I had a 50% discount special on weekday Lyft rides. So off we went.

Meanwhile, my adult son was plowing our steep downhill driveway so he could take my tractor down the road and plow his steep uphill driveway and get his truck out and pick me up. The valve stem on one of the tractor tires sheered off. Another part broke in the cold. I'm drinking London Fog Lattes at Cutter's Point Coffee in Gig Harbor, wondering if I was ever going to get home. My wife reported that in all the flurry to dig out of the snow, a gate was left open and the cows were out belly deep romping in the white stuff, two dogs nipping at their heels. Somehow along the way I had forgotten to eat anything.

Robbie Burns was right. The best laid schemes of mice and men often do go awry. The writer of Proverbs put it better still: "The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps" (16:9). Looking back, there were so many components of this adventure over which I had no control. The plane, the weather, the shuttle, the transit cancellations. I was powerless to change any of these things. But my God is sovereign and all powerful, and he presided over all, the minutest detail--sparrows falling, hair falling from ones head--precise orchestration of all things for his ultimate glory and his expansive kindness to his children. What a marvel.

After confessing my sins of frustration, I now meditate with Horatius Bonar on the mysterious and wonderful ways of our Sovereign Lord.

1. Thy way, not mine, O Lord,
   However dark (or cold, or snowy, or disrupted) it be;
   Lead me by Thine own hand,
   Choose out the path for me.
2. Smooth let it be or rough,
   It will be still the best;
   Winding or straight, it leads
   Right onward to Thy rest.
3. I dare not choose my lot;
   I would not, if I might;
   Choose Thou for me, my God,
   So shall I walk aright.
4. Take Thou my cup, and it
   With joy or sorrow fill,
   As best to Thee may seem;
   Choose Thou my good and ill.
5. Choose Thou for me my friends,
   My sickness or my health;
   Choose Thou my cares for me,
   My poverty or wealth.
6. The kingdom that I seek
   Is Thine: so let the way
   That leads to it be Thine,
   Else I must surely stray.
7. Not mine, not mine the choice
   In things or great or small;
   Be Thou my guide, my strength
   My wisdom, and my all.
8. (Horatius Bonar, 1857)

What We Write Matters Because Life Matters--Inkblots

Though we are few, a handful of 'Blots have gathered in Brookside cottage (one of our tiny house retreats) as Gillian has become our family librarian and is entirely reorganizing the Scriptorium, dusting all the shelves, establishing categories, bustling about making it bookish and charming.

Rachel will lead us off with her 1950s yarn. I love your intricate details of picking the lock. It can be challenging to figure out the best way to convey non-verbal sounds, hiccups and the like. How did you spell it? You do a good job of filling in details of posture and what the person is doing in the midst of dialogue. I wonder if this scene needs to be more tense, or are you aiming at humor rather than the shock of discovery as she rummages through his papers? She does show emotion afterward, but I felt like it was missing earlier when she was being discovered. Margaret and Daisy are the same person which is a bit confusing. How is Daisy going to be pressured to change? Rachel's protagonist is trying to figure our her place, find her wings, discover who she is. I suggested creating longing for everything to be right, for the problem to be solved (without solving it entirety). Give the reader hope that things do not have to be this way, broken, dysfunctional, without resolution.

Alisa reads the opening pages of The Emblem (again, which Alisa pushed back on reading to us). Alisa wrote the first draft in 2010. This is a book set in the 1930s exploring the tensions between white minors in Washington State and black minority laborers. You write narrative so well, but I would like to hear more dialogue in the opening chapter. I love the scene with his little girl. Ordering up a whiskey. I wonder if there is a more colloquial way of saying this in the 1930s. I wonder if you could start with this dialogue and weave in the back story narrative in between the talk. Readers love listening in to others talking, like eavesdropping. There's a sort of conspiratorial emotion for the reader when we do this, in my opinion. Connections of the soul. Compelling love story. She wants her main character(s) to be more intriguing. I'm reading the entire manuscript in the next days.

John doesn't want to read. He is smarting after another critique. We understand at 'Blots. You're in good company. Read! He gave us permission to interrupt him when we don't like something. I think you need to abbreviate the dialogue. "I can't!" rather than, "I just don't think I can do this." Suddenly she threw up. Is there another way to convey this? Alisa has given birth, and interjects. They would clean her up right away, not leaving her in her vomit. Rachel asked what John is trying to say with the birthing scene? He wants it to be realistic. The story is all about a baby that was almost aborted. He is trying to show the difficulty. Rachel feels like there needs to be a reprieve after the anguish. Alisa feels like it needs to be tightened, condensed, and that's what Mother Bond wanted too, tighten the scene, make it move more quickly. What I am hearing is, less is more. Don't overwrite the birthing scene. We all seemed to agree that the baby's name Grace should not be named after the mom's name. We want to hear Grace for the first time in the final line of the book. We talked about abortion, about the NY Governor Cuomo Herod law, about the rhetoric of toxic-masculinity, identity politics and whether it will produce men who will give their lives for others, or will it backfire and produce more selfishness and boorish pride as men simmer under the dictates of the left to act more like women. 

Some writers don't take Christmas off

Four Blots on a blustery power-outage winter evening, the moon now shining brightly, clouds scudding furiously across its path, John begins, his designated reader Rachel leading off.

California writers, join me at the Christian Writers Seminar

John's book set in Russia, Violetta, is the result of his arduous research interviewing Russian immigrants who worked at the hospital John retired from three years ago (and came to work for me on the farm, what a blessing!). He fills in about the fascinating stories that he learned, sort of Solzhenitsyn-esque, gathering the stories of all Russians whose families lived the oppressions of the past, only John did not have to "write" them down using improvised prayer beads made from pieces of bread and mud. Rachel tells us about the museums and concerts she just visited in Berlin, including the new spy museum. Got to see that one. She took her four year old to see Rembrandt, and to Mozart's Requiem, Mendelssohn's Elijah, she wept through them all. WE talked briefly about historical research for writing, one of my topics at Fresno Pacific University February 9, 2019 at the Christian Writers Seminar.

Rachel reads on. Lenin, Bolshevik Revolution, 1917 era. How do you explain foreign language expressions in your writing? Footnotes are a bad idea in fiction, in my opinion. It is best to weave in understanding incrementally, but avoid doing so by explanatory narrative: This means in French... or which means... These are not the ways to weave in meaning and understanding naturally. Soot had darkened...  Instead of the beams were darkened by the soot, which is passive voice description, slows the pace, makes writing less vigorous. When you write about inanimate things, keep the doer of the action as the subject of your description--the soot was the cause of the blackness. I wonder if Collette in third person is a bit pedantic sounding. Can you give her more life, more authenticity?

Sydney up next (
her text with my capital letter comments): The Archbishop stood before us. Here was the man I was commanded by the king to protect. Here was the man who, in his turn, had protected the one upon whom Haldor wished death, who had protected the offspring of that brutish murderer, who had protected with all the powers of his life the person who had sucked the last of his dying mother’s. Here was the man who had raised as a father one who should never have been a son; who had sanctioned the final, destructive piece on my existence; who ​knew, who knew all and kept it hidden, hidden — oh the irony — to protect he whom had destroyed from the bare knowledge that he had destroyed it. Here was the man of God who said: At last, by my choice, a man shall not reap what he has sown.  This man was smiling. He had a tall, slender figure, bent forward beneath a white robe. His brow was coarse and grey, passing in thin lines above his eyes, which beamed from the old, pale face as paint  come alive upon dry parchment. His eyes were young. They seemed to glisten, and in any other person the glistening would have seemed as tears, but in this man, that thought would have been mistaken. It was joy, somehow, joy that glistened. Vibrancy. Life. One was not used to seeing such life in eyes. I CAN SEE AND FELL THIS From the draping sleeve of his robe a hand was extended in greeting, as thin and fragile as a bird’s claw.  “Father Alphege, you’re alive,” Finn said, grasping the hand in his own dirt-besmeared one, and pressing it with such a strange mixture of vibrant admiration and timid self-restraint, that I would perhaps have found it amusing under other circumstances. As it was, I turned my full attention upon the fragile man, who seemed larger within than without, and said nothing. GOOD DESCRIPTION OF SUBTLE CHARACTERISTICS  The thin lips had passed again into a smile. “Very much so, Finn.” The Archbishop glanced over the two of us, his eyes were laughing in a way, like Finn’s but the laughter was different — soft, knowing, as if the knowing too much had made them gentle.  “Are you well? Is this man wounded?” he asked, looking at me.  “Very much so.” The Archbishop opened the door wider, and I believed he would have done the same before a wounded Dane, if one had so appeared at his door.  “You are of course welcome here.” He gestured us within, and his keen, blue eyes peered out into the fog across the forest in the direction of the city. “God help them,” he said as he shut the door, and something in his tone made me uncertain if he spoke of those in the city who were helpless victims, or those Danes who might even now be killing them. Perhaps he spoke of both, and neither one over the other. I could not tell. It aggravated me that I could not tell. GOOD INTENTIONAL NUANCE OF UNDERSTANDING He led us into a tall room, lined with the same rough-hewn timbers I had seen scarring the face of the outside. There was little light, but a fire burned in the grate over which a small pot was simmering, though with what it was filled I could not see. A stack of bowls sat at the hearth, and directly across the room was a small, wooden table, on top of which lay a steaming bowl of water and three rolls of bandages.  “Gustav put these out PLACE ATTRIBUTION HERE in case there should be need of them while he was gone,” the Archbishop said. The unassuming manner in which he said the name struck me with a cold wash of anger. Did one whisper the word ​asp after it struck you? Did the Archbishop act to all the world as he acted before us now — as if nothing belonged more to this life than the one person I knew never should have been born. I closed my eyes and felt the blood ooze once more beneath the cracking scab on my forehead, as my brows furrowed, my head pounding in the darkness behind my lids.  “May I see your injuries?” THIS SHOULD BE A CAPITAL T, AS IT IS NOT TECHNICALLY AN ATTRIBUTION the Archbishop’s voice lifted beside me. I opened my eyes. He was standing quite near, his eyes fixed with a quiet expression upon my face. Finn had seated himself upon a chair, watching.  “No,” the word fell flat into the air, as if my tongue had dropped it. I heard the silence, and Finn shifted in his chair.  “They may require attention.”  “I am only hungry,” I said, gripping the back of the empty chair at my side. I half-turned and felt Finn’s eyes boring into the side of my head as I fell into the seat. “I would be grateful for a bowl of what is over that fire,” I added, and would not meet Finn’s eyes.  I heard the Archbishop step away, the crack of the pot as the lid lifted and the smell of beef wafted with AMIDST, MAYBE the smoke and wet steam into the room.  “Are you hungry, Finn?” the Archbishop asked, and I heard the clicking of the bowls as he lifted them from the stack near the hearth.
“Am I ever not?” There was tension beneath the grin of Finn’s voice.  The Archbishop straightened and turned, his footsteps sounded again across the floor. I I felt Finn’s gaze turn and I looked up. He was watching the bowls approaching in the grasp of the frail fingers, as the steam rose from them and the faint aroma gave all its promises of comfort and warmth. The grin was still playing about his lips, more genuine now, and a glint of eagerness shown in his eyes.  “Are you quite well, Father Alphege?” Finn asked, taking the bowl and dipping his ladle with relish. The Archbishop placed the other in front of me. “No harm has befallen you or the LOWER CASE WHEN YOU USE AN ARTICLE Cathedral it seems, and praise Heaven for that!” “No harm whatever, Finn. We are all quite well.” The Archbishop seated himself beside me, drawing in his chair before his own bowl of stew. He paused, lifted his eyes to Heaven, and the made the sign of the Cross. I felt my body stiffen upon the chair. I refused to look at him. “And Gustav?” Finn asked. I could feel his gaze. “Occupies the library like his lifeblood is the ink from the manuscripts,” the Archbishop smiled. “He has always been a clever lad, but this last year he has shown great progress in his work, and has been able to THIS IS A SPLIT INFINITIVE VERB, TO SHOULD GO WITH HELP, TO HELP most effectively help me in my own.” “The last time I was here, he spoke in admiration of the king’s army,” Finn said. “Does he ever think of joining us, of fighting against the Danes?” Everything in my body throbbed and I felt my muscles tighten, my fingers curl and grip into the palms of my hands, my jaw clench beneath the dried blood upon my face. I could feel Finn watching me still.  “No,” the Archbishop said. “He does not. He is determined to serve in a different manner.” “I trust him to do that,” Finn breathed. “I would trust him — with my life —” Something in his tone forced me to look up. Our eyes met across the table.  “Where is he now?” Finn asked.  “He and Raul have gone into the city. The areas where the fighting has deserted the wounded still lie. Those who are well enough, they will bring here, but the rest they will tend to as best they can in the street, and pray God’s mercy upon them.”  “I should be with them,” Finn said, and he began to rise to his feet. He stopped suddenly, ran a hand through his hair and glanced at me. “Not forsake one friend for the sake of the other,” he mumbled, then collapsed upon the chair and pulled it up to the table, his brows knitting across his face.  “When you go, I am going with you,” I said. Finn looked at me, aghast.  “By no means beneath heaven,” he said, “will that be the case. You’re being too wounded to be out there is precisely the reason we are stuck within these walls this very moment.” “I need to see him, Finn.”  “Gustav?” “Yes.” “Do you?” There was a moment of silence, during which I could feel his breath falling heavy between us. The Archbishop leaned forward and turned to me, his eyes full of a gentle command. “Do you know my son?”  The quiet words slammed into my skull with a violence to which the gentle tone seemed only to add. As frail fingers behind a sharpened knife, as the smile lingers below the threat, as the laugh is the voice of a mockery, GOOD USE OF COMPOUND SIMILES so the words fell upon my ears, permeated my skull, whirled with the memories within, the flashes from the night, the desecrated life, the anguish which had fallen because this parasite upon the universe — he whom the Archbishop called son — had a father who could not even be boasted of by a demon in Hell. I did not remember rising to his feet, yet here I was, swaying upon the floor, my feet gnawing to keep their hold in the earth but all the world seemed to toss around me, and I did not even know to care.  “I think so,” Finn was saying, rising to his feet as well, uncertain, one hand still upon the table where he was gripping his ladle, the scars on his knuckles shining white beneath the dirt and blood. “They met...years ago…” the words trailed off.

Rachel asked what the big picture of this story is. Haldor discovers that his brother is alive, Gustav and Dane are captured, Raul. Two parallel yarns, interwoven. Anglo-Saxon England setting. Resolution between brothers at odds.

Carol Writing Contest Results!

Announcing Writing Contest Winners!

Thank you to those who took time and creative energy to enter the Longfellow Carol Writing Contest. In the midst of the bustle of Christmas, we had a number of fine entries (and I had difficult decisions to make judging those entries).

Poets who entered considered Longfellow's poem written in 1863, "I heard the bells on Christmas Day." Does it qualify as a Christmas carol? Hate is still tragically strong and does indeed mock the song of peace on earth good-will to men, as we have so painfully been reminded of late. But is it really a Christmas--Christ worship--carol? Determined not to be a cynic, though the cannons of the Civil War were nearly drowning out the chimes of the Christmas bells, Longfellow takes a significant leap between the last two stanzas of his carol, and concludes, “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; The wrong shall fail, the right prevail ...”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

But how did he get to that conclusion? I think a genuine Christmas Carol, a hymn in praise of Jesus' coming into the world as a baby for the sole purpose, "...to save his people from their sins," fills in the gap between Longfellow's deep despair expressed in the second-to-last stanza of his poem, and his final inexplicable confidence that the right will somehow prevail over the wrong expressed in the last stanza. But what or rather Who bridges the gap between the despair and the hope? The contestants were urged to write a stanza that pointed to the gospel of grace alone in Christ Jesus alone, the subject of a true Christmas carol. Drum roll, please:

First Prize Winner!

Our path was doomed in rebel war

Against a God we should adore.

The Christ-child came

And loud proclaimed

His peace on earth, good-will to men!

Congratulations, Aaron Gruben (he received a free signed copy of my new release, The Resistance)!

Second Prize Winner!
For Christ—He in the manger lay,
And died to take death's sting away, 
And in the grave, 
Death lost its sway;
True peace on earth, good-will to men.
Congratulations, Sydney Simao (she will receive a new book at Inkblots next week)!

Third Prize Winner!

Yet from the dust a fair rose bloomed,

            The bells tolled ransom for the doomed;

            To lead men home

            The Christ has come

            With peace on earth, goodwill to men.

 Congratulations, Christianna Hellwig (received a free Rise & Worship cd)!

Grand Prize Winner!

True light is come! the Light and Life,

The Victor over sin and strife.

The right has won,

Now reigns the Son

With peace on earth, good will to men.

Congratulations, Paige Lamar (she won a 50% discount on April's Oxford Creative Writing Master Class--see you in Oxford)!

Join me April 2-9, 2019 for the Oxford Creative Writing Master Class (only a few spots available). "I loved every minute of it! I learned more about writing and history than I ever could have expected. Mr. Bond gave me literary tools which I am already using and will continue to use. It was a wonderful tour, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" (Cheyenne). Learn more at bondbooks.net and Listen to my podcast The Scriptorium at bondbooks.net/the-scriptorium-podcast

Carol Writing and the delusional imagination

There's so many wonderful Christmas carols, only a poetic nutcase would attempt to write a new one. Okay, that would be me. New Reformation Hymns, "What wonder filled the starry night," is intended to be  just that, a Christmas carol. Insanity! you say. Only a moron would attempt to write a Christmas carol, much less post it and put on display the extent of his carol-crafting delusion. Okay, you're probably right.  But it's too late. I've already posted it. Greg Wilbur (and others) has already written and recorded music for it. "The deed is done and cannot be undone" (something is clearly amiss when one finds oneself quoting Lady Macbeth).

In part because of such fears, early scribblings for this hymn/carol sat dormant for several years; hymn writing can sometimes be like that for me, an initial burst of ideas, then nothing, just an imaginative black hole. As Christmas approached in 2010, something changed. Sitting in front of the fire in our living room one evening, I pulled out the initial notes again. Before bedtime I managed to sift through all the scribbles, idea banks and word banks, and set down the lines below pretty much as you see them here.

Overcoming my trepidation at writing my first hymn (it was difficult enough, The Lord Great Sovereign, 2001), but writing a Christmas carol? Only a moron would attempt it. The sacred charm of the existing carol canon guarantees failure. I must be certifiable! Carols are pregnant with emotive atmosphere, celebratory associations, roasting chestnuts (a curious metaphor considering Americans do not roast and eat chestnuts at Christmas or any other time, to my knowledge), open fires, Jack Frost nipping at our noses, Good King Wenceslas going out on the feast of Stephen, snow lying all about, and every cozy winter association imaginable and unimaginable. Writing a Christmas carol is like inviting the world to come watch you fly off the Eiffel Tower, equipped with nothing more than chicken-feather wings and delusional bravado (what were they talking about in physics class?). Bring your smart phones. 

Yet, here I go, posting a Christmas carol, one I wrote. Maybe I should be feeling like one of those chestnuts. I'd like to claim to be impervious to critics (a recent post prompted one fellow to fume and fulminate at me), but it would be a lie. Nevertheless, write anything and there will be someone there to gnash his teeth and tell the world what an unworthy vessel you are. For the record, I am daily aware of my vast limitations (could fill a book with them). But in all seriousness, I don't write books because I think I'm the best writer in the world, any more than I love my wife because I think I am the best husband in the world, any more than I parent my kids because I think I am the best parent in the world, any more than I worship Christ because I think I am the best worshiper in the world. Neither do I write hymns because I think I am the best hymn writer in the world--and certainly not because I think I'm the best writer of a carol.

So endearing are carols to Christian hymnody that experts tell us the best-loved hymn of all time is actually a carol, Charles Wesley's Hark, the Herald Angels Sing). Only a certifiable
moron would proceed. Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas, with the same fear and trembling I had when I originally set my imagination to work on this carol, and now with the same I launch it out to you.

What wonder filled the starry night
          When Jesus came with heralds bright!
I marvel at His lowly birth,    
          That God for sinners stooped to earth.
       
His splendor laid aside for me,
          While angels hailed His Deity,
The shepherds on their knees in fright
          Fell down in wonder at the sight.

The child who is the Way, the Truth,
          Who pleased His Father in His youth,
Through all His days the Law obeyed,
          Yet for its curse His life He paid.         
         
What drops of grief fell on the site
          Where Jesus wrestled through the night,
Then for transgressions not His own,
          He bore my cross and guilt alone.

What glorious Life arose that day
          When Jesus took death’s sting away!
His children raised to life and light,
          To serve Him by His grace and might.

One day the angel hosts will sing,  
          “Triumphant Jesus, King of kings!” 
Eternal praise we’ll shout to Him
          When Christ in splendor comes again!

Being a Writer--Is It Worth It? Inkblots

"[Writing] holds all the hope there is." EB White

Stormy Pacific Northwest day, heavy rain, dark and gray, power outages in region, brown-outs here--a good day to hunker down, drink tea, and write. Six Blots braving the dark and bluster for two hours of vigorous literary time together. It was well worth it.

Hear what the collaborator/refiner of Elements of Style wrote about being a writer: "I’m glad to report that even now, at this late day, a blank sheet of paper holds the greatest excitement there is for me—more promising than a silver cloud, prettier than a little red wagon. It holds all the hope there is, all fears. I can remember, really quite distinctly, looking a sheet of paper square in the eyes when I was seven or eight years old and thinking, ‘This is where I belong, this is it.'" E. B. White

Does your writing journey concur with White's? This is not my testimony. My first book was published when I was forty. Sydney concurred with E. B. White. None of us were surprised at that bit of intelligence. But what about his words, writing "holds all the hope there is"? If not hyperbole, it is very sad, indeed, when my hope is in any work I do with my own hands, mind, imagination. I do agree about the fear part, though. If you write, you will fail, and there will be a lineup of critics to inform you and the rest of the world about your failure, real or perceived. Is it worth it?

Rachel Ng leads off with her 1941 yarn, just as the US entered WWII. She feels like she's made major progress. How? By consistency. Getting up and going to work, writing work. Daisy Bishop... saucy, pendulum rhythm. I like it. I agree, your dialogue is lively, realistic. And you are still giving it layers with description of people and inner worries. I wonder how much is gained by nearly identical uniforms; just identical uniforms, but even that is redundant, uniforms being already identical wear. What are you actually wanting to feature in this description? I feel like the closer connection with Walter the lieutenant and Daisy your female protagonist happened too suddenly. Maybe I missed something. Is quality control too modern a phrase for the historical period? We discussed for some time the age of Daisy for 1941. Seventeen would not have been too young for marriage. I suggested that Rachel make her 15. Rachel H suggested 16 to avoid the modern creep factor, which would not have been there in those days. My mother in law was married when she was 16, 60 years ago.

Sydney up next. Picked up after Fynn was dragged out of the prison. Far better fate than God, or god is it? I want you to come back to this in other places and have this be a doctrine that gets revised as the story unfolds. Almost, pain in the word almost. I think the first person is working so well for Sydney in this sobering tale. I want to suggest that you break up lengthier passages of dialogue with more natural interjections, as in human conversation, where people interject, if not interrupt. The best dialogue is like a relay race, the baton passing smoothly, logically, fluidly from one speaker to the other. Dialogue is the place for sentence fragments, and filling in the blank from one speaker to the next. I love Sydney's as ifs. Especially with the descriptions of the crosses in the cemetery. And the door opened. Intrigue in every dependent clause. Rhythm and cadence in the prose, Rachel H commented, poetic feeling prose. Cheyenne liked the transition from the last chapter, grim array of crosses and death, to this chapter. Sydney was able to outline forward, plot the future of the story. 

Cheyenne wrote this yesterday and feels like this passage needs help. Brave soul. Chapter 13 of book 2. She revised this based on input that it leapt too much, not enough character development and setting development. Historical fantasy, medieval Japan-esque. Other worlder, more goes on than you know. Quiet stillness of the air. Is this a redundancy? What feature of the atmosphere are you wanting to share with your reader here? Cheyenne has her protagonist ask internal questions, inner conflict. This only works in first person point of view, one of the strengths of this pov. Faces, faces. I feel like this might be too internal. John liked the part about the dreams. Sydney had read this before the dream was included. Alisa thought the pace was good, but she had a couple of ideas. Oblivion, could she actually answer some of her questions. Should she remember more of the cause of the dream? Cheyenne wrote about her protagonist's remembering of the dream, and Sydney thought that she should have more vivid recollections of the specific details. The questions she is asking will be answered as the plot unfolds. Rachel H suggested that there be eyes or a ring or something that symbolizes the dream or the conflict of the dream. 

Alisa finishes us up for this evening, reading from The Emblem, forthcoming in 2019. Nobody I know is as thorough and persistent as Alisa. she has the drive and work ethic of a master storyteller. It shows in her work. Chapter 3, Callie ran all the way home, working for the Burke family. Could she remember her father's injury more graphically, or more immediately, as in how he walks now, or how he winces with the weather changes? Something that makes her sadness about her father's injury have a more tangible feel for the reader. I thought you handled Sam's answer so well. And her longing for her father to have more of Sam's attitude about his injury and work in the mines as the years pass and aging makes the hard labor harder. Mt Pisgah Presbyterian, is this a real church in Roslyn? FDR's fireside chats--could you have a brief excerpt he was hearing, crackling from the radio on the sideboard, maybe? This is powerful, seeing a man declining in health and age, the verve dwindling. Five perspectives. Press on. Looking forward to reading the whole book.

There are going to be a number of remarkable writers, there are already, coming from this fine group of people sitting around the Scriptorium this evening. 

This just received from a post-publication reviewer of my newest release: "The Resistance is quite a work. I read it in one sitting--all the way through. You have an extraordinary ability to capture the nature of minds at war. All the ambiguities. All the inhumanities. All the stress of war and flying in it, and the camaraderie of those aircrews. The sense of responsibility in Evans is brilliant throughout." Marvin Padgett, Executive Director of Great Commissions Publications 

My host, Richard L. Pike on my speaking time in Western Australia in September, turns out to be a remarkable C. S. Lewis look alike and sound alike. Here's one of the clips I did of him reading a segment heard by the French Resistance in The Resistance: 

Special 2-book bundle of my War in the Wasteland and newest release, The Resistance at bondbooks.net. CS Lewis plays a significant role in both books, though more subtle in The Resistance. He is antagonist in the WWI yarn and "the voice of faith" on the BBC broadcasts heard by the French Resistance in my newest. 

Driving, Writing, and Living On the Wrong Side of the Road

OXFORD CREATIVE WRITING MASTER CLASS
Picture yourself here with me on the next OCWMC 

"Drive left. Look right! God, help me to do this right--I mean, correct!" So I tell myself and pray in the days and hours before leading another group of aspiring writers on the Oxford Creative Writing Master Class. At Heathrow, I warily circle the nine-passenger rental van and then lunge into the driver's seat on the right side, murmuring to myself to keep the vehicle on the left side of the road and a weather eye to the Bentleys, Minis, red buses, and black cabbies bearing down on my right side. Though it is not my first rodeo (not to be construed as a cliche; it is a metaphor chosen precisely to reflect how it feels swerving around about every frantically encircling roundabout intersection), I have driven in the UK on the wrong side of the vehicle--and the road--over many years now. But I still pray earnestly before loading the van with precious human cargo and braving the blaring streets, curvaceous back roads, and bustling motorways of Britain.

And then there's the matter of my talking--while driving (whilst motoring, to be more colloquial). One previous OCWMC participant, her hand trembling, passed me an almost illegible note on which she had scrawled out a plea for me to stop using hand gestures as I talk--and drive. "Please, please, keep both hands on the wheel," she implored me (I nodded, looking down at the clutch and gear shifter, wondering just how I was supposed to do that when every vehicle in the UK seems to be equipped with a manual transmission). As I teach my master class writers the evil of exaggerating language, I will avoid pronouncing it "miraculous," but it is a significant answer to prayer, with many instances of divine intervention, that I have never had an accident whilst motoring in Britain (okay, a few close calls; every one of them, I am morally certain, not my fault, like the one en route from London to Oxford opening day of the master class when a raven-colored Peugeot nearly strafed the side of us on the M-40, clearing my arteries, invigorating my vocabulary, and making me still more grateful).

In Oxford, or anytime I talk about writing, I emphasize the importance of figurative language, of metaphor. "The greatest thing by far," wrote Aristotle in his Poetics (384 BC - 322 BC), "is to have a command of metaphor. This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius, for to make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblances." And for the rest of us who are emphatically not geniuses, we work at training our eye and ear so we are equipped to use the most appropriate metaphors, the precise imaginative comparisons, the best mini stories to awaken the imagination and immerse our readers in the larger story.

Which makes me pause and consider driving on the wrong side of the car and the road as a metaphor, a miniature story very much like life itself. The author of the book of Proverbs employed a similar metaphor: "Turn not to the right hand or to the left. Keep your foot from evil." When driving a car, if I turn right when I should have turned left, or if I don't keep my eyes on the road ahead of me, screeching tires, broken glass, mangled metal, and far worse can follow.

Similarly, when writing a book, if I take my eyes off the real issue for my protagonist, or when I lose control of the story arc and the plot wanders aimlessly like an overfed bovine, sniffing at this or that irrelevant morsel, my reader gets distracted, yawns, closes the book, and (after awakening from his stupor), pounds out a scathing review on amazon.

How much worse when this happens in life. When I wander to the right and then to the left, grazing for fulfillment and happiness in this tidbit and that morsel of this life, I will always come up empty, unsatisfied, idolatrous, lost. And damned. The stakes are high. Those who persist with this try-this, try-that, foraging approach to life will end this life and enter the life to come with the most horrific words ringing in their eternal ears, "Depart from me you cursed into everlasting fire where there is weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth." When we do this in life, the result is infinitely worse than a car smash-up or a bad review on amazon.

Though our culture persists in shrieking the mantra, "There are many roads," or in effect, "Take whatever road feels good. There is no wrong side of the road." Imagine driving or writing that way. Made in the image of God, we all know at the deepest level of our being that there is only one road that leads to heaven. "One road leads home and a thousand roads lead into the wilderness," as CS Lewis put it. Left or right, O the pain of those thousand roads. No one gets to heaven by scrupulously following the right path, the path of self-improvement and good works; or from swerving left, following his heart and doing what he feels.

If not to the right or the left, where are we to keep our eyes? If there's only one way, The Way, how are we to get on--and keep on--the road? There's no equivocation. Nor is there any alternate route. The Word of God makes the path of life plain. Abandon all hope in ourselves and "Gaze upon the beauty of the Lord." It is what we were made for, not just on Good Friday or Easter, We are designed to keep our eyes straight ahead, to "Fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith." We do this because by his finished work on the cross in place of sinners and his righteousness imputed to those same sinners' specific account, Christ is alone the path to life; in his presence there is fullness of joy; at his right hand their are pleasures forevermore (Psalm 16).

God alone places us by his grace on the right road--and he alone keeps us on it. All other roads lead into the wilderness.     

Douglas Bond, author of dozens of books, directs the Oxford Creative Writing Master Class. Contact him about the next OCWMC at bondbooks.net@gmail.com

Thanksgiving discount ends soon bondbooks.net

Inkblots on a stormy, blustery evening after a day of barrels of rain. We sat around talking about books and publishing, typesetting, and copy editing. And other things. Most folks don't have anything immediately to read. So we talked about setting goals. And went around the room discussing plans for the future, and setting goals for our next gathering.

I "finished" the film script I have been commissioned to write today. When they first approached me I declined to take it on as I was too busy with other writing and speaking projects. So the arrangement is that they would present me with a draft of the script and I would then revise and rewrite it to my satisfaction. As I have been doing so, I have been reminded of this observations. “Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring. Imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating” (Simone Weil). Hollywood usually settles for imaginary evil, and, hence, so often portrays sin as romantic and varied. Rarely does the film industry take off the mask and portray real evil for what it is: gloomy, monotonous, barren, and boring. On the contrary.

We discussed the role of copy editors. What is the role of the copy editor? Are they your friend or your adversary? Writers all need another set of eyes to help us see where we are being inconsistent or inaccurate. Sydney is enjoying doing copy editing and writing for website content for some new clients. Editors are not infallible but they are indispensable, in my opinion. Cheyenne has a copy editor that has told her to divide her first volume into two volumes and add a third for a trilogy.

Let's set some goals for two weeks from now. I am going to write my article for Modern Reformation and at least one of the hymns I have brainstormed shaped into the real deal. Rachel Ng is going to continue writing on her 1950s yarn. I recommended creating a rough table of contents with expanded ideas in parentheses for projected content in each chapters. Though you will always be changing and revising, doing this gives you a place to put ideas in some degree of order and establishes a map for where you are going. Sydney is going to continue writing on her weighty yarn, getting more forward direction and planning in place. Cheyenne has divided the first volume with a cliff hanger ending of the first, second starts at the same scene. 

Cheyenne reads from the beginning of the second volume. It seemed, may not be the best opening sentence of the book. Then again, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." Nevertheless, though Dickens pulled off an unforgettable opening paragraph starting with It, I would consider a more concrete beginning. But the description gets pretty riveting after that. It is grim. Axe in the back, and specifics of sound and sight at the gruesome scene. Cheyenne is writing well in first person. I think you need to bring readers back into the scene for the beginning of a new book. It's easy to overdo this and over write, tell too much from the past book and back story. But without reacquainting your readers with the characters and placing them back in the grim setting it seems abrupt and lacking in context. Giles and I were just talking last evening about series and trilogies (he wants me to write a Civil War story that continues the M'Kethe clan, as P&R and I have discussed for several years). His theory is that in trilogies each book should end in a cliff hanger. I have written my trilogies more with the idea that each book could stand alone, be a complete and satisfying story, but more to experience by reading all and in order. There is a measure of wisdom in seeking a publisher for the whole trilogy, as publishers do like to publish series. John pointed out that at a burial scene he thought characters should be more soberly thinking about death and what happens after death. 

John will read the first chapter of Violetta and work on continuing the yarn. I am begging to copy edit his Saving Grace contemporary novel this week.

Don't miss out on the special Thanksgiving season discount on my April Oxford Creative Writing Master Class; it expires November 30, only a few days away. Comment or email me right away and reserve your place for the next Oxford Creative Writing Master Class, which one OCWMC grad said was “...above and beyond my wildest dreams. I learned so much about writing, history, theology. It has truly changed my life.” Go to bondbooks.net, check out the OCWMC page under tours, and contact me before the big Thanksgiving discount expires November 30.