Robin Layne's Blog: From the Red, Read Robin, page 3
October 7, 2013
Your Real Age?
I went to Wordstock yesterday; I couldn’t make it Saturday because we had auditions for our next Well Arts performance (which will be in the first two weekends of November). Sorry to miss one day of my favorite book fair, I didn’t have time to visit every booth. But what a wonderful and useful time I had! It was the most productive Wordstock ever for me.
Much of the event inspired me. I wrote notes to myself in the margins of my spiral-bound pad. One of those notes was a provocative concept to mull over. Observe me mulling.
In the panel Writing for Children and Teens, authors Jane Smiley and Melanie Thorne both mentioned “achieving a certain age and staying there forever.” This seemed like a new and unusual idea. I asked the panelists to expand on this thought. The moderator interpreted my question to mean what inner age each of them were inside, but I was more interested in what the idea meant in the first place. The women said it refers to the moment you become “a real person, a real human being” (Jane), “the core you.” Jane said it was the summer she topped 6 feet tall. Her ADD had left her out of touch, she said, until the day she woke up and saw “the world looked different from up here.”
I’m unaware of such an epiphany in my life—at least, so far. I feel I always knew I was unique and real and individual. So much so, in fact, that I used to fantasize that there was a TV show called “Robin” that was all about me—my creativity and intelligence, my struggles to get along with other kids, and my need to be understood. I thought I was great. My parents said I was an old little soul, so I thought I was wiser than most people, including them. Maybe I was. The struggle of not being understood or accepted was painful, but I believed that, just as if they saw my imaginary TV show, people would one day know how great I really was because I would be a famous artist and writer when I grew up. Then my peers would be sorry they had teased me when we were little.
Did most people miss out on that feeling of greatness and individuality? I never understood the desire for kids to be carbon copies of each other and to ostracize anyone who in any way didn’t fit the cookie cutter that I think none really fit inwardly anyway. I never understood adults with the same childish attitude, either. It still strikes me as the epitome of immaturity. I recall some spiel about a movie or something about a team of heroes bent on “protecting the ordinary from the extraordinary.” How imbecilic! I thought. Why protect them from us? We are all extraordinary in our own ways. We were each made in the image of God—a different facet of his very nature. What could be more extraordinary than that?
Even before I started reading the Bible and learned I was made in the image of God, I knew I was extraordinary. But I didn’t know everybody else was. They were mostly so bent on being ordinary that I couldn’t see past that plain disguise. So I was stuck up, and that didn’t help me make friends, either. What do you do when all your drawings are much more realistic and expressive than the other kids’ your age? When they either hate you out of envy or hate themselves because they can’t draw as well as you do? How about when you just have to finish writing out the idea you just had rather than go on an excursion with acquaintances? That didn’t win me friends, either. At some point I had to learn that people are more important than books. But still, there is a balance . . . and at a place like Wordstock, I’m surrounded by nerdy booklovers like myself—good people, good books, and talking about books and people—what a winning combination!
But still—if there is a moment I missed, or several of them, in which I became the core me and then stayed there to this day, I ask the Lord to reveal that to me. It seems to me I must keep growing up in some ways while staying a child in others . . . childlike rather than childish, I’ve heard it said.
When I was a child, I thought that my golden year was age 5. That was before I realized how disliked I was destined to be, and I spent a great deal of my time hamming it up to family and friends of family. I think of my inner child as being forever five.
It’s interesting that although it was only the women who defined the concept, all four panelists had an answer about their inner age (Tad Hills had to think about it a bit). Having a younger real or inner age must make it easier to write about a character who is that age. But if you are stuck at that age forever, how do you write about that character growing up? Maybe I won’t know unless and until I find out my “real” age. Or do I already know it? Is it five? If so, maybe I am an old little soul, even if it’s not in the sense that my parents thought.
I can’t resist adding a reference to “becoming real” in one of my favorite stories, The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams. I repeat its message as well as I can remember it. Becoming real, says the wise old Skin Horse, isn’t how you are made. It’s something that happens when you are loved for a very long time. You may get loved into a shabby condition, but when you are real this doesn’t matter.
I know that I have been loved for a very long time. We all have been, but knowing it, really experiencing it so that it’s not just a fact but the core of who you are deep inside, is key to being real. Most of the toys in the story get it all wrong. They think they are real if they have clockwork making them move and make sounds, but those toys stop working, the child loses interest in them, and they are abandoned. Toys that break easily have a hard time being loved, because love hurts sometimes. It’s a deep message. Though it’s a children’s book, I didn’t learn about it until I was at least a teen, maybe older.
When I was little, I had no idea of how deeply I was loved or who loved me. In Sunday school, we sang about it but I didn’t experience it, so “Jesus Loves Me” meant worse than nothing to me. I thought it was a stupid song. Jesus wasn’t real to me, so how could he love me? I hated singing nonsense songs and learning boring stories about strangers hearing strange voices and doing strange things. Wow, what a change came over me once the Bible told me what church somehow could not. At some point “Jesus Loves Me” became my favorite song. But I never drowned in that ocean of love until I was 24. Maybe that’s my real age. The age that my Savior romantically wooed me, healed my broken heart from all those bad past relationships by replacing it with the union of our hearts. He got me alone, isolated from others, and sensitized to spiritual realities. In a vivid mental vision, I saw him climb in my window, walk up to me, and climb into my body. From the inside of me, he showed me what he feels for me and others, acted out the works of his Father’s obedient Son, and communicated his intimate thoughts with me. And he showed me then and over the years what perfect love is.
Maybe I’m not 24, though. Because I’m always growing in that love. Maybe it’s my mind catching up with my heart. Or both catching up with my spirit. Maybe my real age is always what I am becoming. Maybe I’m the age Jesus was when he finished his work; maybe his age is all I ever need to be. Or I should count from the day in my childhood when I first asked him into my heart, because I’m told my spirit became alive that day. But I never recorded the day or year, nor the November day in 1984 when he walked into me, or the day (was it the same one?) in which he first called me his wife. Sad not to have an anniversary, but my life was in a really mixed-up state back then. Drowning in love can be very messy, but I don’t regret a second of it.
I got confused later, and set aside the intimacy Jesus brought me. Eventually I got it straightened out, and then I really wanted to have an anniversary date. I wanted a ceremony to solidify the ethereal bond, and he showed through some other beloved people that he wanted to as well. So on the 20th of November, 1999, I dressed in a wedding gown and, accompanied by three friends and my one daughter, celebrated with music, shared the story of our romance, and let the Lord who is within me place a ring on my left hand. Freed even more deeply from wounds and sins that haunted me, I stomped on the communion goblet we had drank from.
So now I see there are multiple ways I could define my real age. I cannot settle on any one of them. Which is fitting. I never was good with numbers.
Much of the event inspired me. I wrote notes to myself in the margins of my spiral-bound pad. One of those notes was a provocative concept to mull over. Observe me mulling.
In the panel Writing for Children and Teens, authors Jane Smiley and Melanie Thorne both mentioned “achieving a certain age and staying there forever.” This seemed like a new and unusual idea. I asked the panelists to expand on this thought. The moderator interpreted my question to mean what inner age each of them were inside, but I was more interested in what the idea meant in the first place. The women said it refers to the moment you become “a real person, a real human being” (Jane), “the core you.” Jane said it was the summer she topped 6 feet tall. Her ADD had left her out of touch, she said, until the day she woke up and saw “the world looked different from up here.”
I’m unaware of such an epiphany in my life—at least, so far. I feel I always knew I was unique and real and individual. So much so, in fact, that I used to fantasize that there was a TV show called “Robin” that was all about me—my creativity and intelligence, my struggles to get along with other kids, and my need to be understood. I thought I was great. My parents said I was an old little soul, so I thought I was wiser than most people, including them. Maybe I was. The struggle of not being understood or accepted was painful, but I believed that, just as if they saw my imaginary TV show, people would one day know how great I really was because I would be a famous artist and writer when I grew up. Then my peers would be sorry they had teased me when we were little.
Did most people miss out on that feeling of greatness and individuality? I never understood the desire for kids to be carbon copies of each other and to ostracize anyone who in any way didn’t fit the cookie cutter that I think none really fit inwardly anyway. I never understood adults with the same childish attitude, either. It still strikes me as the epitome of immaturity. I recall some spiel about a movie or something about a team of heroes bent on “protecting the ordinary from the extraordinary.” How imbecilic! I thought. Why protect them from us? We are all extraordinary in our own ways. We were each made in the image of God—a different facet of his very nature. What could be more extraordinary than that?
Even before I started reading the Bible and learned I was made in the image of God, I knew I was extraordinary. But I didn’t know everybody else was. They were mostly so bent on being ordinary that I couldn’t see past that plain disguise. So I was stuck up, and that didn’t help me make friends, either. What do you do when all your drawings are much more realistic and expressive than the other kids’ your age? When they either hate you out of envy or hate themselves because they can’t draw as well as you do? How about when you just have to finish writing out the idea you just had rather than go on an excursion with acquaintances? That didn’t win me friends, either. At some point I had to learn that people are more important than books. But still, there is a balance . . . and at a place like Wordstock, I’m surrounded by nerdy booklovers like myself—good people, good books, and talking about books and people—what a winning combination!
But still—if there is a moment I missed, or several of them, in which I became the core me and then stayed there to this day, I ask the Lord to reveal that to me. It seems to me I must keep growing up in some ways while staying a child in others . . . childlike rather than childish, I’ve heard it said.
When I was a child, I thought that my golden year was age 5. That was before I realized how disliked I was destined to be, and I spent a great deal of my time hamming it up to family and friends of family. I think of my inner child as being forever five.
It’s interesting that although it was only the women who defined the concept, all four panelists had an answer about their inner age (Tad Hills had to think about it a bit). Having a younger real or inner age must make it easier to write about a character who is that age. But if you are stuck at that age forever, how do you write about that character growing up? Maybe I won’t know unless and until I find out my “real” age. Or do I already know it? Is it five? If so, maybe I am an old little soul, even if it’s not in the sense that my parents thought.
I can’t resist adding a reference to “becoming real” in one of my favorite stories, The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams. I repeat its message as well as I can remember it. Becoming real, says the wise old Skin Horse, isn’t how you are made. It’s something that happens when you are loved for a very long time. You may get loved into a shabby condition, but when you are real this doesn’t matter.
I know that I have been loved for a very long time. We all have been, but knowing it, really experiencing it so that it’s not just a fact but the core of who you are deep inside, is key to being real. Most of the toys in the story get it all wrong. They think they are real if they have clockwork making them move and make sounds, but those toys stop working, the child loses interest in them, and they are abandoned. Toys that break easily have a hard time being loved, because love hurts sometimes. It’s a deep message. Though it’s a children’s book, I didn’t learn about it until I was at least a teen, maybe older.
When I was little, I had no idea of how deeply I was loved or who loved me. In Sunday school, we sang about it but I didn’t experience it, so “Jesus Loves Me” meant worse than nothing to me. I thought it was a stupid song. Jesus wasn’t real to me, so how could he love me? I hated singing nonsense songs and learning boring stories about strangers hearing strange voices and doing strange things. Wow, what a change came over me once the Bible told me what church somehow could not. At some point “Jesus Loves Me” became my favorite song. But I never drowned in that ocean of love until I was 24. Maybe that’s my real age. The age that my Savior romantically wooed me, healed my broken heart from all those bad past relationships by replacing it with the union of our hearts. He got me alone, isolated from others, and sensitized to spiritual realities. In a vivid mental vision, I saw him climb in my window, walk up to me, and climb into my body. From the inside of me, he showed me what he feels for me and others, acted out the works of his Father’s obedient Son, and communicated his intimate thoughts with me. And he showed me then and over the years what perfect love is.
Maybe I’m not 24, though. Because I’m always growing in that love. Maybe it’s my mind catching up with my heart. Or both catching up with my spirit. Maybe my real age is always what I am becoming. Maybe I’m the age Jesus was when he finished his work; maybe his age is all I ever need to be. Or I should count from the day in my childhood when I first asked him into my heart, because I’m told my spirit became alive that day. But I never recorded the day or year, nor the November day in 1984 when he walked into me, or the day (was it the same one?) in which he first called me his wife. Sad not to have an anniversary, but my life was in a really mixed-up state back then. Drowning in love can be very messy, but I don’t regret a second of it.
I got confused later, and set aside the intimacy Jesus brought me. Eventually I got it straightened out, and then I really wanted to have an anniversary date. I wanted a ceremony to solidify the ethereal bond, and he showed through some other beloved people that he wanted to as well. So on the 20th of November, 1999, I dressed in a wedding gown and, accompanied by three friends and my one daughter, celebrated with music, shared the story of our romance, and let the Lord who is within me place a ring on my left hand. Freed even more deeply from wounds and sins that haunted me, I stomped on the communion goblet we had drank from.
So now I see there are multiple ways I could define my real age. I cannot settle on any one of them. Which is fitting. I never was good with numbers.
September 26, 2013
From Dancing with the Devil to Hugging the Lord: Playing “Money” in “Miracle Man”
I held the tent flap closed with my right hand, except for the little hole I created to see through. In my left hand, I held a fanned-out wad of money. A hand in a long, black satin glove grabbed mine and together we strode out into the hot sun of Portland’s Pioneer Square; I kept my eyes on the Devil as I mirrored the being’s movement—lifting my free arm and shaking the twenty dollar bills , then pulling my arm dramatically down. The Devil, all in black, with an elaborate mask over the eyes, moved with all the grace of the ultimate puppet master, charming one after another of us to tempt and torment a straying child of God. Released, I held my prize beyond the slim girl’s reach as she begged. I shook my head. I pointed to the necklace Jesus had given her when she had romped and danced with him in innocence and freedom. I motioned for her to give it to me. The girl hesitated, but I nodded. She finally relented—removed her string of colorful beads and handed it to me, then reached out for her reward. Holding my the necklace, I held the money beyond her reach, laughed in pantomime, and backed off. I took my place in front of the lover with the red rose who had first charmed her away from Paradise. I compared my money to the necklace. My lips curled in disgust. I tossed the worthless piece of junk aside. I didn’t even look aside when Jesus lunged forward and picked it up. I was too intent on my beloved mammon. I held it up, kissed it, counted it, counted it again.
By that time, the third “sin,” Vanity, had approached in her violet dress and styled hair, measured the girl’s waist, found her wanting, and taught her to vomit. Next, a drunkard in Mardi Gras beads spun awkwardly out of the Devil’s grasp, stumbled up to the girl, and introduced her to a bottle of something that made her sputter. A drug lord followed, and then, at the depths of her despair, the girl imitated Suicide, who wore a black hood and led her in cutting her arm . . .
The Devil was actually a woman named Sarah, an amazingly talented dancer, who wore not Prada but ballet slippers. When she was younger, she used to dance for Ringaling Brothers Circus. She was a good leader in the “sin” tent, although she had a tendency to talk during rehearsals in spite of the orders of the director/producer/choreographer, Carissa, who also played a demon in this fourteen minute show, “Miracle Man.” Members of Westside Vineyard Church, we performed our dance four times on Saturday, August 3, at Pioneer Square in Portland, Oregon, as part of our annual Heaven to Earth Festival. Yes, I know, I’m a little late at describing it. I’ve been very busy.
Getting free of being a “sin” took some time and a little struggle. First, in response to a backward glance at the girl (played by a teen named Lisa), Jesus pushed all the sins aside and let another girl (Kaitlin), who had stayed loyal to him throughout, pull the gun from Lisa and pled for her to let go of her shame and be reconciled to her Lord. As all this took place, I couldn’t watch. I had to stand motionless with my head down, until Satan and two demons crept out and brought us back up again. Then we reached out toward Lisa like zombies, pleading with our respective props. She considered turning back to her sins, then turned her attention fully to Jesus. Three angels in white stepped in front of us, and we backed off from the unseen barrier. The demons went back to casting their spells to keep us wrapped up with our symbolic props. I went back to counting money, but this time my expression was less gleeful, more hardened.
Jesus danced again with both his girls, and then spun them in our direction. They brought each of the tempters to Jesus, going from the first to the last. I kept counting and kissing my money until they got to me. I looked from one to the other, confused, as they dragged me forward; I offered them money, but strangely, they showed no interest whatever. As soon as I crossed the line of angels, I saw Jesus face-to-face. Seeing his loving gaze changed everything, just as it did for all the others. For, unlike the “sins” in the Lifehouse “Everything Sketch,” on which our drama was based, we were also people—just people who had been enslaved by Satan.
I ran into the Lord’s embrace. During rehearsal, I had suggested that I might knock him over with my weight and enthusiasm. “Jesus” was a tall high school student who looks older than he really is. He wore blue jeans, and a purple sash over a white tee-shirt that got a little “blood” on it when Suicide and Lisa hugged him. But like the rest of us, the boy had Jesus in him; God’s love shone in his beautiful blue eyes.
We lined up on either side of Jesus and, when he gave the signal, marched forward against Satan and the demons. As one, we held out our hands as if to push them away, and the angels charged between us and routed the evil ones, who ran into the tent to the right of the stage. The applause in the accompanying music was joined by the cheers of the generous-sized audience.
Together we turned and walked back to Jesus. We circled him and danced around him in worship. “Holy . . . You are holy . . . who was, and is, and is to come . . .” (“Miracle Maker,” sung by Kim Walker)
We then each had a short moment of interaction with the Lord—first Kaitlin hugged him , then I hugged him again, bowed, and walked behind the circle back to the tent. Suicide also went back to the tent, but other than Satan, we were the only ones who didn’t join in the final dance—a rousing hip-hop to “I Feel So Alive,” by Capital Kings.
Here is a link to the video, which was recorded during the first and second performances: http://youtu.be/MawFxZEmq_w
The second performance contained the shots with the chalk markings on the bricks.
What the audience couldn’t see was that my performance (and all the rehearsals) were a sacrifice for me. I had injured my knees falling off a bike, and they were slow to heal. That was why I couldn’t do a controlled fall to the bricks like the others, and why Carissa changed it so I had to stand, which was painful too over a long period of time; she had Rachel, who played the drunkard, stand as well so that I wouldn’t stand out so much.
I wasn’t the only one injured during the course of rehearsals. I think something happened to Sarah early on. Then Daniel, and especially Lisa, suffered abrasions going down a concrete slide at a youth retreat. Lisa was banged up so badly she couldn’t let anyone touch her for a while, and a piece of gauze stuck to her wound as if it were part of her skin. The real Devil was trying hard to shut us down. But we persevered, and we kept praying and practicing. It all worked out well in the end.
Some events of note about the process: One Sunday night after we had rehearsed in the afternoon, I was in the cry room in back of the sanctuary, and Daniel was asleep in an easy chair. In front of me I noticed a familiar brown ponytail from the back. Sarah, I thought. I said to her, “Jesus conked out, but Satan is still wide awake and prowling around.”
The woman turned and stared at me. “What?” It wasn’t Sarah, and she had no idea why I had just called her Satan.
On the day of the outreach, many of us arrived early to help set up the tents: A stage for the worship bands; a large prophetic art and children’s tent complete with a bubble machine, art supplies, and paintings on display; a healing tent, where a number of people would experience miracles through God’s love; a “messages from God” tent, where believers prayed and gave people words of knowledge and encouragement. Our drama group stayed in close communication so that we could be properly prepared for each of the performances of “Miracle Man.” At lunchtime, we walked together from Pioneer Square toward the Waterfront, toward a stretch of outdoor food booths. On the way, I saw a billboard with my prop on it: Key Bank used a fan of twenty dollar bills to advertise its gift of free money to new customers. The major difference was that the billboard showed real bills. Mine showed Shakespeare instead of Jackson on the front and I had carefully stapled them back-to-back so the blank backs didn’t show on either side of the “fan.”
As I hung out in the art tent between performances, a couple of our members spoke of some needy people whom they had met who said they would come to the Heaven to Earth Festival. These people never arrived. Tim, one of our dancers, said they must have been distracted by “Sarah.” We may have a new code word, we agreed. When I told Sarah later, she said, “I’m never going to live this down!”
On another day following the festival, the drama group gathered one final time to debrief, to sign Thank You cards for the people in the church who had interceded for us, and to receive awards. Each award certificate was unique. Mine, which now hangs in my apartment entryway, is “the superstar perseverance award.” Carissa’s is “the multipersonality award” because she was the writer, director, choreographer, and also played a demon that transformed into an angel for the final dance. Daniel’s award said, “I’m God. Who the heck are you?” We discussed possibly performing again in the future, and many said they were interested. But when asked if we might perform at a Waterfront outreach this month, not enough people were interested, and there would not have been enough time to create a new drama for a small number of people. Really, it’s no surprise; most of our performers are students, and it’s September.
Ironically, my knees are finally healed, so I could have done it much easier. Now that I am no longer needed for the part, there is no pressure from “Sarah.”
By that time, the third “sin,” Vanity, had approached in her violet dress and styled hair, measured the girl’s waist, found her wanting, and taught her to vomit. Next, a drunkard in Mardi Gras beads spun awkwardly out of the Devil’s grasp, stumbled up to the girl, and introduced her to a bottle of something that made her sputter. A drug lord followed, and then, at the depths of her despair, the girl imitated Suicide, who wore a black hood and led her in cutting her arm . . .
The Devil was actually a woman named Sarah, an amazingly talented dancer, who wore not Prada but ballet slippers. When she was younger, she used to dance for Ringaling Brothers Circus. She was a good leader in the “sin” tent, although she had a tendency to talk during rehearsals in spite of the orders of the director/producer/choreographer, Carissa, who also played a demon in this fourteen minute show, “Miracle Man.” Members of Westside Vineyard Church, we performed our dance four times on Saturday, August 3, at Pioneer Square in Portland, Oregon, as part of our annual Heaven to Earth Festival. Yes, I know, I’m a little late at describing it. I’ve been very busy.
Getting free of being a “sin” took some time and a little struggle. First, in response to a backward glance at the girl (played by a teen named Lisa), Jesus pushed all the sins aside and let another girl (Kaitlin), who had stayed loyal to him throughout, pull the gun from Lisa and pled for her to let go of her shame and be reconciled to her Lord. As all this took place, I couldn’t watch. I had to stand motionless with my head down, until Satan and two demons crept out and brought us back up again. Then we reached out toward Lisa like zombies, pleading with our respective props. She considered turning back to her sins, then turned her attention fully to Jesus. Three angels in white stepped in front of us, and we backed off from the unseen barrier. The demons went back to casting their spells to keep us wrapped up with our symbolic props. I went back to counting money, but this time my expression was less gleeful, more hardened.
Jesus danced again with both his girls, and then spun them in our direction. They brought each of the tempters to Jesus, going from the first to the last. I kept counting and kissing my money until they got to me. I looked from one to the other, confused, as they dragged me forward; I offered them money, but strangely, they showed no interest whatever. As soon as I crossed the line of angels, I saw Jesus face-to-face. Seeing his loving gaze changed everything, just as it did for all the others. For, unlike the “sins” in the Lifehouse “Everything Sketch,” on which our drama was based, we were also people—just people who had been enslaved by Satan.
I ran into the Lord’s embrace. During rehearsal, I had suggested that I might knock him over with my weight and enthusiasm. “Jesus” was a tall high school student who looks older than he really is. He wore blue jeans, and a purple sash over a white tee-shirt that got a little “blood” on it when Suicide and Lisa hugged him. But like the rest of us, the boy had Jesus in him; God’s love shone in his beautiful blue eyes.
We lined up on either side of Jesus and, when he gave the signal, marched forward against Satan and the demons. As one, we held out our hands as if to push them away, and the angels charged between us and routed the evil ones, who ran into the tent to the right of the stage. The applause in the accompanying music was joined by the cheers of the generous-sized audience.
Together we turned and walked back to Jesus. We circled him and danced around him in worship. “Holy . . . You are holy . . . who was, and is, and is to come . . .” (“Miracle Maker,” sung by Kim Walker)
We then each had a short moment of interaction with the Lord—first Kaitlin hugged him , then I hugged him again, bowed, and walked behind the circle back to the tent. Suicide also went back to the tent, but other than Satan, we were the only ones who didn’t join in the final dance—a rousing hip-hop to “I Feel So Alive,” by Capital Kings.
Here is a link to the video, which was recorded during the first and second performances: http://youtu.be/MawFxZEmq_w
The second performance contained the shots with the chalk markings on the bricks.
What the audience couldn’t see was that my performance (and all the rehearsals) were a sacrifice for me. I had injured my knees falling off a bike, and they were slow to heal. That was why I couldn’t do a controlled fall to the bricks like the others, and why Carissa changed it so I had to stand, which was painful too over a long period of time; she had Rachel, who played the drunkard, stand as well so that I wouldn’t stand out so much.
I wasn’t the only one injured during the course of rehearsals. I think something happened to Sarah early on. Then Daniel, and especially Lisa, suffered abrasions going down a concrete slide at a youth retreat. Lisa was banged up so badly she couldn’t let anyone touch her for a while, and a piece of gauze stuck to her wound as if it were part of her skin. The real Devil was trying hard to shut us down. But we persevered, and we kept praying and practicing. It all worked out well in the end.
Some events of note about the process: One Sunday night after we had rehearsed in the afternoon, I was in the cry room in back of the sanctuary, and Daniel was asleep in an easy chair. In front of me I noticed a familiar brown ponytail from the back. Sarah, I thought. I said to her, “Jesus conked out, but Satan is still wide awake and prowling around.”
The woman turned and stared at me. “What?” It wasn’t Sarah, and she had no idea why I had just called her Satan.
On the day of the outreach, many of us arrived early to help set up the tents: A stage for the worship bands; a large prophetic art and children’s tent complete with a bubble machine, art supplies, and paintings on display; a healing tent, where a number of people would experience miracles through God’s love; a “messages from God” tent, where believers prayed and gave people words of knowledge and encouragement. Our drama group stayed in close communication so that we could be properly prepared for each of the performances of “Miracle Man.” At lunchtime, we walked together from Pioneer Square toward the Waterfront, toward a stretch of outdoor food booths. On the way, I saw a billboard with my prop on it: Key Bank used a fan of twenty dollar bills to advertise its gift of free money to new customers. The major difference was that the billboard showed real bills. Mine showed Shakespeare instead of Jackson on the front and I had carefully stapled them back-to-back so the blank backs didn’t show on either side of the “fan.”
As I hung out in the art tent between performances, a couple of our members spoke of some needy people whom they had met who said they would come to the Heaven to Earth Festival. These people never arrived. Tim, one of our dancers, said they must have been distracted by “Sarah.” We may have a new code word, we agreed. When I told Sarah later, she said, “I’m never going to live this down!”
On another day following the festival, the drama group gathered one final time to debrief, to sign Thank You cards for the people in the church who had interceded for us, and to receive awards. Each award certificate was unique. Mine, which now hangs in my apartment entryway, is “the superstar perseverance award.” Carissa’s is “the multipersonality award” because she was the writer, director, choreographer, and also played a demon that transformed into an angel for the final dance. Daniel’s award said, “I’m God. Who the heck are you?” We discussed possibly performing again in the future, and many said they were interested. But when asked if we might perform at a Waterfront outreach this month, not enough people were interested, and there would not have been enough time to create a new drama for a small number of people. Really, it’s no surprise; most of our performers are students, and it’s September.
Ironically, my knees are finally healed, so I could have done it much easier. Now that I am no longer needed for the part, there is no pressure from “Sarah.”
August 15, 2013
Glitches and Vampires and Blogs, Oh My!
Tonight I tried to add a few things to my basic profile information: My new blog address (though I'll keep this one going, too, with a different emphasis), and the news about my earning my editing certificate (see previous blog entry). Goodreads wouldn't let me save the changes because, it said, my Influence list was too long. I hadn't even changed my Influences list. I hadn't even touched it. And no matter what I did, I got the same message. I had to give up making the changes. I'm reminded of a shirt I once had (until it got stolen). It said "Computer Wizard and the Glitch." The Glitch was a little monster sitting on the wizard's shoulder.
Speaking of monsters, my friend Francis Franklin let me know about a contest (or it was originally a contest; I don't think now that it has winners, unless everyone nominated is a winner) called the Vampire Lover Blog Award. People were asked, If you could ask a vampire one thing, what would it be? Actually, some people submitted more than one question, but all 29 questions submitted are available to choose from by any vampire who wishes to respond by picking and answering 11. Being a writer of vampire stories, I was immediately interested, and I submitted a question and told Francis my Carletta was aching to talk. Soon I had four vampires lined up and wrote all their interviews in Word files. But someone was missing. Ah,then I remembered, the new kid on the block. I will post them all in the order I wrote them--but not on this blog, because it won't let me attach special images to my blog, and it's part of the rules to post the logo of the contest on your blog. So I started a new blog on Wordpress.com. Here it is, with 11 things about myself to start and then my first interview with a vampire: robinlayneauthor
If you want to join in the fun of the contest, see vampireloverblogaward
(I hope those links work. Writing them in code is a pain.)
Speaking of monsters, my friend Francis Franklin let me know about a contest (or it was originally a contest; I don't think now that it has winners, unless everyone nominated is a winner) called the Vampire Lover Blog Award. People were asked, If you could ask a vampire one thing, what would it be? Actually, some people submitted more than one question, but all 29 questions submitted are available to choose from by any vampire who wishes to respond by picking and answering 11. Being a writer of vampire stories, I was immediately interested, and I submitted a question and told Francis my Carletta was aching to talk. Soon I had four vampires lined up and wrote all their interviews in Word files. But someone was missing. Ah,then I remembered, the new kid on the block. I will post them all in the order I wrote them--but not on this blog, because it won't let me attach special images to my blog, and it's part of the rules to post the logo of the contest on your blog. So I started a new blog on Wordpress.com. Here it is, with 11 things about myself to start and then my first interview with a vampire: robinlayneauthor
If you want to join in the fun of the contest, see vampireloverblogaward
(I hope those links work. Writing them in code is a pain.)
Earned My Editing Certificate!
Since May of 2012, I have been taking U.C. Berkeley's extension program in editing, and as of August 6, 2013, I have finished all four consecutive online courses and am waiting to receive my certificate in the mail. It was quite an experience learning with adult students all over the world who share my passion in catching the errors in writing and helping others improve their self expression. The class was recommended by a local professional editor who taught a one-day class in starting your own editing business. Thank you for the tip, Charity Heller! And thank you for your class. I actually started my freelance editing and writing business, Robin Layne Enterprises, soon after taking Charity's workshop. I edit fiction as well as non-fiction, but fiction is my favorite. Besides my own freelance editing, I've had practice with fiction editing (and poetry editing, too--believe it or not, it can be done!) at Portland State University, where I earned my bachelor's degree in English, minor in writing, in spring 2012. All this after a 20-year break from school in which I raised a child by myself and thought I would never go back to college and finish what I started so long ago.
The editing sequence, I learned when I had almost finished it, includes editing of non-fiction only. A good number of us hope the program will be expanded to include fiction, in spite of learning that it doesn't pay as well. My last instructor, bless her heart, tried to convince me that non-fiction editing is better, to no avail.
The first class in the sequence is Grammar, Mechanics, and Usage for Editors, and includes lots of information about the appropriate terms and rules as well as practice copyediting. The second class is Introduction to Copyediting. Students almost exclusively use the track changes function in Word to do their editing. The third class is Intermediate Copyediting. The fourth is a big leap, Substantive Editing. This fourth and final course includes more copyediting practice with the addition of developmental editing (which I call seeing the forest rather than just the trees) and information about being part of a publishing team (something I had real-life practice with at PSU's Ooligan Press, but there is always more to learn). The final exam was another leap for me, long and difficult, and I wasn't the only person who wished I had another week to work on it. The best part of the exam was figuring out how to tackle the 3-part project, reinforcing knowledge about how I learn. For me, I had to write things down to think things through, so that was what I had to start with. The file in which I kept these notes evolved into the memo to the hypothetical authors I was editing for. I nibbled at the project from the sides, a bite from Part 3, Part 2, Part 1, and went back and forth until the thing took shape.
Everyone has a different learning style. Finding out yours is perhaps half the battle of getting an education. I hope you learn what works for you and that you never stop learning and growing all your life.
The editing sequence, I learned when I had almost finished it, includes editing of non-fiction only. A good number of us hope the program will be expanded to include fiction, in spite of learning that it doesn't pay as well. My last instructor, bless her heart, tried to convince me that non-fiction editing is better, to no avail.
The first class in the sequence is Grammar, Mechanics, and Usage for Editors, and includes lots of information about the appropriate terms and rules as well as practice copyediting. The second class is Introduction to Copyediting. Students almost exclusively use the track changes function in Word to do their editing. The third class is Intermediate Copyediting. The fourth is a big leap, Substantive Editing. This fourth and final course includes more copyediting practice with the addition of developmental editing (which I call seeing the forest rather than just the trees) and information about being part of a publishing team (something I had real-life practice with at PSU's Ooligan Press, but there is always more to learn). The final exam was another leap for me, long and difficult, and I wasn't the only person who wished I had another week to work on it. The best part of the exam was figuring out how to tackle the 3-part project, reinforcing knowledge about how I learn. For me, I had to write things down to think things through, so that was what I had to start with. The file in which I kept these notes evolved into the memo to the hypothetical authors I was editing for. I nibbled at the project from the sides, a bite from Part 3, Part 2, Part 1, and went back and forth until the thing took shape.
Everyone has a different learning style. Finding out yours is perhaps half the battle of getting an education. I hope you learn what works for you and that you never stop learning and growing all your life.
July 5, 2013
Stealing Time has Accepted My Story!
These days I have been staying up really late at night, so late it's early, as they say, to the point that someone said today that I'm a vampire. I deny it; I may write about vampires, but I have no fangs, don't bite people, and don't drink blood. I just don't usually get tired in the evenings. When it's late, however, I usually don't do any work, either--which may be why my system insists on staying up: It likes the game playing, the relaxation, and the chatting with friends on Facebook. It was typical yesterday morning that I was slowing down at 2 and looked at my email before I was about to shut down my computer. But this time, lo, a miracle! An fellow Robin (Jennings, I think it's safe to say) was apparently also up late, but she was working. She had sent me an acceptance letter for my story, "Like a Salmon, I Swam Upstream."
I was overjoyed to the point that it all felt unreal. I had given up hope on my submission to Stealing Time magazine because I had not heard from the publisher after several months of waiting, and, since it was an online submission, I thought the response would be sooner. I had told myself that the editors wouldn't take it because it didn't fit well enough with the issue I submitted it to. I had written it with the Pregnancy and Birth issue in mind, but, when I went to submit it, the magazine was no longer taking submissions to that issue. So I tried the Milestones issue instead. I also feared that the publishers might not like my Christian point of view. But now this editor said she LOVED the story and was excited to publish it. I figured she couldn't be more exited than me, but one had to wonder.
The email added that the story just needed a little bit of editing and that I would be referred to the fiction editor for that. Oops! I wrote my fellow Robin back (she shares the best name in the world with me) that I was very excited to have them publish my story but that it was not fiction; this story of a difficult unplanned pregnancy and a three-year nightmare legal battle over custody of my child was my personal experience, just as I remembered it.
I had sort of jumped the gun there in my eagerness to reply to the acceptance letter. A second email had followed right after it announcing an update on the information on my submission. I clicked the link it cited, and read a note that the words "fiction editor" had been a typo. A couple short notes followed clarifying that there was no more confusion. As I like to say, editors need editors.
Stealing Time is a literary magazine for parents. Between it's slick, expertly-illustrated pages, it showcases thoughtful fiction, non-fiction, and poetry having to do with parenting, step-parenting, grandparenting, and so forth. I was first introduced to the publication at Wordstock last year, where I met some of the editors and bought a copy for $6. They told me they accepted previously-published material, which was a relief to me, because practically any small exposure to a piece of writing is considered publication, and I've posted some of my stuff on the Internet and also had some published or "desktop published" in very limited circulation, thereby barring those works from most publications. In addition to this open door, this magazine pays well--much better than anyplace that has ever used my writing. Each writer gets a minimum of $100, with payment going up according to length and how much they love the piece.
The Milestones issue is for this summer and fall. You can read about the magazine, enjoy some sample stories, and submit your own work to the coming issue of your choice at StealingTimeMag.com.
Thanks go to the people who critiqued my story, and, many years ago, to the people who helped me get through all the rapids and snares of that time I wrote about. My daughter is 23 now, and living far away. Despite the present distance, I'm glad that we got to do a lot of growing up together, instead of her never knowing her mother at all. And thanks go to my own mother, who encouraged me to take up the fight, and who would be proud of me if she were still alive. Many people I could thank, but trying to remember them all here would give away too much of the story.
As I once read in Writer's Digest, "It's all copy." That is, whatever you go through in life, learn to eat your problems for breakfast, and, when they are digested, write what you remember, and sell it!
I was overjoyed to the point that it all felt unreal. I had given up hope on my submission to Stealing Time magazine because I had not heard from the publisher after several months of waiting, and, since it was an online submission, I thought the response would be sooner. I had told myself that the editors wouldn't take it because it didn't fit well enough with the issue I submitted it to. I had written it with the Pregnancy and Birth issue in mind, but, when I went to submit it, the magazine was no longer taking submissions to that issue. So I tried the Milestones issue instead. I also feared that the publishers might not like my Christian point of view. But now this editor said she LOVED the story and was excited to publish it. I figured she couldn't be more exited than me, but one had to wonder.
The email added that the story just needed a little bit of editing and that I would be referred to the fiction editor for that. Oops! I wrote my fellow Robin back (she shares the best name in the world with me) that I was very excited to have them publish my story but that it was not fiction; this story of a difficult unplanned pregnancy and a three-year nightmare legal battle over custody of my child was my personal experience, just as I remembered it.
I had sort of jumped the gun there in my eagerness to reply to the acceptance letter. A second email had followed right after it announcing an update on the information on my submission. I clicked the link it cited, and read a note that the words "fiction editor" had been a typo. A couple short notes followed clarifying that there was no more confusion. As I like to say, editors need editors.
Stealing Time is a literary magazine for parents. Between it's slick, expertly-illustrated pages, it showcases thoughtful fiction, non-fiction, and poetry having to do with parenting, step-parenting, grandparenting, and so forth. I was first introduced to the publication at Wordstock last year, where I met some of the editors and bought a copy for $6. They told me they accepted previously-published material, which was a relief to me, because practically any small exposure to a piece of writing is considered publication, and I've posted some of my stuff on the Internet and also had some published or "desktop published" in very limited circulation, thereby barring those works from most publications. In addition to this open door, this magazine pays well--much better than anyplace that has ever used my writing. Each writer gets a minimum of $100, with payment going up according to length and how much they love the piece.
The Milestones issue is for this summer and fall. You can read about the magazine, enjoy some sample stories, and submit your own work to the coming issue of your choice at StealingTimeMag.com.
Thanks go to the people who critiqued my story, and, many years ago, to the people who helped me get through all the rapids and snares of that time I wrote about. My daughter is 23 now, and living far away. Despite the present distance, I'm glad that we got to do a lot of growing up together, instead of her never knowing her mother at all. And thanks go to my own mother, who encouraged me to take up the fight, and who would be proud of me if she were still alive. Many people I could thank, but trying to remember them all here would give away too much of the story.
As I once read in Writer's Digest, "It's all copy." That is, whatever you go through in life, learn to eat your problems for breakfast, and, when they are digested, write what you remember, and sell it!
February 6, 2013
Transforming Stories for the Stage
"A Wall is a Road." That's the title that Katy, the creative director of the Well Arts Institute, has given to our writing group's upcoming second annual theatrical production. She had to come up with a title some time ago to put on the website. I'm not sure how she came by this name, but I love it.
I am privileged to live near Portland, Oregon, which has a a lot of opportunities for people who wish to write. Well Arts is one of the non-profit programs that is free to the public and involves writing in community. It's the only chance I've ever had to see my own writings acted out on stage by professional actors. Our group, Beautiful Minds, meets at a NAMI office twice a month. (NAMI stands for National Alliance for the Mentally Ill.) Anyone with a mental illness or who has a friend or relative who has one is welcome to join in--which means, as Katy puts it, practically anyone. At each meeting, Katy focuses on a theme, such as conflict, heroes and villains, or hidden treasure, and then we do a timed writing about whatever the theme suggests to us individually. Recently, Katy had us read stories by others by other members of the group and write responses to them, so that we would have more continuity in the production.
So many good stories put Katy in a difficult situation; a lot had to be left out to keep the drama from dragging too long. But I'm happy with the way her current draft fits together.
We had auditions for professional actors last Saturday. Three of us writers showed up. There are always more female actors than male ones. (Last year, two of my male characters had to become female ones because of this phenomenon. I've learned not to write about men as much.)Some of the women read the parts so well it was a difficult decision. But it is a dream come true to help in this decision-making and be part of a theatrical team. There's nothing like good acting to bring writing to life!
We also may have to do a lot of rewriting along the way to make our stories better and more fit for the stage. Katy is an excellent writing coach. I got very tired of making changes to my longest skit last spring, but it was worth it to see it all come together and note how audiences reacted.
Rehearsals for this March's production start in the latter part of next week. The writers are encouraged to come and help coach the actors and enjoy the process of the play taking shape. Actually, I hesitate to call the Well Arts shows plays, because they are more like patchwork stories knitted together for creative congruity. The actors have only a month to practice. As an aid to them and to emphasize the writings, the actors hold the scripts while they recite the words and show the emotions; the amount of action, props, and settings vary from group to group, presentation to presentation.
Last year, our show was called "What's Important Is the Story"--which was a line from one of my stories, and also the name of that story. My contribution of stories was the second largest (five of them). Four featured the same fictional character, a writer with a telepathic link with a bard in another dimension (the writer character was one who had to undergo a "sex change"). The fifth story was a monologue in which an actress playing me pondered how she came to have a love relationship with Jesus and the challenges that relationship weathered. Katy said it was the best thing I had written in the class. All six of the writers, and all six of the actors, are highly talented.
I caught a bad cold from going to all the rehearsals, but it was worth it. I saw all four showings, carefully timing my coughs so as not to interrupt dialogue.
Well Arts works with a number of different groups who have health challenges or face crises. Its philosophy is that the creative process is healing. Some of the other groups Well Arts works with to make plays are Voices of Our Elders (seniors in two different locations), Soldier's Heart (veterans), and Returning Heroes (writers who have taken part in a past production).
I don't know whether similar programs exist in other locations. If they don't, perhaps some people will investigate the Well Arts Institute and get some ideas about starting such organizations in their own areas. The website is http://wellarts.org/. (I'd create a real link here, but I'm confused by the description in the Formatting Tips.)
I am privileged to live near Portland, Oregon, which has a a lot of opportunities for people who wish to write. Well Arts is one of the non-profit programs that is free to the public and involves writing in community. It's the only chance I've ever had to see my own writings acted out on stage by professional actors. Our group, Beautiful Minds, meets at a NAMI office twice a month. (NAMI stands for National Alliance for the Mentally Ill.) Anyone with a mental illness or who has a friend or relative who has one is welcome to join in--which means, as Katy puts it, practically anyone. At each meeting, Katy focuses on a theme, such as conflict, heroes and villains, or hidden treasure, and then we do a timed writing about whatever the theme suggests to us individually. Recently, Katy had us read stories by others by other members of the group and write responses to them, so that we would have more continuity in the production.
So many good stories put Katy in a difficult situation; a lot had to be left out to keep the drama from dragging too long. But I'm happy with the way her current draft fits together.
We had auditions for professional actors last Saturday. Three of us writers showed up. There are always more female actors than male ones. (Last year, two of my male characters had to become female ones because of this phenomenon. I've learned not to write about men as much.)Some of the women read the parts so well it was a difficult decision. But it is a dream come true to help in this decision-making and be part of a theatrical team. There's nothing like good acting to bring writing to life!
We also may have to do a lot of rewriting along the way to make our stories better and more fit for the stage. Katy is an excellent writing coach. I got very tired of making changes to my longest skit last spring, but it was worth it to see it all come together and note how audiences reacted.
Rehearsals for this March's production start in the latter part of next week. The writers are encouraged to come and help coach the actors and enjoy the process of the play taking shape. Actually, I hesitate to call the Well Arts shows plays, because they are more like patchwork stories knitted together for creative congruity. The actors have only a month to practice. As an aid to them and to emphasize the writings, the actors hold the scripts while they recite the words and show the emotions; the amount of action, props, and settings vary from group to group, presentation to presentation.
Last year, our show was called "What's Important Is the Story"--which was a line from one of my stories, and also the name of that story. My contribution of stories was the second largest (five of them). Four featured the same fictional character, a writer with a telepathic link with a bard in another dimension (the writer character was one who had to undergo a "sex change"). The fifth story was a monologue in which an actress playing me pondered how she came to have a love relationship with Jesus and the challenges that relationship weathered. Katy said it was the best thing I had written in the class. All six of the writers, and all six of the actors, are highly talented.
I caught a bad cold from going to all the rehearsals, but it was worth it. I saw all four showings, carefully timing my coughs so as not to interrupt dialogue.
Well Arts works with a number of different groups who have health challenges or face crises. Its philosophy is that the creative process is healing. Some of the other groups Well Arts works with to make plays are Voices of Our Elders (seniors in two different locations), Soldier's Heart (veterans), and Returning Heroes (writers who have taken part in a past production).
I don't know whether similar programs exist in other locations. If they don't, perhaps some people will investigate the Well Arts Institute and get some ideas about starting such organizations in their own areas. The website is http://wellarts.org/. (I'd create a real link here, but I'm confused by the description in the Formatting Tips.)
December 28, 2012
Hopes for the Future
An editor at Libri Cruentus, which is publishing the War is Hell anthology, sent me an email saying there was "nothing wrong" with my story, "Against Heaven and Hell," but that there were so many submissions they were unable to include it. He said if they decide to publish a future volume they would like to include it. It was the most encouraging rejection letter I've ever received-for a number of reasons: For one, it was a personal note, signed by the individual editor, not a form rejection letter. For another, he liked the story enough to want to use it in a future book. "Nothing wrong" implies, among other things, that he didn't see any historical inacuracies--something I worked hard to avoid but still could happen because there's still so much I don't know. Thirdly, I was half-hoping this anthology would reject the story because I want to expand on it and improve it.
A second editor, whom I met through a writer's website, is interested in possibly publishing it. The good points of that are that he would let me increase the word count to up to 10,000 (making it a novella) and he would help me, as he already has helped me, improve it. I am very thankful to this man (his name is Rick) for not being possessive about the story but suggesting, even while helping me hone it, that I might make more of a profit if I made it into a book. And I am considering a book.
A third editor has also offered to possibly publish it. He has not read any of it, but he has read and enjoyed some of my YA novel-in-progress, Blood of the Willing.
So it may be that Blood of the Willing won't be my first published book, as I thought it would be. Instead, a related adult's book may pass it up to the finish line. It is certainly receiving cheers from an appropriate audience.
In the meantime, I submitted a short essay to a contest and didn't win, submitted a poem to a poetry group monthly contest on this site and am not a finalist, and have posted a memoir to SilverPen.org for critique, and will submit the final version to Stealing Time magazine, a literary publication for parents. I'm very glad they changed the deadline for the issue I'm sending this piece in for, from Jan. 1 to Jan. 15. I am still recovering from Christmas and unsure how I will manage New Year's Eve. I have obligations that fight for my attention: an edit to do to test how well and fast I can do a technical report, in the hopes that I can do more in the future; and a critique I promised in exchange for a critique I received.
Right now, I can't decide whether I'm more tired or more hungry, and it seems too early to go to bed. Heck, I can't even decide whether I'm pushing myself or relaxing. Is there something luxurious about abusing my body? But I will make a salad and go from there.
If I don't talk to you until next year, please don't be offended.
Take care until 2013,
Robin
A second editor, whom I met through a writer's website, is interested in possibly publishing it. The good points of that are that he would let me increase the word count to up to 10,000 (making it a novella) and he would help me, as he already has helped me, improve it. I am very thankful to this man (his name is Rick) for not being possessive about the story but suggesting, even while helping me hone it, that I might make more of a profit if I made it into a book. And I am considering a book.
A third editor has also offered to possibly publish it. He has not read any of it, but he has read and enjoyed some of my YA novel-in-progress, Blood of the Willing.
So it may be that Blood of the Willing won't be my first published book, as I thought it would be. Instead, a related adult's book may pass it up to the finish line. It is certainly receiving cheers from an appropriate audience.
In the meantime, I submitted a short essay to a contest and didn't win, submitted a poem to a poetry group monthly contest on this site and am not a finalist, and have posted a memoir to SilverPen.org for critique, and will submit the final version to Stealing Time magazine, a literary publication for parents. I'm very glad they changed the deadline for the issue I'm sending this piece in for, from Jan. 1 to Jan. 15. I am still recovering from Christmas and unsure how I will manage New Year's Eve. I have obligations that fight for my attention: an edit to do to test how well and fast I can do a technical report, in the hopes that I can do more in the future; and a critique I promised in exchange for a critique I received.
Right now, I can't decide whether I'm more tired or more hungry, and it seems too early to go to bed. Heck, I can't even decide whether I'm pushing myself or relaxing. Is there something luxurious about abusing my body? But I will make a salad and go from there.
If I don't talk to you until next year, please don't be offended.
Take care until 2013,
Robin
December 16, 2012
Conquering the Horror Within
Throughout November, I spent a great deal of my time composing and rewriting a short story that is just short of novelette length to submit to a horror anthology called War is Hell. Writers might be interested in the process (including finding six incredibly helpful people to critique it on short notice, for which I am eternally thankful), but anyone may benefit from the moral lesson that writing it drove home to me. My story, “Against Heaven and Hell,” concerns two people who hold onto their wounds and bitterness, and reveals the horrible paths they follow. The two people are a vampire named Luke and the infamous Benedict Arnold. The horror the tale highlights is something we can all find within ourselves: if we cling to bitterness, it can destroy us and, potentially, the people around us. Bitterness kills friendships, twists the conscience, blinds us to truth, robs us of health, leads to revenge, and ultimately ends in despair. Jesus said that people who refuse to forgive others will be turned over to tormentors until they have paid all they owe (Matt. 18:34)—not because God delights in seeing us tormented, but so that we might learn to show a little compassion in return for the huge amount of compassion He has shown to us. When we defeat bitterness by forgiving offenses, the person we release is ourselves. This is no new thought for many, but learning to walk in such freedom can still be a lifelong lesson.
While concentrating so much on writing “Against Heaven and Hell,” I found myself absorbing the attitudes of its two main characters. I grumbled at how little pay I would likely get for all my hard work. I felt that however fun this labor might be, my talent and time was worth much more. After all, such a piece of writing as this represents a lifetime of gathering and communicating stories for close to no compensation at all, and the result of half a century's work, I am pleased to say, is some of my strongest writing. I’m not the only person who shares such an opinion about this story. But I was falling into the same pit as Benedict Arnold when he harbored resentment toward Congress for not giving him his back pay.
Most people today know nothing about Benedict Arnold except that he was a traitor. But research reveals that he was a brave, charismatic general and a brilliant strategist—clearly one of the greatest heroes of the American Revolution. Without his help, the American cause may well have failed, and if he had succeeded in his betrayal, Britain would likely have won the war. George Washington thought the world of Arnold and did all he could to recognize his heroism. But General Arnold’s successes and temperament earned him some strong enemies, and he missed out on much of the recognition he deserved. Add to that plenty of time to stew over the injustices against him while he spent months in excruciating pain recovering from a battle injury, and you have a potential time bomb, if you will excuse a more modern alusion.
In my fictional story, a surgeon’s assistant tending Arnold encourages the bitterness in his heart and guides his thoughts toward the eventual betrayal of his country. My fictional character, Luke, acts as the embodiment of the temptations that beset the injured general, but in real life, we need no vampires to tempt us away from the healing that we can gain through forgiveness. It seems to be within our nature to hold onto offenses that have come against us, even though it means, so to speak, cutting off our noses to spite our faces.
We often make the mistake of thinking in terms of whether people who have hurt us deserve to be forgiven—as if it’s all a matter of the size of the offense, and we, as the offended, have the ability, and perhaps even the responsibility, to make that judgment. I have learned, however, that it’s not a matter of how bad the offence is, but of how much was paid by our loving Savior to rescue both the offender and the victim. The price was so high as to be compared with infinity.
Forgiveness is not always easy, no matter what we may know about it. When barbs pierce my heart, I don’t feel like I am forgiving the person who has hurt me. Sometimes the best I can do is choose to forgive, or, if that is not possible, to ask God to forgive for me (a model I learned from Jesus at the cross). The feelings of hurt and anger are normal, okay to feel, as long as we don’t cling to them and let them fester like gangrene in an old wound. The rule of thumb is to let go of these feelings within a day. “Don’t let the sun go down on your anger.” (Ephesians 4:26) In other words, don’t sleep on it and let a grudge seep into your dreams.
It may shock some to hear this, but sometimes the person we have to forgive is God. In the case of my character Luke, the incident that incites his evil bent is his childhood perception that his December 25th birthday has been supplanted by the baby Jesus—implying that from his very birth, Luke is slighted by God. It doesn’t matter how absurd the cause of our pain may seem. Feelings are important, especially if when we are children too young to make sense of our pain. It is important to acknowledge our anger. God is big enough to absorb it. In fact, he is the only one big enough to do so.
The feelings that accompany healing will follow the decision of the will to forgive. I’ve found it can take years, even decades, depending on the nature of the offense and our reactions to it, but the pain does lessen. I am convinced that the hard work of forgiveness is much more satisfying in the end than the seemingly easier road of resentment. And if we learn not to be offended in the first place, everything will be easier.
In other news, please note that I've just posted the final installment of “Manuel Pascal” under Robin’s Writings, in time for you to enjoy the entire tale for Christmas.
Wishing you all a blessed time as you celebrate the holidays this winter,
Robin
While concentrating so much on writing “Against Heaven and Hell,” I found myself absorbing the attitudes of its two main characters. I grumbled at how little pay I would likely get for all my hard work. I felt that however fun this labor might be, my talent and time was worth much more. After all, such a piece of writing as this represents a lifetime of gathering and communicating stories for close to no compensation at all, and the result of half a century's work, I am pleased to say, is some of my strongest writing. I’m not the only person who shares such an opinion about this story. But I was falling into the same pit as Benedict Arnold when he harbored resentment toward Congress for not giving him his back pay.
Most people today know nothing about Benedict Arnold except that he was a traitor. But research reveals that he was a brave, charismatic general and a brilliant strategist—clearly one of the greatest heroes of the American Revolution. Without his help, the American cause may well have failed, and if he had succeeded in his betrayal, Britain would likely have won the war. George Washington thought the world of Arnold and did all he could to recognize his heroism. But General Arnold’s successes and temperament earned him some strong enemies, and he missed out on much of the recognition he deserved. Add to that plenty of time to stew over the injustices against him while he spent months in excruciating pain recovering from a battle injury, and you have a potential time bomb, if you will excuse a more modern alusion.
In my fictional story, a surgeon’s assistant tending Arnold encourages the bitterness in his heart and guides his thoughts toward the eventual betrayal of his country. My fictional character, Luke, acts as the embodiment of the temptations that beset the injured general, but in real life, we need no vampires to tempt us away from the healing that we can gain through forgiveness. It seems to be within our nature to hold onto offenses that have come against us, even though it means, so to speak, cutting off our noses to spite our faces.
We often make the mistake of thinking in terms of whether people who have hurt us deserve to be forgiven—as if it’s all a matter of the size of the offense, and we, as the offended, have the ability, and perhaps even the responsibility, to make that judgment. I have learned, however, that it’s not a matter of how bad the offence is, but of how much was paid by our loving Savior to rescue both the offender and the victim. The price was so high as to be compared with infinity.
Forgiveness is not always easy, no matter what we may know about it. When barbs pierce my heart, I don’t feel like I am forgiving the person who has hurt me. Sometimes the best I can do is choose to forgive, or, if that is not possible, to ask God to forgive for me (a model I learned from Jesus at the cross). The feelings of hurt and anger are normal, okay to feel, as long as we don’t cling to them and let them fester like gangrene in an old wound. The rule of thumb is to let go of these feelings within a day. “Don’t let the sun go down on your anger.” (Ephesians 4:26) In other words, don’t sleep on it and let a grudge seep into your dreams.
It may shock some to hear this, but sometimes the person we have to forgive is God. In the case of my character Luke, the incident that incites his evil bent is his childhood perception that his December 25th birthday has been supplanted by the baby Jesus—implying that from his very birth, Luke is slighted by God. It doesn’t matter how absurd the cause of our pain may seem. Feelings are important, especially if when we are children too young to make sense of our pain. It is important to acknowledge our anger. God is big enough to absorb it. In fact, he is the only one big enough to do so.
The feelings that accompany healing will follow the decision of the will to forgive. I’ve found it can take years, even decades, depending on the nature of the offense and our reactions to it, but the pain does lessen. I am convinced that the hard work of forgiveness is much more satisfying in the end than the seemingly easier road of resentment. And if we learn not to be offended in the first place, everything will be easier.
In other news, please note that I've just posted the final installment of “Manuel Pascal” under Robin’s Writings, in time for you to enjoy the entire tale for Christmas.
Wishing you all a blessed time as you celebrate the holidays this winter,
Robin
If Wishes were Books
It would make a lot of sense if Goodreads added the following categories to the My Books status:
Started to read but had to return to the library
Started but may never finish
Started but will definitely never finish
Using as a reference
(any more you'd like to add?)
What do you think? I mean, I'm sure I'm not the only person who doesn't always finish a book she picks up, for whatever reason. And just because I've put a book down doesn't prove I want to erase it from my list.
Started to read but had to return to the library
Started but may never finish
Started but will definitely never finish
Using as a reference
(any more you'd like to add?)
What do you think? I mean, I'm sure I'm not the only person who doesn't always finish a book she picks up, for whatever reason. And just because I've put a book down doesn't prove I want to erase it from my list.
December 1, 2012
The Genesis of a Writer
I’m not sure there was one moment in my life when I realized I would be a writer. I think it was close to a destiny I always knew. Stories were important to me from the beginning. I loved the picture books my mother read to me. In kindergarten, our class made a book of pictures by each pupil; accompanying the drawings were short piece of writing we had dictated to the teacher. I acted out fairytales for family members and friends, like “The Three Bears” and “Cinderella.”
In first and second grade, we wrote stories and illustrated them on big-ruled sheets of paper. Our teachers gave us really creative prompts, and I think I got into more detail than the other kids, careful to include a logical beginning. In second grade I stayed in recesses to make my first picture book.
I was teased a lot by my schoolmates, and it cut me deeply. My family was unsympathetic to my complaints about it. I told myself that when I grew up I would be a famous artist and writer. Then those who had hated me would read about me in the newspapers and be sorry. I would show them I was better than a misfit crybaby, and better than all of them.
In third grade, I used to go visit my second grade teacher. I told her I was going to be an author. She pinched my cheeks and said, “Write children’s books.”
Sorry, Mrs. Palermo. My interests are broader, and I don’t pander to your expectations. I write what inspiration leads me to, not what one set age group dictates.
When I was still a child, it would take me hours to get to sleep, so I would make up novels in my head. Now I find that I can’t carry whole scenes in my memory for long without writing them down.
Although I still do a little art for my own pleasure, most of my art is to help me picture the characters in my stories or to design possible covers for the books. The “famous artist” part of my ambition has pretty much fallen by the wayside, leaving me more time to write. I’m driven to imagine, get it into words, and share it with others. Fame is slow to come by and not a need anymore. I’m famous to God. But I would like to produce published books. And I want to make a living on my writing!
I get the impression that most people think writing like mine is play and that I should spend my time doing more “important” things. Writing is enjoyable for me, but it also requires a lot of time and effort. Most of the markets out there pay nothing, and another large percentage pay a only a handful of dollars, I suppose for the purpose of saying you’re “paid.” Some writers make their living writing articles, but the really creative stuff doesn’t provide a living except to the rare superstar author. What are our values?
I write because I love stories. I write because the Lord I love is the Word. God made me in His image. And He is the Creator. So I am a creator, too.
(Sorry if a bit of this is the same as my author information. I wrote this entry to a Writer's Digest website prompt while in my writers' salon group. The information was all new to my friends there.)
In first and second grade, we wrote stories and illustrated them on big-ruled sheets of paper. Our teachers gave us really creative prompts, and I think I got into more detail than the other kids, careful to include a logical beginning. In second grade I stayed in recesses to make my first picture book.
I was teased a lot by my schoolmates, and it cut me deeply. My family was unsympathetic to my complaints about it. I told myself that when I grew up I would be a famous artist and writer. Then those who had hated me would read about me in the newspapers and be sorry. I would show them I was better than a misfit crybaby, and better than all of them.
In third grade, I used to go visit my second grade teacher. I told her I was going to be an author. She pinched my cheeks and said, “Write children’s books.”
Sorry, Mrs. Palermo. My interests are broader, and I don’t pander to your expectations. I write what inspiration leads me to, not what one set age group dictates.
When I was still a child, it would take me hours to get to sleep, so I would make up novels in my head. Now I find that I can’t carry whole scenes in my memory for long without writing them down.
Although I still do a little art for my own pleasure, most of my art is to help me picture the characters in my stories or to design possible covers for the books. The “famous artist” part of my ambition has pretty much fallen by the wayside, leaving me more time to write. I’m driven to imagine, get it into words, and share it with others. Fame is slow to come by and not a need anymore. I’m famous to God. But I would like to produce published books. And I want to make a living on my writing!
I get the impression that most people think writing like mine is play and that I should spend my time doing more “important” things. Writing is enjoyable for me, but it also requires a lot of time and effort. Most of the markets out there pay nothing, and another large percentage pay a only a handful of dollars, I suppose for the purpose of saying you’re “paid.” Some writers make their living writing articles, but the really creative stuff doesn’t provide a living except to the rare superstar author. What are our values?
I write because I love stories. I write because the Lord I love is the Word. God made me in His image. And He is the Creator. So I am a creator, too.
(Sorry if a bit of this is the same as my author information. I wrote this entry to a Writer's Digest website prompt while in my writers' salon group. The information was all new to my friends there.)
From the Red, Read Robin
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