March 15

1.  Editing.  My editing project of a story that I wrote in December/January has become a massive rewriting project.  Under circumstances like these, if left to my own devices, I would sooner begin writing something completely different than undertake rewriting something that isn’t quite the same.  I can’t be left to my own devices, however, since I submitted the first draft of the story to my fiction workshop–and requirements of the class dictate that I edit one of the two stories per semester.  And since the second story doesn’t exist yet, not even as a wisp of an idea, I’m left with sitting down, getting calm, starting again.

2.  Weather.  It’s a sunny 52 degrees, high of 62.  I would like nothing more than to go for a casual walk, but of course I have to get a couple pages written first.  Otherwise they’ll never get done, and I’ll be sitting outside with a book for several hours instead.  It wouldn’t hurt me to get a bit of vitamin D, though.  I’m an artist’s model for chalk white.

3.  The Art of the Novel.  I began this short book by Milan Kundera (none of whose novels I’ve read), with the thought that I might give a presentation on it for one of my theory classes.  But after reading part one, I’ve definitely put that idea aside.  He says so much in so little space, most of which I’m not sure I agree with, much less understand, that quantifying my opinion of it into a twenty-minute speech would be ridiculous.  For instance:

To take, with Descartes, the thinking self as the basis of everything, and thus to face the universe alone, is to adopt an attitude that Hegel was right to call heroic.

To take, with Cervantes, the world as ambiguity, to be obliged to face not a single absolute truth but a welter of contradictory truths (truths embodied in imaginary selves called characters), to have as one’s only certainty the wisdom of uncertainty, requires no less courage.

That sounds quite nice, and you’ve dropped some significant names and italicized some key phrases, but what, precisely, does that mean for the novel?  It sounds as if it’s brave not to have a center and laudable not to know what you might know, and while that’s an accurate description of literary modernism, it’s not what I myself believe.  Ah well.  I keep reading.

Jane Austen and God

I’m packing to move on Tuesday – the reality has finally set in – and I am not particularly looking forward to moving my thirty-two boxes of books down three flights of stairs and up three flights of stairs.  The occasion to pack, however, has provided me the opportunity to refamiliarize myself with my inventory, to get a sense, if you will, of my own tastes.

I estimate that between my husband and I we’ve got about 10 boxes of fiction, 3 boxes of mass market-sized series, 5 boxes of reference, 1 box of comics and graphic novels, 5 boxes of modern fiction and military history, 4 boxes of ancient history and philosophy, 1 box of Tolkien and Lewis, and assorted others, including the following:

“WRITING REF 2.” This box contains the second half of my collection of books about writing.  A couple of memoirs have sneaked in, C.S. Lewis and Anne Fadiman, and as soon as I unpack, I’m going to read Ray Bradbury’s Zen and the Art of Writing, which I’d completely forgotten I owned.

“QP SFF.” This box contains hardback and trade paperback books of science fiction and fantasy. Authors include Neil Gaiman (whose autograph is hanging above my desk: thanks, Sarah), Orson Scott Card, S.M. Stirling, and Joseph Campbell’s Hero with a Thousand Faces, which I also have yet to read.

“UKL & BARD.” This box contains at least twenty books written by Ursula K. Le Guin, including some of her nonfiction, such as The Language of the Night.  It also contains my desk copies of the Shakespeare class that I will be assisting this fall.  I recently read “The Winter’s Tale” for the first time, and enjoyed it very much.

“J.A. & GOD.” This box contains all of my Jane Austen, about whom I wrote my undergraduate thesis, as well as about five Bibles (NIV, KJV, NASB, NLT Bible in 90 Days, etc.).  Did I actually read the Bible in ninety days?  Of course not.  If I recall aright, I caved in Numbers.  I have, however, read Emma at least six times.

And there, folks, is a fair assessment of my interests and values.  Creative writing, science fiction, Ursula K. Le Guin, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, and God.

Water Witch

I hate to be a stereotypical church-goer, but my religious worship this morning made me exhausted.  Or perhaps it was the old-fashioned donut that I allowed myself to eat for the first time in weeks.  In either case, I arrived home and lay down on the couch with a book.  And woke up about an hour and a half later, dry-mouthed and groggy.  So I scarfed down an extra-thick roast beef sandwich to bolster myself with protein.

Eventually, when I finished reading Water Witch by Connie Willis and Cynthia Felice, I did not regret the time I spent asleep.  It was… all right.  [Warning: Spoilers.]  Deza is a con artist, pretending to be a princess of the Red City who can detect water in pools underneath the dry planet of Mahali.  After a con-gone-south, (during which her father dies and his spirit takes up residence in an mbuzi, which is a fancy word for goat,) she meets up with Radi, a prince whom she mistakes for a pirate, and they decide to go through with the con against the off-world Tycoon.  But Deza learns that she doesn’t need to pretend to be a water witch because she is a water witch, spirited away from the Red City by her father at age three.  And she and Radi fall in love.  And sort of save everyone too.  It was fun, but it wasn’t remotely a surprise.

6.5 / 10.0.

Christmas Party

The Sunday school class at the church we’ve joined is having a “Tacky Sweater Christmas Party” this evening.  Though I won’t be wearing a tacky sweater – I flatter myself that I didn’t own one, and I certainly wasn’t going to buy one – I will be bringing the coolest white elephant gift ever.  (Wish I’d thought to take a picture, but it’s already wrapped up.)

*drum roll*

A brick-sized, brick-like Mayan totem!  It has a kind of person and/or deity painted onto it.  Use it as a doorstop, bookend, or household god.  Thanks to Laura, who took me to Goodwill, I hope to have one of the most remarkable presents at the party.

We’ll see what I come home with.

edit

Philip came away with a handmade Bible cover that we all at first mistook for a potholder, and I made out (after being stolen from twice!) with a nice blue mug and a tin of hot chocolate mix.  Could have been far worse: I could have gotten the bubblegum teeth or the detoxifying foot pads.

The Truth

To keep my promise from my last post, I will write about the person who guessed the source of the quotation. To everyone who did not immediately think King Lear, or at least, Doesn’t Kelly like King Lear?, I am disappointed; to my mother, who did, I offer congratulations.

One character trait which has always puzzled and intrigued me is my mother’s apparent sense of discernment. She can sense a lie like nobody’s business, whether she knows the person well or not at all. (You can imagine how distressing this was for me growing up: She would know whether I dipped into the proverbial cookie jar the moment I tried to deny it.) Sometimes a person might be interviewed on television, and my mother will know whether there is “something wrong.” She has described it variously as a discomfort of her spirit or an emotional sense of wrongness. She doesn’t necessarily know what the truth is, but she knows it isn’t what is being said.

For us creatures not magically gifted with an innate sense of truth (and you’ll have to take my word that she’s been proven right too many times to be questioned), what we must rely on is our knowledge of sociology, human nature, and other motivating factors. I can tell whether someone is lying if he begins breathing quickly, looks away, fidgets; and I can guess why and about what if I know his history, circumstances, or particular loyalties. This is not the kind of lie-detection I’m talking about. It is a reaction of the gut…or of the spirit.

Perhaps her talent has this as its source:

And there are varieties of ministries, and the same Lord. …But to each one is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good. For to one is given the word of wisdom through the Spirit, and to another …the distinguishing of spirits. (NASB, 1 Cor. 12:5-10.)

I’ve always thought that this ‘distinguishing’ or discernment was a strange gift, more out of a fantasy novel than part of real life. What good is it to sense the truth if you have no king to warn away from the poison, or no evil wizard to cheat out of his gold? More seriously, what good is it to know the truth when you can’t prove the person’s lie, or when you aren’t supposed to judge him anyway?

Not having this gift myself (I can put to rest your concerns that it might be hereditary), I’m not certain what kind of responsibility, or lack thereof, would come with it. Does the reference to the ‘common good’ imply some sort of obligation to actually distinguish between the spirits for the sake of others? Or is the private distinction sufficient?

I’m not certain; I don’t know – and, truth be told, a little relieved about it. Spiritual gifts can be far too deep and mysterious for me. Sometimes I wish I knew mine, but then again,

Everyone to whom much was given, of him much will be required, and from him to whom they entrusted much, they will demand the more. (Luke 12:48.)

(Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so ominous. :-P)

On a lighter note, I had chicken fajitas tonight and laughed myself to tears over The Sparrow. I think the ethical and moral pondering of Mary Doria Russell has insinuated itself into my post.

Dear Christian

A couple days ago at work – now that I have been allowed out from behind the register – I was shelving a cart in the religion section.  Section A is Bibles, B-D is Christianity, F-G is General Theology and Catholicism, and H-L is Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism, and atheism.

Well, when I reached the atheism section, I was at first surprised and then outraged to see that someone had turned around all of the faced-out titles so that they weren’t showing.  Books like God Is Not Great, The Portable Atheist, The Atheist’s Bible, The God Delusion and others had been hidden.

It seemed logical to me that only someone who was offended by atheism would do such a thing, and that only someone who believed in a god would be offended by atheism.  My instinct led me to think that a stereotypically narrow-minded Christian had done this.  On behalf of my faith, I was appalled.

I have long felt that Truth can easily sustain heavy outpourings of doubt and disbelief: if something is true, it must and will be True, yes?  I am not at all concerned, disturbed, or offended by my or by anyone else’s skepticism or defiance.  I always think of Habakkuk’s questioning of God, and of God’s answers (read the book; it’s short).  Also, and most importantly in this case, I think that a Christian ought to love his neighbor so well as to leave his choice of literature unmolested.

Was this anti-atheistic customer perhaps concerned about the name of God being blasphemed?  If someone wants to write about Why I Am Not a Christian or about his belief that God Is Not Great, he is allowed to do it!  And the person concerned with God’s reputation ought to look to how his own actions are representing his Lord.  The proverbial plank and all that.

While I was shelving, a man was reading a book about Islam.  Although our managers tend to be overly zealous about engaging the customer (“Can I help you find anything today?  Can I recommend X to you?”), I decided to let him read.  When he looked up at me as I walked by, I only smiled at him.  If he’s looking for Truth, he’ll be able to find it.