My co-worker Brittane and I try to have lunch together whenever we can– last spring, amidst some crazy parts in our lives, we were getting together every Friday, walking over to the college cafeteria, and sharing as much of our lives as possible over our short lunch break. Brittane would roar at me, “THE GOSPELLLLLL,” with one hand raised in the air in praise, her reminder to both of us to KEEP THINGS IN PERSPECTIVE, and over the course of several months, it became our war-cry. Our prayers shortened to, “Thank you for this food, this friend, and the gospel.” Then we would each raise a hand and repeat, “THE GOSPELLLLL!”
Gospel. Good news.
And it belongs to us. I am so happy to have this good news in my chest like a story, covering me like a shield, on my brow like a crown. I claim it. I spread it over my life like a blanket, like a slogan.
Jesus Christ lived and died and lives again; it makes all the difference in my life.
Even though I have been writing since I was a kid …
Even though I have a degree in creative writing …
Even though I have written almost every day for the last four years …
I sometimes still feel as if I have no idea what I am doing. Once a month, I meet with a group of talented women writers who read my work and give me ideas on how to improve my work, and I leave these meetings doubting myself, wondering if I should go to grad school to learn more, if I should be reading other books than what I am, if I should throw in the towel.
I won’t. I love writing too much to do that. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t go home wondering if I am wasting everyone’s time with the scratches and jottings that I bring to the table every month.
My knowledge of the craft is still so limited. My stories lack essential ingredients that I’ve known about since grade school. My scenes go nowhere. My characters are hard to believe. I am thirty years old, and sometimes I feel as if I know nothing.
This is not the fault of the women in my writing group. This is a lack of confidence in myself and in my work.
And yet, when I consider it, I know that I have grown as a writer in the years since undergrad. I know that, draft after draft, I am improving. I have a fierce dedication, such that I would write even if I were guaranteed to not find success.
Any ideas or encouragement for this doubtful girl today? Please share.
Once my writing instructor showed me a book, the spine of it flat like a bridge with a steep slope on each side, and said, “A lot of times we feel that walking in God’s will is like this, a skinny path that we have to walk carefully or else we’ll slip easily out of it. But I think it’s more like this.” She flipped the book around and opened it, so that the pages formed a sort of valley into the creased center of the book. “We are safer than we think.”
What I know is that when I am writing I feel safe inside the will of God, as if I am walking in that crease, protected on either side in a way that actually guides me along the path. Writing is this safe and holy valley for me.
To write, you have to think, to risk, to intuit, to listen– and so, after I write, I feel as though I have spent time with God. As if he has taken my hand and reminded me, This is what I made you for, as I explore the world with him.
I love to re-read books, but there is nothing quite like that first time through, when absolutely anything can happen and you can’t put the book down because you have to know what happens next. I miss that. There are a handful of books that, when my friends read them for the first time, I find myself jealous of the original, first-time-through reading.
Here are books that I wish I could read again and experience for the very first time:
1. All of Harry Potter, but especially the end of Deathly Hallows. I finished it on a work trip in Aberdeen, South Dakota, in the early morning hours, while my heart raced and I stopped every few paragraphs to count through horcruxes on my fingertips– “The diary … the locket … the ring … the cup … what am I missing?!” And that walk into the forbidden forest, not knowing what was going to happen next. I was weeping like a baby and loving every single moment of it.
2. All of Narnia, but especially Voyage of the Dawn Treader. When Lucy walked down that empty hallway on the island of the dufflepuds, I was sincerely terrified, having zero idea of what was ahead. I felt every step with the same trepidation as Lucy … or more (she is braver than I am!).
3. Finnikin of the Rock. So many wonderful surprises in this clever book; if only I could go back with a tabula rasa and be shocked once more at the discoveries!
4. When You Reach Me. Unraveling this one as I went was so exciting that I remember shouting aloud when I finally figured things out. While I will love this book forever, I will never get to have that “aha!” moment again.
5. That Hideous Strength. To perch on that terrifying edge of the future, not knowing whether good or evil would triumph … not knowing how good could possibly overcome this pervasive, “progressive” evil … propelled through the pages, needing to know …
To me, there are two places in scripture that embody the depression and hopelessness inspired by OCD.
The first is in Luke 23:48-29, which takes place immediately after Jesus has died: “And all the crowds that had assembled for this spectacle, when they saw what had taken place, returned home beating their breasts. And all his acquaintances and the women who had followed him from Galilee stood at a distance watching these things.” This one is more implied than overt, of course, but I can clearly imagine the deadness in the hearts of his friends as they watched their great hope dangle dead on a cursed tree.
The second is Psalm 88. I’m drawn toward the Message version, and I used to sob as I read these words, feeling their truth weigh on my heart like the worst kind of pain and loneliness that existed.
God, you’re my last chance of the day.
I spend the night on my knees before you.
Put me on your salvation agenda;
take notes on the trouble I’m in.
I’ve had my fill of trouble; I’m camped on the edge of hell.
I’m written off as a lost cause,
one more statistic, a hopeless case.
Abandoned as already dead,
one more body in a stack of corpses,
And not so much as a gravestone— I’m a black hole in oblivion. You’ve dropped me into a bottomless pit, sunk me in a pitch-black abyss.
I’m battered senseless by your rage,
relentlessly pounded by your waves of anger.
You turned my friends against me,
made me horrible to them. I’m caught in a maze and can’t find my way out, blinded by tears of pain and frustration.
I call to you, God; all day I call. I wring my hands, I plead for help.
Are the dead a live audience for your miracles?
Do ghosts ever join the choirs that praise you?
Does your love make any difference in a graveyard?
Is your faithful presence noticed in the corridors of hell?
Are your marvelous wonders ever seen in the dark,
your righteous ways noticed in the Land of No Memory?
I’m standing my ground, God, shouting for help,
at my prayers every morning, on my knees each daybreak.
Why, God, do you turn a deaf ear?
Why do you make yourself scarce? For as long as I remember I’ve been hurting; I’ve taken the worst you can hand out, and I’ve had it. Your wildfire anger has blazed through my life; I’m bleeding, black-and-blue. You’ve attacked me fiercely from every side, raining down blows till I’m nearly dead. You made lover and neighbor alike dump me; the only friend I have left is Darkness.
I praise God that he faithfully saw me through the very worst throes of OCD, and I believe that he will see me through whatever else lies ahead. But I have known deep depression, darkness so intense that I could see no escape, terror that ignited my heart with a wild fury. And he has seen me through it all.
There is hope. Even though those friends couldn’t imagine it in their wildest dreams as they stared at that lifeless body stapled to the cross, the resurrection was just around the corner.
Several things have recently come together to inspire me to write this post. First of all, you should know that, in general, I have not been the biggest supporter of fan fiction because
1. It is usually bad.
2. Or dirty.
3. And I’d rather invent my own characters and world instead of piggybacking on someone else’s.
In fact, I have gone so far as to write a scene describing it as such:
The leader of Emmaus University’s brand-new fan fiction club was named Mallory Stevens, and somehow I’d agreed to be the club advisor. “Can it be crossover fan fiction?” one girl asked us at the sign-up table on Club Day. “I have some stories where Harry Potter stumbles through a wardrobe at Hogwarts and finds himself in Narnia.”
“That sounds great!” Mallory gushed, while I inwardly cringed. “Are the Pevensies there too?”
“Yeah,” said the girl, flushing with pride, “I think Harry and Lucy are going to fall in love. Maybe. We’ll see.” She bared her teeth when she smiled, looking more than a little pleased with herself. I smiled back, but really, I was mortified that one of my creative writing professors would walk by at any moment and see that I was mopping the floors in literary hell.
But is that assessment too harsh?
Just last week John Green (whom I adore, and whose story The Fault in Our Stars was the inspiration for my novel) posted a video with his thoughts on fan fiction:
To summarize, he rather likes it because it allows people to explore areas the author didn’t without making it canon: “to write and write creatively without there being an authoritative voice about the story.” Fair enough.
And, let’s be honest, I already do this. Just the other week I posted this story, exploring life after The Last Battle. And then, last Monday, I wrote a whole post about how I think about the Narnia characters outside of just the books, including– and I quote— “Because I have the heart of a thirteen-year-old teenybopper, I often wonder about the love story of the king and queen of Archenland. There is so much teenage angst in it that it almost makes me want to write fan fiction. Almost.”
Writing and posting “Nine Names” plus thinking about Cor and Aravis plus John Green’s video all intersected in such a way that …
I have to admit …
this week, I chose to write some fan fiction.
I decided to try a writing prompt from fanfiction.net, one where I’m given 50 words/themes, and my challenge is to write one sentence about each. I liked this idea because it was different, intriguing, and because it was a challenge to write fifty tiny vignettes that somehow gave snapshots into a story and yet were not really a story themselves— not quite.
I am embarrassed, but without further ado, I present to you my Narnia fan fiction, which– to be honest– I hope is the last of its kind. 🙂
#01 – Comfort
In those early weeks at Anvaard, she’d nightmare and cry out in her sleep, but when she’d sit up in her bed, slick with sweat and heart pounding louder than the hooves of the 200-horse army of her dreams, he’d be there—silent in the corner, gentle but with a newfound ferocity in his eyes.
#02 – Kiss
He didn’t speak in those midnight wakings but would take her small, dark hand into his pale one and wait for her breathing to slow, and when it did, he’d press his mouth to her fingers and leave her, knowing she’d sleep soundly till morning.
#03 – Soft
He didn’t know that though her breathing slowed, her heart always beat faster.
#04 – Pain
Daylight was a different story: “At least when you’re sleeping, you quit arguing,” Cor muttered after yet another fight.
#05 – Potatoes
She stares at them warily—back home, they were flavored with garlic and onion and made her eyes sting—but next Corrin passes a big dish of yellow butter, and she’s grateful for these northern lands.
#06 – Rain
It was so dry on the other side of the desert that on the first night of rain, she marches straight out into it and laughs.
#07 – Chocolate
It takes Corrin twenty minutes to convince them to bite into the horrid-looking brown thing.
#08 – Happiness
There are nights they spend around the fire sharing poetry and songs, and when Corrin embellishes his stories, Cor and Aravis catch each other’s eye across the fire and smirk.
#09 – Telephone
“I’m only telling you what Hwin told me Bree told her he’d heard Cor mention to the king,” Corrin says, “but you can make of it what you will.”
#10 – Ears
Why do her ears and face get hot when she thinks of him talking to his father about her?
#11 – Name
One night he stays after her nightmare and hears her whisper, “Shasta,” before she smiles in her sleep.
#12 – Sensual
He didn’t tell anyone about his dream that night, especially not Corrin.
#13 – Death
He’s been thinking of his mother a lot and what she’d think of him now—even taller than Corrin and (secretly) enjoying his education.
#14 – Sex
The Queens of Narnia give Aravis her first exposure to late-night girl-talk, and the young Tarkheena is grateful they can’t see her blush in the darkness of the room.
#15 – Touch
Another argument; only this time, he closes his eyes and takes her hand.
#16 – Weakness
She didn’t want him to let go, but her pride made her withdraw.
#17 – Tears
“Just something in my eye,” Cor tells his twin, who would be merciless.
#18 – Speed
When she needs to be alone, she rides like a maniac up into the mountains.
#19 – Wind
The wind rolls down from Stormness Head like a gale, like a baptism.
#20 – Freedom
Only once has she gone to the border, staring southward across the desert, realizing for the first time that she had been in slavery there too.
#21 – Life
She returns to Anvaard with new purpose, a clearer mind.
#22 – Jealousy
When he sees Corrin and Aravis whispering on the terrace, he seethes, but when they hug before parting, it’s a night for the history books: for once, it’s he who knocks his brother down.
#23 – Hands
Aravis is small but strong, and she pulls Cor off of his brother, shouting at him while he shouts at Corrin while Corrin just laughs and laughs.
#24 – Taste
“Listen to me, you idiot!” she says, taking his face in her hands and shutting him up by putting her mouth over his.
#25 – Devotion
His response is … enthusiastic.
#26 – Forever
The two retreat to the garden to share overdue truths.
#27 – Blood
King Lune only rolls his eyes when he sees Corrin’s bruises the next morning; Cor apologizes handsomely to his brother without letting go of her hand.
#28 – Sickness
Joy floods the king’s heart, soaking the cough that sits in his chest like a sponge.
#29 – Melody
She grins when she hears the crown-prince whistling after breakfast, knowing she is the reason for the tune.
#30 – Star
“Your father says they are people,” she whispers to him while she stares at the sky. “Can you imagine such beauty?” He says, “Yes,” and he is looking at her.
#31 – Home
She was confused at first over where to call home; then she dreamed of the lion and knew.
#32 – Confusion
There is concern in all their eyes when the king mutters nonsense before it’s even dark.
#33 – Fear
“Something’s wrong with Father,” Corrin says, and it’s that tone of voice—serious, like Corrin never is—that scares Cor the most.
#34 – Lightning/Thunder
They hold each other through the storm, and when it grows late, neither wants to leave.
#35 – Bonds
“Let’s get married,” he whispers, “so that we can stay like this.” “That almost sounds like a proposal,” she responds, an eyebrow raised, intrigued.
#36 – Market
Aravis asks Bree if she should do some of their old-fashioned “raiding” for the gown, and he grins, remembering.
#37 – Technology
Lasaraleen sends her regrets, but also a present: a most interesting wind-up toy that reminds Aravis of her friend’s pet monkey; they hide it in Corrin’s room.
#38 – Gift
The king looks strong on his son’s wedding day, and he tears up as he tells her, “The lion returned him safely to me; today I give him to you.”
#39 – Smile
He will never forget the way she looked at him while he made his promise: all at once, he saw her as a child, a proud Tarkheena, a humbled princess, a future queen and mother, and he loved all of the girl she had been and was now and would be.
#40 – Innocence
They are awkward with each other that first night, but sweet; the future king and queen have a few things to figure out first before they can manage a kingdom.
#41 – Completion
She purrs like a cat as she curls into his side to sleep, and he has never been happier.
#42 – Clouds
The fog from Stormness is thick on the day they leave for their honeymoon in Terebinthia; Aravis wonders if it’s a sign, but Cor can’t fear the fog, not anymore.
#43 – Sky
“Their majesties are missing out on the good views, shut up in their cabin as they’ve been,” comments one sailor. “I think they rather like the views inside,” quips another with a wink.
#44 – Heaven
This is perfect, to discover each other while carried on the waves of the Great Eastern Ocean.
#45 – Hell
But the lion meets them with hard news on the island; to put it quite gently, King Lune has gone home to Aslan’s country.
#46 – Sun
How can it shine when his father is gone? “Because he is not gone,” she tells him, though he didn’t ask aloud.
#47 – Moon
“I’m not ready to be king,” he whispers on the deck that night as they return to Archenland.
#48 – Waves
The ship rocks gently as a cradle, reminding him that he is safe between those great paws.
#49 – Hair
When he returns to the cabin, she is sleeping soundly, her dark hair lying silken on the pillow. She doesn’t nightmare anymore, he realizes, then understands it’s because of him.
#50 – Supernova
The lion’s strength fills him like light, like brilliance.
I have been trying to pause, peel away my thirty years of Christian upbringing, strip myself of my identity, and just objectively consider that statement: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”
Mind-boggling.
There is nothing normal about God deciding to slip into human flesh.
What a revolutionary idea. A brilliant, heartbreaking, down-and-dirty choice. Christianity is so mysterious, so fascinating, so raw.
JACKIE LEA SOMMERS 