Crop Signs

The water rose to my chin, and splashes got into my mouth. I was quivering in the frozen water. The sound was deafening. “Let’s get out of here,” I gurgled… Swimming against the sub-zero current that was trying to bring me back into the bus was complicated.

----

This is an excerpt from my first novel, The Captives. I wrote it in Junior High. The storyline is so convoluted that it’s hard to give a synopsis, but here goes:

On his birthday, a Christian teen named David is on his way to school when his bus crashes into a river. All his friends drown, but David escapes only to be taken CAPTIVE by a ruthless gang which is touring the country kidnapping Christian teens and martyring them. He falls in love with a fellow Christian prisoner, Megan, and together they lead a revolt against the terrorist gang.

Obviously, The Captives is a literary masterpiece. I can’t resist offering a few more of my favorite quotes:

----

What I saw made a shower of fear grip me and shred me to pieces.

----

I didn’t want to stand there anymore—and I had gained a little bit of strength—so I walked towards the road slowly, mourning the loss of my friends… Some birthday this was turning out to be!

----

“Were there any survivors?” My mom asked it, hoping for a glimmer of hope.

“No.” Mom’s tears flowed like the unstoppable river that had drowned so many people earlier that day.

----

The whole hallway echoed with cheers after Joe left. “Man, you were good!” “Yeah, you told him!” “I can’t believe you said that about his breathe!” “Too bad you have to die on a cross.” “I hope that you escape again and rescue us all!”

I yelled over the roar, “Thank you! But it wasn’t just me. It was God who gave me the courage.”

The applause thickened. “You’re too modest, Mike!” “I hope that your God saves you!”

                “I hope so too!”

----

I stopped working on The Captives around page 100. I can’t remember why, but I think it had something to do with how excited I was for my new project, The Warrior’s Heart. Here’s a brief synopsis:

A Christian teen named David is on his way to Argentina for a missions trip when his plane crashes, and he alone escapes by parachute to a mysterious island, only to be taken hostage by a ruthless band of natives. He falls in love with a girl named Megan, and together they hike through the mountains, escape an avalanche and keep warm in a frozen canyon by hugging through the night. Then they kill a dragon and save everyone.

I wrote The Warrior’s Heart for several years in high school, rushing to the theaters every December among a host of other teenage novelists who found inspiration in The Lord of the Rings.

However, I never completed The Warrior’s Heart. I stopped around page 100. I’m not exactly sure what happened. I remember reading through the chapters I had written and noticing their enormous shortcomings. I remember despairing of ever being a real author, and consoling myself by starting a new novel: The Five Fates.

I worked on The Five Fates for a couple years, wrote about 100 pages, and stopped.

Exactly a year ago, I started The Red Road. This week, I passed page 100. I can feel the chapters dragging behind me, slowing my momentum. The past few weeks of writing have been hard. Reading backwards, I am not proud of everything I’ve written. Looking forward, I’m not confident I can write anything better. Maybe it would be best just to start from scratch with a new story, a better story.

In some ways, writing has only gotten harder as I’ve grown older. I’m not the Junior High student writing about dragons anymore. Each year that passes adds greater stakes to dreams like these.

I’ve talked to military kids who grew up moving every two years. When they finally decide to stay in one place for good, a restlessness assaults them at the two-year mark. They experience an impulse for flight as strong as that of migratory birds, an impulse which seems wrong to resist. For them, breaking the two-year cycle requires a feat of perseverance, a breaking of wrong instinct.

I think this is common to all of us. Who knows what wrong instincts we are all harboring in our bellies, unbeknownst to others and perhaps even to ourselves? Only you can know what secret, often nonsensical, urges you must work against.

For my part, I must break the 100-page barrier (among many other, more sinister, impulses in my life). Communicating how I feel is half the battle. As any verbal processor knows, there’s great significance in winding your way toward the perfect words. Some conversations I’ll spend hours processing through the same vague impressions, turning over the same words again and again until I’ve come by that perfect, distilled image or phrase. When I find it, I may repeat the phrase for days or even weeks, trying to remember which friends I’ve shared it with so the revelation doesn’t seem rehearsed when I process it for the tenth time.

Finding a good phrase is like discovering a diagnosis for your sickness. These muscle pains, fevers, and wheezing cough aren’t just random symptoms anymore: they have a proper name.

There are many truisms we writers use to encourage ourselves. One of the most famous (and one that’s helped me from time to time) goes roughly like this:

Writing is like driving at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole journey that way.

I recently stumbled across a new metaphor that makes sense of how I feel today as I sit down to write:

Writing is like making crop circles without a ladder.

I start the day where I left off, tracing the previous day’s curve until I arrive at a dead end of corn. Then I start clipping away, projecting from the previous day’s trajectory to guess today’s. Some days I take a machete with me and cut stalks in wide swaths. Other days I bend them with tiny scissors, troubling over each stalk.

In the beginning I had a clear picture in my mind of what I wanted this crop sign to look like. But it’s been a year, and the picture is getting blurry. I don’t have a helicopter or plane, and even when I drag my stepping stool into the middle of the field, it doesn’t afford much perspective. The stalks rise over my head. I try to measure out the distance between lines and circles, but there’s no way of knowing whether it’ll look right from the sky. I’m lost in my own corn maze with a pair of scissors.

So there’s my picture, my phrase. It doesn’t solve my problems, because novels can’t be solved, only made. But at least I have a few words for why this is so hard. Like David from The Captives and The Warrior's Heart, I am committed to surviving, slaying my dragons, and—most importantly—romancing a girl named Megan.*

*The name Megan, like the dragons I'm slaying, is metaphorical. Just in case you were wondering.

Encouraged by Steven Curtis Chapman (and others things cool Christians don’t say)

I’m just going to come out and say it. Last month I cried while listening to Steven Curtis Chapman.

It was an accident! I was searching my iTunes for a soundtrack for a drive to Denver, and I happened to see a Steven Curtis Chapman album, leftover from when I helped my mom load songs on her IPOD, and I decided to listen to a few songs for laughs, and—

There’s no escaping it. I cried. Steven Curtis Chapman reduced me to babyish tears—maybe because I listened to him when I was a baby.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Steven Curtis Chapman—or perhaps you didn’t know he was still alive and able to sing—he is a Christian songwriter whose career began in 1987, one year before I was born. The Christian music industry we know today didn’t yet exist. Chapman was a pioneer, a description easily confirmed by a glance at his stallion mullet and a quick listen to his lyrics:

Saddle up your horses, we’ve got a trail to blaze

Through the wild blue yonder of God’s amazing grace!

I don’t listen to Christian—or any other—radio. Having worked many years for a magazine that marketed to Christian bookstores, I have a distrust for the industry. I thought I was inoculated against campy Christian lyrics.

But there comes a day when you’re driving along, just trying to pick up a lamp from IKEA, and BAM!—Steven Curtis Chapman happens. His golden retriever soul might make you weep, but he’ll wipe your tears with his luxurious mullet.

Alright, I’m getting carried away.

This has been a rough [week, month, year…?], which has made me extra susceptible to surprise jolts of encouragement, especially in musical form.

Music is emotional. Feeling complacently content, we hum. We get frustrated, and the humming stops without our noticing. If I want a quick gauge of how I'm feeling, singing provides an easy reference.

A few months ago I felt like God was asking me to sing to Him. I ignored Him. Far from singing, most of my prayer times had involved me sitting on my bed with a glum expression and praying with a weary voice. I knew that if I showed how miserable I was, He would feel sorry for me and respond.

Remember being sick as a kid? There’s a certain showmanship involved. You must show that you’re sick enough to stay home from school another day, sick enough to get out of chores, sick enough to justify lounging on the couch with a drawn face. But you must also be well enough to go to a friend’s house if they invite you over, well enough to eat the pizza your mom is making, well enough to enjoy the perks of being sick.

God asking me to sing was like asking me to give up my claims to sick person perks. No more looking miserable, no more begging out of duties, no more complaining about how bad I felt. I’d been feeling bad a long time, and I'd developed some fine tricks for surviving in conservation mode. I didn't want to lose them.

When God did speak to me, I was slow to respond. It was just so ridiculous. I would have been more apt to take action if he’d given me a prescription for more introspection, more analyzing, talking with a new mentor, reading a book about despair, reading a whole stack of books on despair. I could have read the heck out of those books!

But singing was stupidly easy. And it was the only thing I felt God might be leading me to do.

I started singing in my living room when my roommates were away. Haltingly, with pitiful, uncertain tones, I made up aimless songs with lyrics like, “I believe you’ve been really good to me,” and, “I think I still love you, God.”

It’s been awkward, but also really good. I’ve begun to thaw. I sing made-up songs to God, and it cheers me up almost against my will. The singing reminds me what it felt like to love God, what it felt like to be grateful. It’s almost like I could feel that way again.

I’ll admit, it’s hard to say that God is good, to smile, to tell people how lucky I am to be a son of God. The pain I feel is precious to me—so precious that I am loathe to let it go. I’m quick to add disclaimers to my praise. “He’s good but I’ve been let down before.” I prefer the position of a judge, evaluating a spread of feelings and experiences to decide whether God is in fact good.

In the Psalms, David continually writes phrases like, “I will open my mouth” and “I will not hide your goodness within me.” He is quick to openly declare God's goodness. I want to be like that. I want to acknowledge the good that has been done to me. There’s so much of it!

I’m not suggesting we ignore our deep pains. The Bible is clear that those who mourn are blessed, while those who laugh now will soon mourn. But the blessing Jesus spoke to those who mourn is a promise of coming comfort. For me, singing has preceded the comfort of the Lord. I sang of God’s goodness before I felt it, and somehow that opened the door for me to receive.

It’s not natural. Children of a skeptical generation, we tend to turn up our noses at exuberant adoration. It’s hard to stomach Steven Curtis Chapman’s optimism, his cheerful assertion that “God will finish what He started/No thread will be left unwoven… We’ll stand as the ones completed/By the miracle of His love.” But it’s hard to retain a callous attitude when I remember that these lyrics were written by a man whose daughter was tragically killed not too long ago, accidentally run over by a family member in his own driveway. And somehow he’s still able to sing. That’s something I can’t easily belittle.

I don’t know what God is asking of you, what key He will use to lead you out of mourning. But I want to encourage you to give in to His strange tactics. I want to encourage you to praise before you feel thankful, to stretch yourself for a sure and coming joy.

God has helped me worship Him, even when I felt I couldn't. God has been good to me.

Blog Hop: What I’m Writing and Other Reflections on Claiming Artisthood

A few weeks ago, my friend Meredith posted a blog entry answering four questions about her writing. When I read to the end, I was surprised to see that she had asked me and some other writers to answer the same four questions. So here I am, coming back to my blog after a long absence for this pleasantly self-indulgent exercise. Hope you enjoy it!

What am I writing and working on?

Last fall I quit my full-time job to begin writing in a more concentrated way. It’s been nearly a year, and even though I am once again working about 40 hours a week, I am still writing.

The main project is a novel, but I also dabble in short stories, songs, and essays when the mammoth weight of the novel gets too much.

Fiction:

The Red Road. This is the biggie. I started this novel in college for a novella class and placed the first fifty pages into my professor’s hands, if only to remove them from my sight. My A- earned, the novel sat mostly dormant for three years. Last fall, with much encouragement from friends, I sat down with a basic memory of the story and began to type, starting at the very beginning as Maria Von Trap recommends.

The novel follows two boys as they walk along a forbidden road to save their village. It’s a journey narrative, fraught with danger, brotherhood, and mythology. I spend nearly 10 hrs a week plugging away on this story. I hope that, many years from now, you’ll pick up a copy at your local bookstore if those are still a thing.

“Churchgoing.” This is a short story about a seminary student visiting his mom’s church during Christmas break. His high-minded sensibilities clash with the church’s charismatic exuberance, pushing him uncomfortably toward an O’Connor-esque encounter with grace. This story is a ton of fun to write, and I sometimes embarrass myself by laughing out loud at my own writing. I haven’t shared fiction publicly since college, but I hope to post “Churchgoing” on the blog when it’s complete.

Non-Fiction:

You may have noticed that my blog has been dormant for awhile. This is due in part to the amount of focus The Red Road demands, but also in part to the difficulty I’ve had making sense of my life. Every now and then I’ll record a partial thought on my computer, dipping a ladle into a boiling pot to see if anything has congealed. The thoughts that emerge generally land in one of two categories, which will eventually form the basis of two blog series:

“Recovering Narrative.” Recently I’ve struggled to form a meaningful narrative from the disjointed pieces of my life. “Recovering Narrative” discusses various crises of faith, confusion over where my life is heading, and the way God has led me painstakingly back toward a meaningful narrative.

“In Defense of Beauty.” I’ve been gathering material and writing notes for this piece for many years now. I’m fascinated by the ways we avoid beauty, insisting on mediators which inoculate us to its influence. “In Defense of Beauty” is my love-letter to the world, the kind that’s written both to praise and provoke.

Music:

Does anyone remember that one time I promised to have a homemade CD out by April 2014? Does anyone remember how that never happened?

Well I’m SORRY! I’m still working on that, although not very consistently. I’ve been pretty disappointed by the sound quality of what I’m able to do at home. I really should take a month off from writing the novel to make some headway on this project. I should also lower my standards—a lot. But let’s be honest, neither of these is likely to happen anytime soon. I guess the world will have to wait.

I am, however, writing some songs. My current favorite:

“Eyes Facing Out.” This is a simple ditty I’ve been turning over in my mind for several months, concerning the strange way God made us. I think it’s really interesting that we can’t see our own faces or really even hear what our voices sound like, that we need others to see and hear us.

If you’re interested in any of these projects, give a shout out! Your encouragement keeps a tired writer going!

How does my work differ from others in the genre?

My work differs from others’ in one key way—it is unfinished. I know that’s a big copout, but I’ve always been a restless policeman. (That’s an attempted pun on “cop-out.” It doesn’t really work. Pretend it does and laugh!)

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that my work is unfinished. That in itself sets it apart from nearly every work that has inspired me, encouraged or chastened me, and ultimately inspired me to write. When I compare myself to Marilynne Robinson or C.S. Lewis, I am comparing my beginning endeavors to their finished work. I have no access to their scribblings, their embarrassing false starts, the dirty layers hidden beneath years of revision.

I’ve sometimes compared writing a novel to building a plane. It can’t fly at all till the work is mostly done. A constant labor of faith and imagination is required to believe that such a heavy thing will ever get off the ground.

Why do I write what I do?

In a broader sense, I write novels because that is the form that best facilitates the way my mind works, allowing space for interconnectedness and slow-brew revelations. I enjoy the marathon pace.

In a specific sense, I’m writing The Red Road because I promised I would. I have been a novelist since I was young, but I have never finished a novel. There are many days when I don’t feel any affection for this story (and many days I do). And there’s no guarantee I’ll be published. For me, writing The Red Road is mostly about becoming a person who can persevere beyond aborted projects and half-formed ideas, becoming a person who finishes things that matter.

How does my writing process work?

People often ask me if I’m done with that novel I’m working on. For the next several years, assume the answer is no. A better question would be, “How’s the novel coming along?” An even better question would be, “Would you like a generous coffee patron?”

Flannery O’Connor describes novel-writing as “a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay.”

I like that quote because it makes what I do sound EPIC. In reality I’m just sitting at a coffee shop, typing, my hair and teeth fully intact. I quietly add paragraphs and pages to a work that seems not to grow longer.

I keep a tally of my writing hours in an excel spreadsheet like a budget. The danger is to think I’ve been writing when I haven’t. The numbers keep me honest (mostly).

When I sit down to write, I try not to rehash my identity as a writer. I try not to question whether my work has any worth. A year ago, I made a decision through prayer and a lot of consideration, and I have to trust it. The right time for self-doubt was approximately 75 pages ago. Which must mean that now is the time for faith.

I’m not going to tag more friends, because I don’t know enough bloggers. But do yourself a favor and check out Meredith’s blog, Very Revealing. My favorite entries so far are “My Mustache Brings all the Boysto the Yard,” “Walking off the Career Path,” and--what has to be the most encouraging thing I've read in a long time--“Learning How to Run (well, walk).”

Becoming Korean #5: The right time for foot massages, mentoring, etc.

Last night, I went to a special dinner with the Koreans.* David (second youngest and most energetic of the boys) rode with me, while the others drove in the van.

“In America,” David said, “what age can you get a driving license?”

“Sixteen,” I replied.

“In Korea, any age can get a foot massage license.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Even five-year-old,” he added. “But tiny hands, so maybe not.”

I have been tutoring Korean students for a year and a half now, and I am still caught off guard by these strange and precious moments.

I suspect that I am not the only teacher who is on the lookout for “moments.” Hollywood has trained me to expect sudden breakthroughs of insight or connection, in which the student suddenly blooms. The gangbanger teeny opens up about his abusive father. The school outcast stands on her desk and bursts into song. These are the moments a teacher/mentor has been taught to expect.

I’ll admit, I’ve tried to force one a few times. Early this year, while helping Daniel with his homework, I came across a question that asked, “What would you like your friends to remember you for?”

Daniel had written, “Math.”

“I think it’s asking for something a little different,” I said, seeing an opportunity to get down to the nitty gritty (yes, I am using my Nacho Libre voice here).

I explained, “Like, maybe I would want my friends to remember me for being a nice guy. Or caring about them. You know what I mean? Is there anything that you would think, ‘I hope my friends will remember me for that?’”

He lit up as if struck by sudden inspiration and said one word: “Scientist.”

It’s real-life epiphanies like this that make you realize life isn’t as dramatic as the movies. The “moments” we stumble upon are mostly ordinary, accented with comedy.

But then again, some moments are awesome.

Some moments, you take two Koreans to your sister’s orchestra concert.

Daniel is enthralled by the orchestra, and Paul has brought a camera to document the concert. Taki, who is the boys’ guardian while the house parents are out of town, is enamored. Throughout the concert, Daniel whispers to me twice, once to ask me if this is a Christian school (no), and second to ask if I know that he will turn 13 in February (didn’t know that either).

When the concert is over, I introduce the boys to my grandma.

“This is Paul, and this is Daniel.”

“Daniel,” my grandma says, and she stares into the distance. “That’s what we were going to name…”

My mom gives her a warning look, and she trails off. I’m left standing on the brink of a mystery—that’s what you were going to name WHO?—and Daniel is left stranded on half an introduction. On my list of the awkward ways Grandma has introduced herself to my friends, this claims second. (Number one was when she introduced herself to some college friends by wiggling her fingers toward their feet and saying “Ticky, ticky.”)

Later, my mom introduces Daniel and Paul to a Korean girl from the orchestra who is friends with my sister. While Paul and Ju Yung converse in Korean, I overhear my grandma asking Daniel, “Is ‘Konichiwa’ Japanese?”

Daniel says yes, and then goes to inspect the snack table.

A friend touches Ju Yung’s arm and says hi, and Taki takes advantage of the opportunity to lean close to Paul, cup her hand next to his ear, and ask, “Is she a Christian?”

“Of course!” he whispers back.

As we’re walking out, I say in a playful manner, “That was a good concert. Nice cookies, nice girls…”

“Nice cheese balls,” Daniel adds.

In the car going home, Daniel asks me if I am good at math. Daniel is a math wiz.

“I was good at algebra and calculus, but it’s been eight years, so I don’t really remember much.”

“If you were a maniac for math, you would remember.”

“That’s true,” I say. (“That’s true” is my go-to response when I’m dumbstruck by the awesomeness of something Daniel says.)

I ask Daniel, “Are you a maniac for math?”

“Yes. And for Toby Mac.”

Without exaggeration, we have had no fewer than 15 conversations about Toby Mac, each of which begins with Daniel asking if I have heard of Toby Mac. Other recurring questions include “Have you heard of John Steinbeck?” and “Did you know Of Mice and Men has swear words in it?”**

“If you could be a car,” Daniel says, “what car would you be? Not like, you could drive it, but like you are the car.”

“I don’t know. I guess a Jeep Rangler or something.”

“I would be a Rolls Royce,” Daniel says.

“Your grandma very nice lady,” Taki says.

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Josh, I saw a Rolls Royce commercial… Mr. Josh?”

When we drive at night, Daniel often thinks I have stopped listening if I keep my eyes on the road.

“I’m listening,” I say.

“I saw a Rolls Royce commercial, and there were three characters, and they were all holding up their M-I-D-D-L-E finger.”***

Moments like these are some of the highlights of my life right now. They are unplanned, unexpected gifts that make me surge with gratefulness and a certainty that life is indeed good.

Yet, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t mention that being a tutor can be a fearful endeavor. Not fearful in the way that being an ER nurse or a foster parent would be fearful. More like an uncle who suddenly realizes his responsibility to his nieces and nephews goes deeper than being the fun-initiator.

Some days, Mrs. Joy has stepped onto the porch with me as I leave, shivering in her slippers and clutching her arms against her stomach. She tells me how worried she’s been about the boys, how some of them have been getting into trouble. She asks me to pray for them, to be a good example. She asks me to help. Only Daniel is her son, but she calls the students “my boys.”

During a time of frequent uncertainty, restlessness, and melancholy, the Koreans’ home has been a source of unexpected grace. Yet, I’ve become increasingly aware that this is more than just a blessing to me, that I am meant to be a blessing to them, and I feel my inadequacy. I am not a dad. Neither am I a trained teacher. I don’t know how to encourage these boys. I want to invite them to do things with me, to go bowling, to get coffee, but I find myself shy and insecure.

Some insecurities I face:

1.                    Is this creepy? (There’s this kid next door whose family is pretty messed up. I recently asked if he wanted to play basketball or go hiking or something, only to be told later by my family that my “reaching out” may have sounded regrettably close to, “Hey kid, want some candy?”)

2.                    Will I be rejected? (What if they would rather I left them alone?)

3.                    Do I have anything to offer? (I can barely keep my own life together, so what makes me think I could mentor others?)

Several of my friends and I have been talking lately about the verse in Malachi that says, “God will turn the hearts of the fathers to the sons and the sons to the fathers.” Many of us have had the experience of reaching out to spiritual fathers and mentors, only to feel frustrated when the vulnerability isn’t reciprocated. I am not old—I relate more to the son than the father—but even in my small way I’ve encountered fears that I imagine many fathers face, ones which hinder the Biblical movement of father to son. I am now of “mentoring” age, and I find myself second-guessing every interaction. Do I have anything to offer?

I cling to the same hope that inspires most of my interactions with friends and family—that somehow merely loving them will be enough.

A few months ago, as I was struggling to overcome my insecurity in loving these boys, Paul sat down beside me and said, “I respect you.”

I thanked him and laughed it off awkwardly, but he punched me in the arm, looked me in the eyes, and said, “No, I respect you.”

I was shocked at how vulnerable he was being with me, how much courage he displayed. Could I be that vulnerable, not only when I’m the younger one, the one in need, but when I’m acting as a father?

There are people in my life who may secretly be longing, if not for a father, for an older brother to come alongside them. If I quietly decline to engage with the young people in my life, no one will call me a coward.
But let's be real here: the people in my life are not hard to love. God has seen fit to surround me with incredibly lovable people. So why not start taking those risks now, while the sacrifice is small?

*Incidentally, I use the term “the Koreans” because I can’t think of a better way of naming this ragtag group of people. They are not all from the same family or attending the same school, but they are all Korean. So, at the risk of reducing them to their lowest common denominator—the Koreans.

** Daniel once opened to the final page of Of Mice and Men and read the final sentence aloud to me: “Curly and Carlson looked after them. And Carlson said, ‘Now what the h-’” at the word “hell” he breathed out an “h” sound and then mumbled the rest of the line. He looked at me to see if I was scandalized. I was not.

***While blogging, I often wonder if people would care if they knew I was mentioning them online. I have had several conversations with my mom that conclude with her saying, “Don’t put that in your blog!” This has become a bigger concern with this entry in particular, as I have recently become friends with Paul and David on Facebook. I don’t think they’ve read any of my blogs, and I wonder what they would think if they did. The ethics of blogging is something I’ve thought about a lot, and I still haven’t come to a conclusion. I hope that anytime I write about another person, any resulting humor or empathy arises from a shared humanity, not alienation or a violation of trust. What do you think about the ethics of blogging? Leave your opinion in the comments!