“But I Digress…”
Hosted by Nathan Marchand
Happy New Year! Welcome to my first video of 2014! This week I review a book. Which one? Well, some may think it’s an unremarkable read, but I loved it. Watch to find out what it is!
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In college, my writing professor shared an interesting quotation with his students (a line I’ve just learned was said by novelist Philip Roth): “Nothing bad happens to a writer. Everything is material.” I didn’t take it too seriously at the time. It just seemed like an extension of the old writer’s mantra, “Write what you know.”
Not long after that, Taylor University Fort Wayne (my alma mater) was visited by Jerry B. Jenkins, author of the then-popular Left Behind books. He gave a special lecture to all the students of the communications department. One thing he said has stuck with me in the decade since. He admitted that he’d had a comparatively “easy” life—and lamented that that meant his “writing well” wasn’t as deep as others’. I was surprised by this, to say the least. Not that I was a huge fan of his writing (I tried reading the first Left Behind book and got bored after two chapters), but it seemed a little strange.
I don’t like getting too personal on this site. I had a blog for that for a long time (not anymore), but I often thought I revealed too much there. I like maintaining a certain level of privacy, especially since I’m in a position to become a public figure.
That being said, I’ve faced the greatest trials of my life since college. I’ve struggled to find work. I’ve lost jobs. I’ve had several painful break-ups. I’ve scraped by on little money. That’s just a few of my tribulations.
Twice I’ve gone to a pastor I’ve known all my life for counseling. I don’t mean I saw him on two occasions—I mean I’ve twice gone to him once a week for several months. During both of those times, he told me the same thing: “I think this is to make you a better writer.” I was frozen in shock. On one hand, I wanted my suffering to end. On the other, I wanted to be a better writer.
If you study an artist’s works enough, you can get to know them. His worldview bleeds through. His thoughts, emotions, and philosophies are the metaphysical raw materials he uses to create the work. People gravitate toward certain artists or works because they can identify with them; they have a kinship with them, just like they would with friends and family.
For example, I identified with Clark Kent from Smallville because for a long time I felt like that show was a superhero version of my life. Clark was raised with old-fashioned values in a small Midwest town; he had trouble talking to the girl he liked; he was betrayed by his best friend (Lex Luthor); and he often suffered for doing the right thing. (I won’t say more for the sake of privacy). I doubt that show would’ve had the potency it did unless the creators had experienced similar things themselves. You can’t fake something like that.
The same is true of my own stories. I often use them to try to make sense of my own life. I fill them with disguised versions of my own questions, longings, and disappointments. Honestly, I often wrestle with God in them. But this usually happens subconsciously. My journal is where I do intentional (and often Hamlet-esque) introspection. Regardless, I don’t think I would’ve written the stories I have if not for my life experience.
These stories aren’t just for me, though. Heck, I wouldn’t even say they’re primarily for me. They’re for you, my readers. Each one is, in a way, an invitation for you to examine your own life and find answers to your questions. I may not always have answers for you, but they can inspire you to take a journey of discovery. You may see a piece of yourself in one of my characters. You may identify with one of my plotlines. However it happens, consider it a service I offer you besides simple entertainment. (And if that’s all you get out of them, then I helped you escape from your problems for a short time).
Who knows, I may save you thousands in therapy bills.
Expecting a nerdy exposition about whether Pandora Brewer, the heroine of my novel Pandora’s Box, could beat Katniss Everdeen, heroine of Suzanne Collins’ hot Hunger Games books, in a street fight? Then I apologize for the sensational but slightly misleading blog title. (But feel free to debate that with me in the comments).
Yesterday, I received a message from a friend in Virginia who said her pastor’s family came over for dinner and their daughter, an avid reader, discovered my friend’s copy of my novel. She devoured it. My friend asked me to send this girl an autographed copy (we nerds know to take care for our fans). So, fangirl, if you’re reading this, rest assured you will be getting that copy soon! And thanks for reading my book!
This reminded me of an unexpected turn in my young career as a novelist: the fanbase for my novel has tended to be young adults. In other words, the Hunger Games crowd. This astonishes me. I didn’t write Pandora’s Box for them but for a general science fiction audience. Pandora Brewer is in her early-to-mid-twenties in most of the novel (she was a child in one chapter and 18 years old in another). Yet it seems she appeals to fans of Katniss Everdeen. I admit the characters have some similarities, but they’re quite different characters. (I could write an entire blog post on that). What’s equally astonishing is most of the libraries who have stocked my novel have put it in the YA section. I can only think of one off-hand that has put it in the regular science fiction section. My friend Natasha Hayden, an avid reader of YA, would tell you Pandora’s Box doesn’t belong in YA.
As I think about it, though, those libraries may have noticed something I didn’t. I wrote the first draft of this novel when I was 18. I worked on it periodically throughout college, finishing it six to eight months after graduation. In other words, I wrote this book when I was still a member the target audience for YA books. I was reading a few such books at the time, so their influence was undeniable. I could be wrong, but I do think the writing, not publication, of my book predated Suzanne Collins’ epic trilogy. Regardless, all this probably gave my book a YA flavor.
But the best explanation can probably be summarized by something Jonathan Maberry said when I saw him in Maryland several months back: “YA is fearless.” Those books and authors will try anything, no matter how crazy or unorthodox. “Adult” books and authors, he said, are too worried about sticking to formula. In that regard, YA authors are my kindred. I tend to ignore trends and conventions. I just want to tell my stories. I want to be original. I’d rather be a trendsetter. (Probably why I have a tough time getting a literary agent).
Perhaps that’s why I’m appealing to this audience: they sense that fearlessness in my writing.
They’ll be excited to know I’m writing a sequel, and its heroine will be a 17-year-old girl. 😉
Besides, comparing my novel to Hunger Games is just good marketing.
(And for the record, I think Pandora can take Katniss). 😛
First, before I get my main thesis, I’d like to thank everyone at the Roanoke Public Library in Roanoke, Indiana, for having me give a lecture on fantasy writing last Thursday. It was a small crowd (stupid weather!), but it was fun. I’d love to come back, especially if you have room for one more lecturer.
Since I spent a fair amount of time preparing the lecture and I’m sure some people didn’t come but wanted to, I’m going to expand it a bit and make it into a multi-part series for my vlog, “But I Digress….” Expect the first video soon!
Anyway, as I was going to say…
A few weeks ago, I got involved in a short but heated discussion between a friend and her sister (they shall remain nameless) on Facebook. My friend had posted a photo of an angel someone made of snow. Being that we’re both Whovians (“Doctor Who” fans), I commented, “Don’t blink!” (This was a reference to the nefarious Weeping Angels). My friend then went on about how they were also the evil Snowmen from another episode, so you couldn’t look at them or blink. Her sister then commented, saying she looked at the photo and blinked and nothing happened. At first, I thought she was being sarcastic, but I realized she wasn’t. The sister then said she didn’t understand how anyone could be “obsessed” with fictional things like this when real life had more to offer. My friend, myself, and one other person tried to explain things to her. Since I came into the discussion later, I just posted this quotation from my friend “Jack”:
When I hit adolescence, I started getting the feeling that kids my age didn’t watch things like cartoons. That was the age one “outgrew” them. We were supposed to do better things with our time…like chase the opposite sex in a hormone-crazed frenzy and read books like Twilight (how is that book more mature than cartoons?). But guess what? I kept watching the cartoons I thought were good. In secret. Yes, I was embarrassed that I enjoyed watching shows “Beast Wars,” “Spider-Man,” and “Batman: The Animated Series.” I wanted to be seen as mature and grown-up, at least in public. I spent most of teenage years living this quasi-double life. I was quite a serious lad at the time. It took college to lighten me up.
Now I make no secret that I enjoy cartoons, comic books, and other “childish” forms of entertainment. Seriously, look at my video collection:
Part of that is the nostalgia craze that’s been going on for over a decade, which has made these things more acceptable. But there are still those who would look at this and say, “These shouldn’t be on a grown man’s shelf.” They’d cite 1 Corinthian 13:11 as evidence that such a person was immature.
But here’s the truth: only children worry about being perceived as grown-up. Many children at one point or another wished they were adults. They worry about what people will think of them if they “act childish.” With age, however, comes the attitude that what people think doesn’t matter, and the wisdom that true maturity comes from how one treats others and his responsibilities.
Yes, people read comics, watch “Doctor Who,” and play video games as an escape. They’re called “escapist entertainment” for a reason. It’s a stress relief because life is often hard. The problem is when one lets it become an addiction, a source of one’s self-worth. I’ve seen this happen. It’s sad. But anything, no matter how good it is, can become an addiction. There’s a difference between someone who has an occasional sip of wine and an alcoholic.
There’s also something to be said about cultivating an imagination. People who are imaginative see things like nobody else. They invent, they create. Ideas are their playthings. Without people like them, we wouldn’t have technology, culture, and philosophies. Heck, I keep hearing stories about how much of the tech seen in “Star Trek” and its spin-offs keeps inspiring real gadgets!
Art enriches our lives. It illustrates truths. It provides a lens that puts life into perspective. It expresses things we might have trouble articulating (hence why most couples have a favorite love song). We see ourselves in all our beauty and ugliness. It gives us ideals to strive for. It expresses our deepest longings.
In other words, it helps us figure out life. And life then in turn enriches art. The two need each other like a husband needs a wife, and vice versa. Without it, there would be no color to life. We would be robots.
Most importantly, art is an expression of being God’s image bearers. God created the universe. It isn’t purely functional. It’s full of color and wonder and adventure. I drove through Pennsylvania and Maryland a few months ago and was blown away by the rolling hills, mountains, and multicolored leaves. I grew up in house that was constantly surrounded by mischievous animals. And need I mention the wonder of the night sky? God is an artist.
Think about that next time you want to criticize someone for being an “out-of-touch child” just because he made his own lightsaber.
Hello, True Believers! It’s been a while since I posted something substantial. I was busy during the holidays, as most people were, but I was working on a new short story. I wanted post it as a Christmas gift to all of you, but I didn’t get it done in time. However, it’s now finished. It’s entitled “In Search of Traction.” I had this idea for a while–a guy trying to get home on a cold, snowy day–since college. Now I’ve put a plot to it. I wouldn’t say it’s my best story, but I like it. You can read it here.
While it takes place at Christmas, it’s still appropriate–perhaps more so–since the Midwest was slammed by the coldest blizzard on record.
A foot or more of snow. Below zero high temperatures. Windchills at -40 degrees. It’s insane. I avoided driving during that time (I heard cops could fine someone if they didn’t have a provable emergency), but I heard about many accidents caused by the weather. If that were one of those unfortunate people, perhaps you’ll be able to sympathize with the story’s protagonist.
So, curl up to your fireplace with your laptop and enjoy “In Search of Traction”!
I shoved my way out of the warzone that is a mall on Christmas Eve. Bags of junk food, worthless trinkets, and stupid holiday novelties dangled from my arms like overripe fruit on a tree. I could barely peek over the four boxes in my arms—which were quickly going numb—to see the crowded parking lot. Jack Frost nipped at my few patches of bare skin. Angry soccer moms yelled at me or shoved me out of the way while I crawled to my car. The sun was setting behind the thick gray clouds, bringing the dark sooner.
Joey, why did you marry a procrastinator? I thought. This isn’t how I wanted to spend our first Christmas together! I hate shopping only a little less than I do cooking!
The thought of Mary “slaving away” in a warm kitchen made me hate this frigid weather even more.
Snow and ice still caked the parking lot! Were the snowplow drivers home for Christmas? I walked where angels feared to tread now. One wrong move, and I’d have a shallow grave under snow and packages. I stepped lightly, tensing every time I slid even an inch. My forehead was cold and moist. I think it took me ten minutes to cross one parking lot.
Reaching the car, I laid everything on the hatchback. My arms tingled as blood rushed into them. I clicked my key fob, unlocking the doors. I opened the driver door and tossed everything inside. With that, I harrumphed and slid into the car myself.
It seemed colder inside. I jammed the key into the ignition and turned it, but the car only whined. Cursing, I tried two more times before it finally started. I flipped on the headlights, but instantly found myself boxed in. A line of cars crept down the lot behind me. I had to wait five obnoxious minutes before a man—a fellow husband, I wager—stopped to let me pull out. Even then, my wheels spun out the first time I hit the gas. That husband’s understanding started to melt. But I floored it again and managed to get out.
It took me ten minutes just to move a quarter-mile and get onto Main Street. I narrowly avoided rear-ending the car in front of me. I knew I should’ve had the brakes repaired, I thought. But I was too busy with Christmas! The sun was now gone. Storefronts were going dark. The street wasn’t much clearer, but at least I wasn’t sliding. For now.
Mary and I live in the countryside just outside of the city. Which meant our roads would be the last to get plowed, if ever. Anger surged through me, warming my body. All this for last-second gifts for her least favorite nieces and nephews and supplies for a party she was throwing tomorrow! I gripped the steering wheel so tightly, the cover was indenting my palms.
A few turns and traffic lights later, I reached the city limits. Now I was where snowplows fear to tread. Or where they didn’t care to plow. Regardless, the roads were ice rinks now. I felt the car’s tires slide underneath me and manically gripped the steering wheel. Snowflakes the size of cotton balls fell from the clouds, obscuring my vision. My intense concentration could barely see far enough ahead to avoid immediate hazards.
Even then, I didn’t see the first stop light that came into view. Not until it was too late. I slammed on the brakes, but the car slid, threatening to jackknife. I held my breath. My heart stopped. I wrestled with the steering wheel to keep it straight. Five harrowing seconds later, I realized I was in the middle of the intersection.
Now I just need another car to skid into me to make this perfect! I thought. But Mary still probably wouldn’t forgive me for being late!
I pressed gently on the accelerator, but the tires spun, unable to grip the road. I let up and tried again. The same. Cursing, I hit the steering wheel. Despite planning for extra time to get home, I was beyond punctuality now. I’d get nothing but nagging if and when I reached home. So much for holiday cheer!
The third time was the charm; the tires gripped the road and inched forward. I was out of the intersection in a few seconds.
What followed is a blur. I was focused like a laser on the road as I crawled along. I plowed through just-formed snowdrifts. The brakes reminded me of their need of repairs every time I skidded to a stop at an intersection. A pothole nearly broke my concentration and sent me into a snow-filled ditch. But I refused to break. Each little victory bolstered my confidence. A smile slowly crept up my face. Do your worst, Old Man Winter!
Suddenly, out of the darkness to the left sprang a buck. I swear it even had a red nose, but that might have been a cell phone tower in the distance. Anyway, he leaped in front of me, just a few feet from my bumper. I gasped and reflexively swerved to the other lane. I narrowly dodged the buck, which vanished in one leap, but the car wouldn’t straighten. Slamming the brakes did nothing. Tires screeched. Adrenaline was oil on my fires of panic. Against my will, the car veered off the road.
Stopped.
I suddenly found myself staring at the white ground at an awkward angle. A ditch. I was in a ditch. A snow-laden ditch. Hopelessly, I shifted the car in reverse and hit the gas pedal. The wheels spun, but the car didn’t budge. In fact, I felt it dig an inch deeper into the snow. I was stuck.
I smacked the steering wheel, cursing a blue streak. Slipping on gloves and a sock cap, I ventured out of the car, the cold air biting my bare cheeks. The car was so deep in the ditch and snow, there was no way I’d be able to push it out. I glanced up and down the road, but there were no headlights to be seen. Just darkness and a white haze bathed in pale moonlight.
I was alone.
I pounded the car’s roof, undoubtedly leaving a new dent. My cell phone was in my coat pocket, so I ungloved my hand and grabbed it. I glimpsed a text message from Mary that said something like, “Where the hell are you, you dolt?!” Then it went black. Dead. Typical, I thought. I pounded the roof again.
What was I to do now? Sit there and hope that someone, somehow, would drive by? On Christmas Eve? When everyone was at home with family and friends? Lucky them. That’s where I should be. Or not. Mary is probably ticked that I’m late. Never mind that I narrowly avoided killing Bambi and ended up in a ditch. Maybe I’m better off out here.
A few more minutes of near-zero temperatures changed my mind. Especially when I realized I only had a quarter of a tank of gas left.
“Dammit! What am I gonna do now?”
Just then, a bell rang in the distance.
Quick as a flash, I remembered there was a little country church not far from here. I drove by it every day on my way to work, but it was just scenery in my mind. They must be having a Christmas Eve service or something. Maybe they’ll help me. I just have to make sure they don’t realize I’m a “heathen.”
The bell seemed a bit loud, so I squinted at the icy veil, managing to catch a faint glimpse of the church. It was maybe a half-mile away. My face wouldn’t be too numb by the time I arrived.
I pulled the keys from the ignition, locked the car doors, and started walking.
After what seemed like an eternity of cold wind, relentless snow, and hatred of Christmas, I reached the church. A warm, candlelight-like aura seemed to emanate from it, though some of its lights were on. Few cars were in the parking lot. I guess the weather had scared away even the faithful. Or the service was over. Just my luck if I missed everyone. But the light gave me…hope. I walked up to the front door and discovered it was unlocked. Trusting people, churchgoers are. What if I wanted to rob the place? I smiled despite my numb face. Robbing a church on Christmas Eve? I bet that’d get you sent to Hell twice.
I must’ve looked like a living snowman when I stepped inside. I brushed myself off and peeled off my cap. I hadn’t been in a church since I was a kid, but I remembered it was a requirement to remove one’s hat. Before me was the entrance to the sanctuary. Low organ music playing “Silent Night” hummed in my ears. It was dark except for candles sitting on the sills of the windows lining each side of the room, which led to an illuminated cross hanging above the pulpit. I stepped closer and saw a few silhouettes sitting in the pews. Muttered prayers mingled with the organ music.
I was suddenly hesitant to cross the threshold into the sanctuary, like I was unworthy to disturb this holy ground. But I pressed on.
No one seemed to notice me. They just went on praying. I was annoyed. But just as I was about to shout, someone saw me.
“You can sit here,” he whispered.
I glanced to my left. A young blonde man scooted over and offered me a spot at the end of the pew.
Though I suddenly felt uncomfortable, I said, “Thanks,” and sat down.
“What’s your name?”
“Joey.”
“Mine’s Gabe. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m sure.”
No much for not looking like a heathen.
He paused only briefly at my terseness. “I’ve never seen you here before. Welcome.”
“Honestly, I’m only here because I need help.”
“We all need help from the Lord.”
I snickered. “Think he’ll dig my car out of the ditch?”
Gabe flinched, surprised. “Oh. Well, we do have some shovels in the janitor’s closet. We can dig you out after the service.”
“Is it gonna be much longer? The wife is probably contemplating divorce as we speak.”
“Marriage troubles?”
It was none of his business, but for whatever reason, I started talking. “Yeah. She insisted on throwing a last-minute Christmas party and gave me a mile-long list of things to buy. I hate shopping and this weather, but I hate dealing with her. I’ll be lucky if she just makes me sleep on the couch tonight.”
“She sounds a little demanding.”
“A little?” I blurted, almost raising my voice. “She’s really demanding! And obnoxious! Always has to have her way. All because she wants to keep up appearances at the holidays. I don’t know what I hate more—her or Christmas.”
“I’m sorry. Christmas should be a time of—”
“Spare me the Christmas Carol crap! I just want to dig out my car and go home!”
I think that earned me a few annoyed glances.
Gabe somehow kept his cool, and said, “I think you need more than that, Joey.”
I huffed. “Like what?”
As if on cue, the well-dressed preacher standing behind the pulpit started reading: “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”
He stepped down and sat on a pew. The organ music continued to play. The bell rang again outside.
I’d heard those words every year on the Charlie Brown Christmas show, yet now…they touched me. Touched me somewhere deep inside. My heart of ice thawed a little.
“I’m sorry for disrupting things,” I whispered to Gabe.
“You’re forgiven. The service will conclude in a few minutes. We’ll dig you out then. Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks.” The next words I said surprised even me. “Could my wife and I come here this Sunday?”
Gabe laughed quietly. “There’s no need to ask. Just come.”
“I—we will.”
That night, I was searching for traction on the road, not realizing I was searching for traction in my life.
Now, I’d found it.
Sarah, Anthony, and I had lots of fun making episode 19 of my vlog. We’re also quite silly. And nerdy. Check out these outtakes, ab libs, and flubbed lines. They’re as funny as the actual episode! (Which you can view here). Enjoy!
“But I Digress…”
Hosted by Nathan Marchand
In case you didn’t know, I’m a Whovian (“Doctor Who” fan). I wanted to review the franchise’s 50th anniversary special, but I was so busy, I was barely able to watch it and didn’t have time to review it myself. So, I invited a special guest to review it for me–and he was interrupted by some unexpected arrivals! Special thanks to my friends Sarah Kilduff and Anthony Gangemi.
Merry Christmas, True Believers!
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Many people think writers spend all their time sitting at their computers typing away, filling page after page with their thoughts, feelings, and stories.
As Lex Luthor once said, “WROOOOOOOONG!”
Anyone can jot down their daily thoughts and activities. That’s what a journal is. I’ve known many people who’ve written short stories or even whole books that remain unpublished. Plenty of “non-writers” participate in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) every year just to take on the challenge.
No, there is much more to writing. And honestly, I feel like that’s the part that eats up more of my “writing time” than actual writing. Writers have to promote their work, often on their own. They search for literary agents and query them. They research publishers and submit work to them, which requires writing query letters, among other things. Networking is a huge facet of writing, so writers must stay in touch with those they know in the industry, always looking for new opportunities.
In other words, writing isn’t just a craft. It’s a business.
A profitable business.
A needed business.
An annoying business.
While I’m a writer and a shameless self-promoter, I find the business side of writing frustrating. Marketing is difficult in this age of bad economics and constant noise. I’ve run into several walls along the way: 1) (Perceived) Inexperience. 2) Being told my stories aren’t “trendy” enough (I’d rather be a trend-setter). 3) I don’t have an agent. Agents and publishers want material that they think will sell. They want to make money. I have no problem with that. But I think the bad economy has made them less interested in taking risks on something and/or someone new. That’s why, for instance, you saw lots of vampire novels in the young adult section of bookstores and hordes of zombies popping up in the sci-fi section. Those are “hot” now. My stories, though I think they’re good, don’t seem to necessarily fit the trends.
Even if one gets past those walls, new ones crop up. Depending on the size of your publisher, your (perceived) marketability, and the current economy, publishers’ may or may not be able or willing to invest the money in promoting your work. This means you’ll have to do much of it yourself. In this age of the Internet, the possibilities for promotion are nearly endless. But it’s also saturated the world with noise. Ads flare up on every website. Countless authors are starting blogs, going on blog tours, and appearing on podcasts. While many people “live” on the Internet and read webfiction, there’s so much of it out there, it’s overwhelming. If you want to get noticed, you must first have a quality product. The cream will always rise to the top. You must also distinguish yourself from all the other voices shouting in everyone’s ears. Either that or yell louder. Personally, I think the former is more pleasant. But what makes the Internet work to your advantage is word-of-mouth. That’s always sold anything—especially books—better than anything else.
I think I’m rambling a bit now. 😛
All this to say that while I wish I could just write all the time and instantly have it read by millions, that’s not the case. Writing is a craft and a business. If you want to be a writer, you have to deal with both aspects, whether you enjoy everything about them or not.
But as Michael Stackpole said at Gen-Con, “Now is the best time to be a writer.”
I realized the other day that this is a week of noteworthy anniversaries. November 19 was the 150th anniversary of the Gettysburg Address. Today, November 22, is a day loaded with significance. Fifty years ago today several events, both joyous and tragic, occurred. On the bright side, the British science fiction TV show Doctor Who first aired. But today is also remembered for the deaths of three great men: President John F. Kennedy, author Aldous Huxley, and theologian C.S. Lewis.
Interestingly, there’s a short book that featured a philosophical dialogue between these three icons: Between Heaven and Hell by Peter Kreeft. It’s a fascinating debate between them.
While I could go on about any of these, I’ll focus on Lewis. If you’ve read my bio on my website, you know that I list C.S. Lewis as one of my literary influences. But he’s done more than influence my writing: he’s shaped much of my thinking.
Lewis was a Christian, an intellectual, and a writer. He came from an atheistic background, but he always loved myths and stories. He believed in the power of narrative. This, along with some help from his best friend, Lord of the Rings author J.R.R. Tolkien, was what brought him faith in God. He saw the truth of the “Christian myth” and saw that it was more than a mere myth.
Lewis was a writer whose works dabbled in things that many modern Christians shy away from. He could write stories featuring magic and mythic creatures without violating his conscience or his faith. He simply said these were powers and creatures created by God, that those mythic stories and fairy tales all pointed back to Him. He wrote science fiction that beautifully examined the effects of sin and the far-reaching power of redemption. He dared to examine Christianity, proving time and again that faith and intellectualism are not contradictory. Yet he did so in a way that neither talked down nor talked over his readers and listeners. I’ve heard someone describe him as a “redneck with a Ph.D.”
Yet he did all of this without proselytizing. Lewis was a man who didn’t have to preach at you in his works: he simply told stories. His faith would seep into his stories almost accidentally. It was a huge part of his life. Authors always tap into themselves—their experiences, beliefs, and knowledge—to craft a story. So, what Lewis wrote was “Christian” in the sense that he was a Christian who wrote. I love this because I don’t like being preached at about anything—whether it be Christianity, environmentalism, or whatever else—when I’m reading or watching a story. I just want to enjoy the story. If it inspires deep thought in me as I read/watch or after I finish it, then it is a truly great story. Art doesn’t necessarily tell you the truth; it inspires you to ponder what the truth is.
I wouldn’t be the man or the writer I am today if not for people like him. I owe him a great debt of gratitude. He’ll be one of the first people I want to meet when I get to Heaven.
So, if you’re looking for some good reading (besides this serial, of course), go to your local library and check out his books! You won’t regret it.