Greeting the Goodbyes

I am no stranger to goodbyes. We meet on a regular basis. Sometimes we get coffee.

A few minutes ago, I scooted my desk chair up next to the closet, used it as a footstool, and opened the cabinets to swing down my two suitcases. Now they're half full with button-down shirts, running shorts I never did use, and the trinkets I've accumulated during three months of study in York, U.K. I'm getting ready to say goodbye. Hello, my old friend.

This will not be the saddest or most traumatic of the goodbyes I've said in my life. Third culture families know how it is. My parents have lost everything to rushed evacuations. We've exchanged continents and countries multiple times. Mom thought she was bidding permanent farewell to Dad when he chose to remain in Liberia during the civil wars. And sometimes, you don't get to say goodbye. Sometimes, the chance is taken from you.

You know how it is. That ache, deep in the pit of your belly. That numbness, dulling the edges of your brain.

Sometimes you don't get over it.

I think there's an expectation for these types of reflections: "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." But I'm not about that life. I mean, I am, but that's not a legitimate way to deal with grief. Weep. Weep for the loss, weep for the pain, weep for the friends left behind. Weep because something that brought you joy will never return. There may be other joys. They may be grander. But this joy, this beautiful sliver right here, has ended. And you will never get it back. Face that. Maybe you don't need to weep, or need your mom's friends to psychoanalyze you (they will anyway), but acknowledge your loss in whatever way works best for you.

Those accustomed to goodbyes develop rituals. Songs, movies, things we do before we leave. When I packed to leave Nigeria after senior year of high school, I listened to Coldplay's "Til Kingdom Come" over and over again. It's a song about life moving on, about someone who waits for you through the changes and uncertainty. To me, that person represents God.

"Steal my heart, and hold my tongue,

I feel my time, my time has come.

Let me in, unlock the door.

I've never felt this way before.

The wheels just keep on turning,

The drummer begins to drum,

I don't know which way I'm going,

I don't know which way I've come . . . ."

I listen to that song every time I leave a place.

For my sister, the song was John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet-Plane." And in Nigeria, at a mission guest house where many missionaries stay before departing that final time, there's a bunk bed in one room where dozens of MK's have Sharpied their emotions and graven their names. Some little piece of themselves, remaining in the place they called home. The place that could never be home. The place that will always be home.

Sometimes we don't greet the goodbyes. I've had friends and family who've lost clumps of hair over the stress of leaving, and others, including myself, who've cut everyone off, become instinctively mean to chase friends away. Still others refuse to acknowledge that it's sad, and rejoice that they're returning to "civilization," until years later when they realize what they've lost.

Let me tell you a secret: sometimes I get so, so jealous of my "normal" American friends. I am tempted to belittle their pain: "No, you don't get to say that your half-year mission's trip was 'life-changing.' I lived overseas my entire life; you can have your Thanksgiving, you can have your Independence Day, but you can't have this. This pain belongs to me."

But that's wrong. Every place we visit clings to our souls, like wet paper. Every place becomes a part of us, no matter how briefly. I am addicted to that sort of pain, because I know it helps me grow, though it hurts like hell at the time.

As I leave York, I will walk the Roman walls, I will do my writing, I will sip my mulled cider, I will listen to my songs. I will perform my rituals to greet the goodbye.

But greet her I will.

And as we leave together, she will put her arm around me, and I will say, "It still hurts this time." And she will say, "I know, Luke. You're welcome."

She is familiar to me, even when nothing else is. As strange as it sounds, I take comfort in that. That is why I greet her. That is why I know how to say goodbye.

Goodbye, my beautiful city

The ECHO

The ECHO is Taylor University's weekly newspaper, and today they kindly published a piece about my interaction with Brimstone, written by a fellow Professional Writing major. If you'd like to read it, the article can be viewed here.

Tee hee. This makes me happy and nervous. Also, where did they get that picture? Did they get that from my old facebook photos? That's from, like, eleventh grade. Just goes to show, you never know where things on the internet will wind up!

This is the picture in question, so that you know what I'm talking about.

Where do I get my ideas?

Of late, I have observed a trend among cool-writer people. 

When they are asked the dreaded question: "Where do you get your ideas?" they instantly fire back with a witty, pithy, memorable response. (Actually, in my mind the dreaded question has always been "So what's your book about?" but the first one is a close second). For an example of such witty responses from literary superstar Neil Gaiman, click here and here.

Because of this trend, and because I am generally terrible at improv, I have decided to prepare my answer in a pre-written blog post. For those of you familiar with my thoughts on Mbombo and Ragnarok, you may recognize some of these elements.

So, you want to know where I get my ideas? I'm so very glad you asked.

In an ancient part of the world, in deepest, darkest, Central Africa, there is a village named Kuna. Every nine years a market is held in Kuna, called The Selling of the Glass. You must arrive at this market during the heat of the noonday sun. Then you must wander, paying no attention to sight or sound, until you are lost. When you are good and truly lost -- only then -- you will happen upon a hovel selling straw. Do not approach the owner of the hovel. Approach instead the beggar who squats at the hovel's corner, and address him by his name, and offer him a speckled cowry shell. The beggar's name is Mbombo.

The beggar will open his eyes and say to you: "Only a camel can travel through the eye of a needle."

"Yes," you must say, "but when the needle is lost in the haystack, even the camel cannot find it."

The old beggar will smile a toothless, gummy smile, and he will produce a single shard of broken crystal, glistening in the palm of his hand. You will take the crystal and you will gaze at the sun through it. The sun will hurt your eyes. Then you will place the crystal in your mouth, atop your tongue, and you will swallow it. The beggar will look at you very strangely. The temple drums will then begin to beat. On the fifth drumbeat, the beggar will offer you salt, and you must swallow the salt and vomit. 

For as every fool knows, it is a very bad idea to swallow glass.

You will leave that place, never to return, and you will proceed to write and think about things and write more things. You will do this because at the heart of our world there is a truth: the only way to catch an idea is to snatch at straws.

I hope I have made myself crystal clear.

Will I remember all of this, when people ask me the second-most dreaded question?

Duh, no. But even as a serious amateur, I can assure you that people do ask me this all the time, just as soon as they discover that I'm a Professional Writing major. No, not riding major. I . . . you know what? Yes. Yes, I ride horses, and I make money at it. Like, equestrian studies. *Sob.*

That is all, friends. Goodnight.

Here is a picture of Neil Gaiman, because attaching pictures to blog posts is supposedly a good idea.

Cathedrals and Wasted Perfume

I've continued to consider the subject of Tuesday's post: are cathedrals beautiful monuments to the God who created art, or are they wasted riches that should've served a more practical function? To me, this ties in with the issue of art in general. When it comes down to it, I write because I want to say worthwhile things, to ask important questions -- but also, and perhaps more-so, because I just want to tell stories. I believe that crafting stories honors God. I believe in the power of beauty, and I believe that God is honored through art.

Is this wasted? Is a fun, fictional story - or an ostentatious cathedral - a futile pursuit in misdirected resources?

While I was reading the Bible yesterday, I came across Mathew 26:6-14. It's a poignant passage. In a way, it's the heartbeat of silence before the battle lines smash together. In the coming days, there will be accusations, legal proceedings, betrayal from Jesus' followers, denial from his staunchest supports, silence from God. Finally, He will endure the horror and the power of the Cross. But at this simple supper, a woman named Mary takes expensive perfume and dumps it on Jesus' head. Judas, always the financial-minded disciple, declares angrily that this perfume should've been sold, and the money given to the poor. Surely that would've been more God-honoring stewardship than this transient waste of purposeless emotion.

But Jesus rebukes him. He does the unheard-of: defends a woman over an educated Jewish man. He says that what Mary just did was beautiful, that it was symbolic, and that, while helping the poor is good, beauty that honors God is never wasted. More than this, He tells the disciples that Mary's action will last through the ages. Her moment of art has become immortal.

That is why so many writers write. They want to achieve immortality. Personally, I don't think this motivation will ever bring true completeness. I agree with Woody Allen:

“I don't want to achieve immortality through my work; I want to achieve immortality through not dying. I don't want to live on in the hearts of my countrymen; I want to live on in my apartment.”

Clearly, I'm taking Allen's quote out of context. But, while immortality is not why I create art, it still ties in with it.

I think there are two reasons why Jesus defends Mary's actions. Firstly, He appreciates the spirit behind it. It is a spirit of love for Him, greater love than Judas demonstrates in his desire to serve the poor. Judas' ideas are good, but his heart is in the wrong place, much like the sacrifice of Cain versus that of Abel.

Secondly, there is so much symbolism. What Mary has done is a symbolic act. In the ancient world, corpses were anointed before burial. Jesus is about to die and be buried. The analogy is as poignant as the perfume.

Jesus appreciates symbolism, and a capacity for symbolism is one of the ways in which art, specifically writing, I believe, is powerful.

Any piece of art, from perfume to architecture to literature, can be done in the right or wrong spirit, and any piece of art can provide potent symbolism and deeper meanings. Look at the statues and crosses that cover cathedrals.

Just like perfume, I believe that art doesn't have to be transient. Art has the potential to endure. I believe that God can be honored through our art as much as through our charity.

A view of the York Minster Cathedral. Visiting it is what sparked these thoughts that I had to write down, if only for myself.

Cathedrals and the Forgotten

Hullo again, friends. It's been awhile. Some of you know that I'm now living in the city of York, in the U.K. I'll be here for three months; it's a gorgeous city, cram-packed with history and traditions, culture and kitchens. The alliteration works, and it's also true.

Today, I finally visited the inside sanctuary of York Minster Cathedral. It's an immense, cavernous space, filled with kings and saints keeping vigil, gargoyles clambering the channeled walls, arches meeting like the limbs of a great forest in the top reaches. A hallowed place, I thought, and surely God is pleased with it. Didn't He delight in the Israelites pouring their craft into Solomon's temple? God desires beauty. He takes honor in our art.

Sorry for the quality of my ipod photos. Fun fact about the Minster: various apprentices have been brought in on the restoration projects, and each one adds a tiny face from Star Wars or Star Trek in some out-of-the-way crevice.

But at the risk of sounding overly-millennial, what else could those resources have been used for? Who starved while the elite built their church? And, after all, were the cathedrals really built as true monuments to the Lord of lepers, or as idols to the pride of human wealth and ostentation?

I don't mean to come across as all "Churches-should-send-money-to-Africa-rather-than-buy-new-pews." I'm also well aware that the building of cathedrals probably spawned entire miniature economies and generated settlements, not to mention the education, culture, and preservation of knowledge that they provided. These are just my thoughts of reflection, and I'm glad that the cathedrals exist. If they didn't, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to visit the Minster at sunset. The light smoldered behind the stained glass; in a way, the beauty provided by God was completed by the beauty that man had created to honor Him. As I left with my friend, the organs were beginning to boom, and people were just gathering for Vespers.

Alexa​ and I wandered our way through the nearby sidestreets after leaving the Minster. She pointed out a little bookshop in the shadow of the cathedral. Several mythology books penned by Tolkien snagged my eye, which I intend to return for. There was also a copy of Neil Gaiman​'s Neverwhere! With the possible exception of Patrick Rothfuss, Gaiman is my favorite author, and the book was well-priced, so I bought it. The cashier wrapped it up in brown paper for me; I've always wanted to buy a book like that. :D

Over the summer, I listened to a story that's something of a sequel to Gaiman's Neverwhere (although Gaiman technically doesn't do sequels). It was called How the Marquis Got His Coat Back, and can be found in the Rogues anthology edited by George R.R. Martin. I listened to it as an audiobook, as I did with my first perusal of Neverwhere itself, so I'm looking forward to returning to the actual book in a written-word format. If you've never entered the world Gaiman created under London's streets, let me implore you to do so. It is the world of people who've slipped through the cracks. The Marginalized. The Lost. The Forgotten.

In a way, that is what a cathedral represents to me. It is a grand monument, a city unto itself. But in the sacrifice made for Faith and beauty, what -- and who -- were forgotten?

And who are we still forgetting?

Deadlines, Details, and Other Dead Things

Recently, I've tried my hand at some some flash-fiction horror, with the intent of submitting to Havok Magazine's Halloween issue. I intentionally didn't look at the specific content requirements before writing these stories. This is because, while I did want to submit them if they were good, I mostly just wanted to write them. I figured I could always go back and write more if they didn't fulfill the issue requirements.

Because of my summer factory job, I have a lot of time to think through stories and ideas. I even write large parts of them in my head while folding towels. The first story I wrote was called Double Tap. It's really hard to judge my own writing, and horror isn't my strong-suit, but I think I did manage to create something that was creepy at the very least. After getting it written and polished up, I finally glanced over the content requirements to see if I'd need to tweak anything. If it was an easy fix, I would do that and then go ahead and submit. If not, well, I'd write another story and get more practice!

You've probably guessed that I had to take the latter option.

It turned out that among the requirements, stories for this issue had to feature traditional Halloween monsters. You know the kind: zombies, vamps, werewolves, poltergeists. I considered changing an element of the story to include a zombie, which wouldn't have been uber hard, but it would've required me to take out a detail that I really liked.

No.

Rather than make this change, I went back to work the next day and dreamed up another story. What about a court case where Doc Frankenstein is on trial for creating a monster without a license? And Dracula is the judge! And Frankenstein uses the precedent of Jekyll and Hyde to defend himself! Yeah!

No.

That story didn't work, either. While I had now incorporated traditional monsters into it, it was funny but no longer scary. At least I hope it was funny. It was funny to me.

The Frankenstein's Trial story had no scariness-potential whatsoever, as in, on the scariness meter, it was rated at Powerpuff Girls. So I wrote one more story. This would be the masterpiece to end all stories! The terror to frighten all other terrors!

It had bumps in the night. It had murderous suits of cursed armor. It was told in the Epistolary form, via the case log of a Scotland Yard Detective Inspector in 1855. I just finished it, and I quite like it.

But it will not work for Havok's Halloween issue. Why? Because the deadline was the 24th of this month, which was before I even wrote the second of the three stories!

I need to check my deadlines, people. My writing professor has a saying about them: "Deadlines are literal! As in, cross this line and you're dead!" I'm usually pretty good at this type of thing. This mistake isn't a waste, because I enjoyed writing the stories and I gained practice from them. Still, getting published is always a nice feeling, and is nice for the wallet and the portfolio.

I'll probably hunt around for some other submission venues for these as well as other stories I haven't gotten around to submitting yet (shame on me!), and then possibly post them to this blog if that doesn't pan out. Sorry for the pause in my advice for writing conferences. I really will get back to that. Hey, ain't ya proud of me for updating more regularly this summer?

Have a good evening!

Haystack Livin'

Wasup, y'all? It's ya boy Lil Pig! Check out these lyrics from my new album, It's all Good with Little Red Riding Hood.

I built my house of straw, my brother used brick--
The wolf blew mine down real quick.
Now I'm snatching at straws, just trying to stay grounded--
But the wolf's still around, you could say I feel hounded.
I used a camel to rebuild but the straw broke his back--
I got poked in the foot by the needle in the haystack.
The camel tried to crawl through the tiny needle's eye--
So I guess I'll make hay while the sun still shines.

Editor's Note: There's a reason Lil Pig isn't that well known.

Soulless Publication

No, that title is not a subtle slur on the publisher. Havok magazine is wonderful and I love it.

Here's a wee bit of self-promotion: I just got a story published in the aforementioned Havok magazine, a flash-fiction magazine for speculative fiction. This happened to be a contest issue. The featured author was Patrick Carr (A Cast of Stones), and the winner was Tina Yeager for a chilling sci-fi ghost story, Time Echoes. [SHAMELESS ADVERTISING INCOMING:] You guys should really consider buying the issue and reading it for yourselves!

I wasn't runner up or anything, just one of the finalists who got printed in the issue, which I'm quite happy with!

So the reason I called this 'Soulless Publication' is because Soulless was the title of my story, about a rogue who transfers his soul into a coin. Hopefully I'll get around to eventually posting it on this blog, but for the moment there would be some copyright problems with that. Thanks for reading my tidbit of news!

-Luke

Comfortably-classy Gentlemen-spies: opinions on Craig as Bond

This is mostly because I haven't updated in a few days and I feel guilty, but don't have time for a proper post. So, here are some random thoughts:

Why does my Bond look more grumpy than classy? Well, his name is Craig. I suppose we should expect him to have a craggy face.

In his iteration of Bond, Daniel Craig has given us some good and some bad. Let's not forget Quantum of Solace, folks. Even if Skyfall and Casino Royale were both fantastic movies, my opinion is that Quantum is a smear on the enterprise's good name. The thing is, Craig isn't classy. He's Bond for a generation that likes her spies rugged and serious, and that just isn't supposed to be (entirely) Bond. What happened to Timothy Dalton and Pierce Brosnan, suave and stylish and popping quips faster than the bad guys could pop bullets? And give me back my freaking invisible car!

One of the reasons I loved Skyfall so much was the references. As a dabbling fan of classic Bond, I cheered with every wink and head-nod to the roots of this fifty-year-old franchise. Skyfall had an outlandish villain, it had gadgets, it had a rocket-launching car, it reincarnated Q. and other mainstays! The themes of old-fashioned patriotism and golden old-age were very fitting for this classic tribute.

Don't get me wrong: I'm glad Daniel Craig gave us another spin on the world's most famous spy. But the writing for him almost feels like a Jason Bourne wannabe, and they clearly picked a rugged, tough-guy actor to go along with that, rather than a suave one. In my opinion, it's time we returned to the gentleman spy. After all, Craig wears Polos. I happen to like Polo shirts, but not on my Bond. Put him back in a tux, and let's find an actor who looks comfortable in one rather than stiff no matter what he is (or isn't) wearing.

Part of all this musing comes from my anticipation of the Spectre movie releasing in November in the U.S. Looks like it'll also acknowledge Bond's roots, but no time for an analysis here (although I've never felt good about Bond movies doing direct sequels -- remember what happened when Casino  became Quantum?) Another part of my musings come from recently watching Kingsman: The Secret Service. Again, no time for much of an analysis, although there were so many things I did and did not like. But most of the references were wonderful, to everything from Bond to Bourne to the old Get Smart show! And it really captured the over-the-top gentleman-spy, in all his pinstriped glory.

I think people are right to love Craig: he makes a legitimately awesome character. But the character he portrays is not the character of James Bond, or even a version of James Bond, in my opinion. Maybe I'm just grousing, but to reiterate, Craig isn't comfortably classy. I'm excited to see who's next, hopefully soon! Let's put the classy back in Bond!

(Just for clarification, Craig is the Bond actor in Spectre. I just hope they eventually move on).

There. That's better. True class.

Writers Conference Advice #3:Materials!

Some of the materials I took with me to Write to Publish

I've been going into specifics with business cards and the like, but haven't yet provided a list of overall materials it's good to have at a writers conference. As always, my organizational skills are flawless. Here are some of the most essential materials:

Business Cards: 

Already discussed. I can't remember how many copies I had printed, but it was like forty, and I used almost all of them.

First Page of Manuscript:

In both my meetings with editors, I was asked for this. I had five copies prepared. Make sure it's as polished as it can be. I've heard that many editors don't even read past the first paragraph!

First Chapter:

Again, I had multiple copies of the first chapter prepared, although I probably killed several saplings with all the paper I used. Both editors asked for and skimmed this chapter, which is what got me requests for an emailed full manuscript proposal. Also, I marked up the chapter copies during critique groups. They say that the first chapter is what sells the book, and the last chapter is what sells the next one!

A "One-Sheet:"

I think I'll get into the particulars of this in a later post. Basically, this is a quick review of all the pertinent info about you and your novel. Word count, contact info, author bio, brief summary, how your book is relevant to and distinct from current marketing trends (basically how it will sell). Some people get really fancy and put pictures on it, but I think it's best to be careful to avoid cluttering. For mine, I left a space where I could staple my business card at the bottom, which had a picture of me and all my contact info. I printed multiple copies of the one-sheet.

Marketing Plan: 

If nothing else, this shows an editor that you've done your homework. I also intend to do a separate post on this topic, because I had opportunity to talk to some people who offered helpful suggestions. So I won't say anything specific here, except that editors really do like this -- I had some comment on it -- because it's a chance for them to see that you have a platform and have good ideas to actually sell copies. In the modern publishing industry, authors do most of the marketing!

Full Proposal: 

Going back to the conference, this is one thing I'd change. I thought I'd be fine not having an updated proposal, since I could theoretically put it together afterwards and email it to the various editors. But then an editor asked if I would be attending her proposal critique group, and I hadn't been, because my proposal was several months old! I had to stay up that night -- with a headache, while my roommates slept blissfully -- and stitch together some of the other things I've mentioned in order to make an approximation of a proposal. I intend to update this proposal soon, because I received tips in one of Rowena Kuo's classes on good proposal elements and a good order for them. I'll post some of the things I've learned about proposal making to this blog at a later date. But if I was going now, I'd be sure to have one physical copy with me!

One Page Summary:

Make sure it's polished! This is a chance to impress the editor both with your plot and your writing quality! Have several copies.

Actual Manuscript:

This is certainly not a necessity. In fact, I doubt many people bring full manuscript copies with them, especially since they should already theoretically have copies of the first page, summary, and first chapter. But when an editor saw that I had a full hard copy of the manuscript with me, she said she really liked that, and she asked to borrow it overnight! Boy was that a terrifying evening.

Disclaimer: never ask an editor if she will take a physical copy of your manuscript/proposal/chapter/etc. Said editor will not like you if you do such, as she is already getting similar offers from all sides, and as her packing space is probably limited. When I suggested taking multiple copies of certain items, that's more a just in case thing. I had editors ask to look at those copies, but they always gave them back, which is the norm. It was also helpful to have multiple copies so that I could mark them up with notes and suggestions. And when editors do offer suggestions, make a show of writing them down, even if you already know those things! I think they probably like that. At least, I would.

Writers Conference Advice #2: Business Cards!

This was the business card I used at Write to Publish. I censored the telephone and physical address for this blog, because the internet is a fickle place, my friends.

They may not seem important, but business cards are truly essential.

This is one piece of advice I nearly skipped over in my own preparations, but I'm glad I didn't. I accumulated maybe a dozen different business cards from contacts during my time at the conference, and handed out almost all the cards I printed. I often jotted down details about the person on the back of his or her card, which was helpful for later.

Not only will business cards help people remember you, but they look really professional if done correctly. I also really just enjoyed having a business card and getting to say, "Here's my card," in the most casual voice I could muster.

Some good elements for a card, in a proposed order of significance:

An email address. Because duh. Preferably not a silly one, like "superwriterman007@hotwriter.com." Or even one with a number like lukewildman01@gmail.com. The use of a number seems amateurish, to me. Something simple with your name in it is good, but I suppose that's all painfully obvious. Which leads me to question: why did I just write that? Why am I writing anything? Why am I HERE?

A picture. This is actually more important than anything else besides the email, in my opinion. When you just have a person's name, do you really think you'll remember them out of all the dozens of people you meet? But faces stick with us. If you want people to remember you even more, acquire some distinguishing characteristic, like a glass eye or a rugged scar on your left cheek, just slicing the edge of the lip! Kidding, of course. To clarify, I do not support corporal mortification or self-harm of any kind. Unless it involves having one's face removed by the kraken.

A website. This could be a blog or an actual website, if you're cool like that. I'm not. I gave this blog's address, which is actually one of the reasons I'm updating more regularly, heh . . . .

A phone number. Meh. This could be helpful. Might not be. Just depends on who you are, I guess.

A physical address. Again, it's really up to you, I think.

Well, those are my amateur suggestions. "You" generic probably knows a lot more about this than I do. But I really do insist on the picture: that's my story and I'm sticking to it! One of my stories, at least.

A last piece of advice: follow through afterwards. I know this also might seem obvious, but personally, my laziness often drives me into a lack of common sense. In 2013 when I was on a flight from Abuja to Frankfurt, having just graduated high school, my parents and I started chatting with another American expatriate who was returning to the states from a business trip. The man's son turned out to be a playwright in Chicago! He gave me his business card and told me he could hook me up with his son for an internship, but at the time I didn't realize the significance of what I'd just been handed! I failed to contact him for months, and then never heard back.

Suffice to say, after the Write to Publish conference, I wrote a quick note to each and every person from whom I received a card, just to establish contact. From the research I've done, it's a good idea!

Writers Conference Advice #1: Research!

Hi, friends! As I mentioned in my last post, in early June, I had opportunity to attend the Write to Publish writers conference in Wheaton. The conference was quite successful for me: I won the Editor's Choice Award from Brimstone Fiction, and also was asked for a manuscript proposal from the other editor I pitched to, Sarah Grimm of Harbourlight Publishing.

I am far from an expert on writers conferences, having only attended one of them in my life. But I did pick up a few things along the way, thanks in large part to the advice given me by more knowledgeable people. If anyone is interested, I'd like to pass some of that advice on in a series of blog posts.

Please note that most of my advice pertains to seeking a publishing contract, because that's the main goal I had in mind in attending WtP.

#1: RESEARCH RESEARCH RESEARCH!

Besides doing everything I could to prepare my actual manuscript, this is the thing that helped me most. Research EVERYTHING.

When I was prepping for WtP, I started the in-depth work a couple weeks beforehand. My first step was reading several blog posts with general advice about writers conferences and writers conference prep. One really good venue for this is Cindy Huff's blog. The page I linked to has some general tips, but she also wrote a series of posts with in-depth info on everything from apparel to -- guess what? -- research! Honestly, it's probably more worthwhile to find her posts and read them than to continue following my advice on the subject. But just in case you ARE interested, here's some more stuff about researching!

Go beyond general research and move into specifics. Find a list of all the professionals who will attend your conference, then research each and every editor, publisher, and agent to decide who you want to pitch to. Research the freelancers, too, if that's what you're going for. Go to all of their websites and see what they publish. Look for their preferred form of submission and make notes on it. When I was preparing, I printing out the official list of attendees (with their pictures!) and jotted notes in the margins. I put a start next to the ones I REALLY wanted to pitch to, a question mark next to the ones I wasn't sure about, and other symbols to indicate other degrees of interest. Seriously, I can't stress enough how helpful this was. It enabled me not to freak out and blank when I was actually meeting with them.

Also, research the classes you're hoping to take, to decide on what's the best use of your time for your particular interests. And research other things to, from the correct format for a manuscript proposal to the correct format for business cards. Utilize the conference's website for all of this. It probably has some good advice and lots of links to the websites of the attendees. For Write to Publish, there were even a series of blog posts with general submission and interest information about the attendees. I wish I'd discovered that BEFORE I spent hours digging through the interwebs to find said information.

Have a good evening, friends! I'll hopefully be back with the next post either tomorrow or Wednesday.

Here's a picture of a llama freaking out because he didn't do his research. Bad llama!

Big News

So friends, I have news to share. I've been waiting to post it to this blog until the opportune moment, and I apologize to those of you who've heard all this before, perhaps multiple times. No need to read it if that's the case. After all, what follows is rather lengthy . . . .

Story, story. Stooory. Once upon a time. Time, time. (You'll get it if you're from Nigeria).

Earlier this month, I attended the Write to Publish conference in Wheaton. I went with the goal of pitching a novel that I've written, currently titled Days to Destruction. For those of you who follow this blog, you read a few chapters of an early draft under the titles Gods and Chaos and Days of Telenine. I'm still not sure how happy I am with the new title, for the record.

Before leaving for the conference, I researched all the editors, publishers, and agents who would be in attendance, and realized that I really wanted to pitch to Rowena Kuo of Brimstone Fiction. Unfortunately, I also realized that she would be judging the Editor's Choice Award, given annually at Write to Publish. Brimstone is a traditional speculative-fiction publisher (spec-fic is "weird stuff" for all you non-nerdy types), and I was especially excited that Brimstone targets the general market, not just Christian markets. The Editor's Choice Award comes with a publishing option and full mentorship, both of which are uber cool. But in the end, I was dissapointed that Rowena was judging it because I knew everyone would want to pitch to her, and that would make it difficult to find a time. But find a time I did, and the pitch went pretty well. She asked if I was planning to attend her manuscript critique group, one of the steps in the award process. She probably asked that of everyone with a decent pitch.

The critique group also went well. Then she asked if I'd be attending her novel proposal critique group. I hadn't been. My full proposal was several months old and badly in need of editing. But I figured that saying no was a bad idea, so I stayed up that night and stitched some things together. The next day, my tablet acted up in the middle of the session, so I decided to let it pass. But when the last person had finished, there were still a few extra minutes. So what the heck? Besides a little dignity, what had I to lose? As the tablet drained of its last battery in updates, I managed to present basically everything I wanted. Then Mrs. Kuo asked to borrow overnight the manuscript hardcopy I had with me. I hope you can imagine my anxiety as I said yes and spent a fretful night trying not to think about it. Felt like a dagger to the gut, I'm telling you.

The next day was the last of the conference, at the end of which would be the final banquet, where the awards are presented. I only saw Mrs. Kuo once, on a sidewalk where she offered my manuscript back. I asked if she had any input, and she said yes, but she'd like me to send it to her. That was really cool, but I confess I'd been halfway hoping that I had a shot at the Editor's Choice Award. Anyway, I went to get cleaned up, then made my way to the banquet. Such good food. I'm telling you, Write to Publish is worth it just for that chicken stuffed with spinach and dribbled in tangy orange sauce! But really. Good. Stuff.

When the meal finished, they announced the awards. The first two recipients of different awards weren't actually present, and then Mrs. Kuo went up to announce the Editor's Choice Award. She shuffled a paper out of a manila envelope. She spoke a name.

And it turned out that I won.

Me holding the award, standing with Rowena Kuo (left) and Cindy Huff, last year's winner of the Editor's Choice Award. Perhaps providentially, Mrs. Huff is actually the wife of the man who advised me in how to prepare for the conference. We were randomly assigned to be a "Paul and Timothy" mentoring pair beforehand. It worked! Also, I plan to write a blog post on preparing for Writing Conferences, but in the mean time, you should really check out Cindy's blog, located here.

Thanks for reading, friends! If you slogged through all that, you're really cool and I really appreciate that. Not that I wouldn't and you aren't if you hadn't, but I think you understand. smile emoticon Thanks. I'll be working with someone from Brimstone Fiction over the coming while to edit further drafts of my manuscript. Ultimately, the goal of publication lies at the end of the long darkness.

Oh, here's a short write-up about the award from my college, Taylor University.

Story over!

Glasswalker: Reflections

The Lie

Frankie struck the mirror. In his mind, he was thinking of the other mirror he'd just exited from. But he also held the memory of the mirror he'd just struck. Two mirrors, their memories held equally in his mind. Somehow, he felt his mind stretch. He gave a mental push. Something popped.

Steam misted, sound muffled, then he stumbled back out the other side. Two images were in his vision, like he was seeing cross-eyed. It brought a wave of nausea, but Frankie shoved it down. With that shove, he was back to seeing only one image . . . yet he could still sense the other, could still direct it in a tucked away corner of his mind.

There was the Parasite, standing directly ahead in the hallway. Not a mirror image this time; the real monster. And, beyond the Parasite, there was someone else. It was Frankie.

"You see the whole," Frankie said. "And I'm a part of that whole, so you can always see me. But now I've made myself two parts."

The Parasite shrieked: a wrathful, rising sound. "No!"

"Oh I'm sorry," Frankie said. "Was I not supposed to do that?" He gave his cheekiest of grins.

Honestly, he wasn't sure exactly how he had done it, or why. It had just felt right. Instinct. The instinct of the fae, perhaps. Could he do it again?

The Parasite launched itself at the alternate Frankie. Frankie's mind focused into that one's body; controlling it, he sidestepped. But the Parasite wasn't going for him. It struck the mirror, slammed itself against it, the mirror that this alternate Frankie had stepped from. A spiderweb of cracks shattered its face. The alternate Frankie exploded into jagged fragments of light that melted quickly into the air.

The real Frankie gasped. He mind zoomed back into his body, and he vomited from the inertia and the sudden sense of loss. His puke splattered the floor.

"No matter," the Parasite said to him. His chilling smile had returned. "I've fought those of you capable of making reflections. You weren't supposed to, but I can deal with this. It is nothing more than an annoyance."

"No," Frankie said. He gritted his teeth. "The mirrors are mine." He launched himself at another mirror, creating another reflection across the hallway from him. He reached up a hand; his fingertips met the fingertips of the reflection for the briefest of seconds. They both looked at the Parasite as he charged.

Frankie stepped back into the mirror. Another reflection, who stepped out behind the Parasite. And then again, creating another ahead of him. And another . . . and another . . . .

The reflections began to fight, Hammering the Parasite from all sides. He went for their mirrors, shattering them and their bodies. Sometimes he sank his claw-nails into a reflection's chest, and it shattered along with its mirror. As fast as he killed them, Frankie created them.

A purple bruise blossomed on the Parasite's cheek. Blood dribbled from his lip.

He ripped a reflection's heart out. Sank his teeth into a reflection's heart. Smashed one's head against its own mirror.

Frankie felt each death, like losing a part of himself. And he could still feel them. Phantom limbs: he'd heard them described this way. But he was gaining them quickly, and the birth of a new reflection did nothing to assuage the passing of an older one.

All the reflections closed in; the real Frankie joined them. An all-out assault, pressing against the Parasite, trying to crush him with bodies. Then he forced a circle of space around himself and he screamed.

It was like before, but the scream rose higher, raged longer, filled the labyrinth like a coursing river of ice. Mirrors shattered. Reflections vanished in blinding light. The real Frankie covered his ears and found himself yelling.

The Parasite's face drained even whiter, if possible, and he fell to his knees. He and Frankie locked eyes. Then Frankie stabbed him.

He left it in the eye socket: a broken fragment of glass. It had sliced the skin of Frankie's palm when he grabbed it. In a way, it was a sliver of one of his own reflections.

The Parasite tumbled over.

Frankie jerked gasping breaths into his lungs. He blinked, and the hallway returned to normal. All the mirrors were fixed. Little sign of the recent battle.

But Frankie's hand still bled. The Parasite's body still lay on the floor, blood pooling under it.

Frankie knew instinctively that he would be able to escape, now. He wanted to leave. But he had one thing left to do.

He stumbled down the hallways, not mirrorwalking, using his regular legs. The stench of rot grew stronger. Finally, he came upon the body of the girl. Another mirrowalker, the Parasite had said. A dead one. Although the stench was overpowering, Frankie stooped, hoisted her onto his shoulder, and slowly stood. She deserved a proper burial. Then, looking no more at the maze of mirrors, he stepped into the wall ahead of him.

He walked away from the Parasite's lair.

The Truth

All done with the mirrorwalker story. Thanks for reading! Sorry it took so long; another idea has seized me. It is simple and sad and insistent. I don't think I'll be posting any of it to this blog, however.

Whew! Have a good night.

Glasswalker: Seven Years Bad Luck

This is the third part of the short Glasswalker story I've been writing as a spin-off to the Daily Lie section. If you want the other two parts, links to all the Lies can be found here. The previous Glasswalker links are numbers eleven and twelve.

Enjoy!

The Lie

Steam misted in front of Frank Gossamer's vision. Then it cleared. He was staring at a hundred copies of himself.

He let out a startled yell before he realized what he was staring at. A mirror. Mirrors, actually, a long hallway of them, leading to his right and left. Mirrors ahead and mirrors behind. What more could a glasswalker want?

Well, home, for one thing . . . .

"Hello, Frankie."

He yelped again and whirled. A man in a bowler hat was standing there, one who definitely hadn't shown up in the reflection a moment ago.

"You know those stories," the man said, "where the monster makes friends with the unwary traveler, first earning his trust, then luring him to his death? Well, I'm not going to do that. You should count yourself lucky. Isn't that gracious of me?"

Frankie blinked. The man leapt.

His face twisted and warped, the eyes becoming larger, the skin becoming tighter and more waxen. His teeth elongated and curved into vampiric fangs. His fingers reached for Frankie, each of them sprouting a wickedly long, yellow nail. Frankie screamed and ran.

He'd been around mirrors all his life, learned to take comfort in them. Young Frankie, tossle haired and with tear-stained cheeks, running his fingers over a mirror's cool surface. The night his parents died. Blackness, then . . . .

"No," Frankie whispered. Mirrors were his. His safety. His refuge. When the world scared him, then were what he had. They were the only thing he had.

"Please run faster, Frankie," the man said. His voice rebounded off the corridor as Frank sprinted away. "I am The Parasite, and I am coming to feast on your marrow, twist in your gut. You haven't even started glasswalking, yet!"

Frankie ran. With all the mirrors surrounding him, distance lost perspective. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Where was the Parasite? His reflection wasn't right. It showed up on different mirrors, but not mirrors across from each other, and with different poses and different expressions for the reflections. Here the parasite was sprinting forward with a snarl, here it was standing with a smirk, arms folded . . . .

What was that awful smell?

Frankie turned back around, and smack. His head struck a mirror. His only warning had been a brief glimpse of his own reflection growing larger as it ran towards him. Ordinarily, Frankie could run through mirrors, but to do that, he had to know about them first and had to have a jumping location fixed in his mind.

Blackness . . . and the smell of rot . . . .

"Break a mirror, seven years bad luck!" the Parasite's voice called. It seemed to speak from right beside Frankie. "Though in your case, I think the time will be significantly shorter . . . ."

There, to the left! An opening! Frankie dashed through it, forcing himself not to gag at the rising smell. It reminded him exactly of the smell on his first mirror-jump. He ran down a straight hallway till he came to an intersection with another hallway. He took the first left, and . . . Oh, Lord.

A body lay slumped against the mirror, partly decayed. A girl. The source of the smell, with brown claw marks across her through. From finger nails.

Frankie was back, seven years ago, vividly remembering his first-ever jump.

His parents' funeral, earlier in the day. He went home, no more tears left, ran his fingers over the cool glass of the bathroom mirror . . . a flash of mist . . . blackness, and the smell of rot . . . he'd mirror-jumped to inside his parents' joint coffin. The reflective black siding had made an excellent doorway.

No. He wrenched himself from the memories. He couldn't panic. He forced himself to stop. The mirrors were his. Running like this -- like a frightened rat in a monster's trap -- it wasn't right. He looked to the mirror wall beside him and took a breath, then stepped into it. In his mind, he fixed the first point where he'd entered the maze. It looked the same as every other point, but he differentiated internally.

He stumbled out of the mirror, and . . . the Parasite was standing there. No, that was just his reflection. But it smiled, and it spoke.

"I am always so amused by your mad scrambles. Every time I bring one of you here, you think you can outrun me. Out-jump me. Hide from me. But I am above you, looking down, and so I see the whole, and am in every part of the maze. What do you hope to accomplish?"

Frankie started. The Parasite saw the whole . . . but . . . .

Frankie took off running for a mirror. Laughter echoed around him. It pursued him.

The Truth

I don't have time to really edit any of these lies, so the quality is crummy, but I quite like the ideas and mythology that went into these Glasswalker ones. Maybe I'll do something longer with them, if I ever get the chance. I think one more left!

Glasswalker: Through a Glass Darkly

The Lie

The door opened. A silver-haired woman stepped in.

Her face was lined and grandmotherly, but somehow still hard. Her skin was stretched taunt over the sharp angles of her cheeks. As she entered the room fully, she did not smile.

Frankie remained standing, eyes widening as he looked her over and edged back. She wore a deep blue skirt and a loose, silver, long-sleeved shirt. It somehow looked medieval. Though she didn't appear to need it, the woman also carried a cane, undecorated and made of some light-colored wood. It bent as she flexed it against the floor.

Frankie shuddered. It all crashed into him -- the fear and clouding confusion at someone who knew more about Frankie's powers than he did. All he really knew was that he had them. Was this how others felt when Frank mirror-walked in front of them?

"I swear," Frank said, "I was always going to put those batteries back. I didn't want to steal them. I --"

"Shut. Up."

He did.

The woman walked a half-circle around him, eyes flicking over him. Face cold. Impassive.

"Do you know what you can do?" the woman asked.

"I . . . I can jump through mirror. Through reflections, I mean. This . . . it's something like that movie Jumper, isn't it? Like I've been misusing the stuff, and you're this secret society, sort of like police, that hunts us and wants to--"

"If I must silence you again, I will beat you within an inch of your life." She raised the cane-tip off the carpet. Frankie paled.

"Better," the woman said. She seemed to finally finish her inspection, then moved back to the center of the room, hands folded over the cane's straight handle. "You are, of course, a glasswalker."

Frankie shook his head and shrugged.

"Someone with fae blood who can use their old roads. It doesn't mean there's anything noble or magical about you. You've already proven that, as if we needed proof. Your sort always do. There's precious little of the old blood left, and nothing special about it anymore except the occasional manifestation of glasswalking, a penchant for sleepwalking, and some rare infant disappearances. It would be better for everyone if those bloodlines vanished entirely." She sighed. "Ah, well. Old promises to keep until that day comes, I suppose."

"Excuse me, but the fae, what does that . . . ."

Her arched eyebrow silenced him.

"You will be offered the same contract I give to all the others. Asylum for the span of one-hundred years. You will not age, will not decay, will never enter danger."

"Wow, really? That doesn't sound so bad."

"You will remain locked in this chamber of the barrow. You will never leave and will never touch or communicate with the outside world. You will have no visitors. All mirrors will remain closed to you."

"You're kidding."

She narrowed her eyes. "You may, of course, choose to reject the contract."

"What, you mean rather than stay locked in a room for -- what did you say -- one hundred years? That's ridiculous, lady!"

"Very well." She turned away. "You may go."

Frankie blinked. "What did you say?"

"I said you may go. I wish that the scavengers would have all of you, filthy degenerates that the bloodlines have become. Leave. The road is open."

Frankie looked at the black mirror on the wall. It looked the same, yet . . . something had changed. Shifted. It seemed more ordinary.

He took a step towards it, then glanced back. He'd heard a few stories like this as a kid. This was the part where the mentor stopped the hero with a last, parting comment. But when he looked at the room, the lady was already gone.

He stepped through the dark looking-glass.

Not quite how I imagine the chamber in this story. Should be more medieval, with cloth draped over the walls.

The Truth

A continuation of yesterday's story. I think one, maybe two more parts. Thanks for reading! If you want a much better story about this sort of mythology, read the wonderful Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.

Glasswalker: Other Side of the Glass

The Lie

Frankie Gozzomer sprinted down the Walmart aisle.

"Stop, thief!"

He chuckled at the puffing security guard jogging after him. He'd been working on his chuckle; he was rather proud of it. Smug without too much throat, and just a touch of ominous.

Frank was being careful not to run too far ahead, which was tricky. This security guard was seriously out of shape. That, and . . . he didn't seem to be trying.

Frankie's eyes widened for an instant. Then he smiled.

Directly ahead, another blue-shirted guard stepped into the aisle. This one wasn't as portly as the other: it was a muscular woman with stiff features and a serious scowl. She'd better be careful. If she kept that look on her face it might stick that way.

Frank twisted on his heels, sliding a few feet on the slick floor. The woman's fingers actually scrambled to clutch his shirt. But too slow . . . he sprinted sideways, down a frozen goods aisle. Ice-cream cartons and the like. A shelf full of frozen peas. He ran full throttle, both guards colliding and now running behind him down the aisle.

They were gaining, and he was running straight for a reflective glass door. Five feet. He could see the logo on the Moose Tracks behind the door. Four feet, three feet, two feet . . . he leapt.

Frankie's body slammed into the door, and he barely heard the startled exclamations of the security guards before all sound muted. Like plunging underwater. And the world sort of . . . well . . . frosted over, like looking through a steamed up window.

He came out the other side.

It wasn't, strictly speaking, the other side. But sure felt like it. Felt like he'd run straight forward through a puff of steam, and had come out of the glass he'd fixed in his mind: the door in front of the frozen peas he'd seen earlier.

The guards gasped and stared at the door for a good five seconds. After Frank stumbled out, he stopped to catch his breath and lean against the door. He fixed his cheekiest smile on his face. At least he hoped it was cheeky; he hadn't had much time to practice that one.

"Hey!"

The male guard must've caught sight of Frankie's grinning reflection, because he whirled and pointed a trembling finger in Frank's direction. Frank waved, then held up the carton of cheapo batteries he'd nicked earlier.

"Stop! . . . please."

That made him laugh, and then he took off again. The guards jogged hesitantly after.

He leapt through glass cases and came out of countertops, leapt through TV screens and came out of household mirrors, ran into the bathroom and came out of the tile floor, right behind the male guard. Apparently the chick was shy. Finally he grew bored and set the batteries down on a toy shelf as he jogged by. Then he headed back for the mirror section in the household goods. He'd discovered around age thirteen that using a solid reflection allowed him to travel further distances than a simple opaque reflection, like a window. Jumping through this mirror, he should come out a good distance away, in the full length mirror he had set up in the back of his minivan out in the parking lot.

He leapt. But didn't enter any minivan.

He stumbled to a halt in utter blackness, gasping. A dim, pale light flickered on above his head. His vision spun, and remained clouded; somehow, he wasn't able to quite shake free the frost that covered his eyes whenever he jumped. He tried blinking rapidly, hoping that would help, and looked back the way he'd come. A spike of worry grabbed him.

The entire wall was a mirror: a black mirror, still dully reflective but not enough to see himself in. Tentatively, Frankie placed a hand against it. Cold. Colder than it should've been. Like it was draining the heat from his skin.

Frankie shivered and pulled back, then took a running start and jumped at the mirror. He smacked his head. He turned back to the room, which was all unreflective cloth except for the mirror. Then the door opened.

The Truth

I might or might not continue this as a mini-series. It comes from an adventure my aunt had at Walmart today: she reached a door at the same time as someone else on the other side, then tried opening it for them, but realized it was actually the reflection of a person behind her. That's where this comes from.

Would you like to see this continued as a short, three or four episode series? Let me know in the comments!

Have a good night!

Mt. Moriah: Where Faith and Fear Collide

I am not a father. Not yet, blessedly for the poor kid. But I have two incredible fathers -- one Heavenly and one earth-bound -- who have inspired me, shaped me, and given me the tools with which to handle life. Of my many remaining flaws, most should be attributed to me and not to manufacturer error!

Today, father's day of 2015, the pastor gave a sermon in church directed to fathers. Although I'm not one -- we've already established that -- I still found the message applicable. I thought I'd share some thoughts from it instead of a Daily Lie. Please remember that most of these ideas come from the Pastor who spoke today at Pleasant View Bible Church, not from me. He's a Professor from Grace College in Winona Lake, Indiana.

You're hiking up a mountainside. In a few months this will all be lush and green, with splashes of vibrant color decorating the landscape. For now, though, the rains haven't fallen yet. There's nothing but scrub brush and yellow grass, and a few stunted saplings giving tattered shade.

What do you talk about? What can you talk about, with a bundle of sticks on your back and a knife on your belt, and the implements for fire in your satchel? What do you tell your seven, a teenager jogging beside you, who has asked questions that you can't answer? Does he suspect? Does he know that every step you trudge carries the two of you closer to his own death?

You've been traveling for three days. Your journey is nearing it's end.

A Holy death. Hah, you could laugh at the idea. A sacrifice? You don't understand that. Why would your God, a supposedly-loving God who gave you this child, command you to kill him? Isaac is your only son. The only son you're ever likely to have. You were a hundred years old when Sarah had him, after all. And it's not just that he will continue your blood line, that he takes away your shame and fulfills your dream . . . it's that you love him. A deep, violent love, a love that would make you die for him, if that was what it took. You would kill any man who tried to hurt him. But what do you do when it's not a man? What do you do when it's someone you're supposed to love even more, and that person is God?

You're nearing the top of the mountain.

This is Mt. Moriah, a Holy place, so they say. But it doesn't feel Holy, does it? It feels tainted with the coming deed, the coming murder. This is the mountaintop where your Faith and your Fear collide. Where the Giver and the Gift seem to be in conflict.

This is the place of death and life. And now you're at the top.

He's a good boy, you think, as you bind his hand behind his back. Your rough with the cord. You have to be, to get it tight. But still, he could resist, because he's young and you're an old man. He could shove you to the ground and sprint away, and you could do nothing. You wish that he would.

This, however, is about more than his life. It's about obedience, prompted by the fulfillment of God's gift. God always fulfills, you see, in His appointed time and way. He gave you a son, and so you know you have to obey Him, even though you don't understand, even though obeying means losing that son.

In another way, a perverse way, this isn't only about obedience. It's about teaching Isaac, too. Killing him means you will lose him. But if you don't kill him, that will be teaching him to defy God's commands when it suits him, and the result will be far worse than simple loss. You will watch him become a godless man, a corruption of the dream you once had. And you suspect that that is why he does not flee you, now. Even as he clearly realizes what is coming, you see in his eyes that he will obey you and obey God, because he has watched your example of obedience. For better or worse, you have taught him to be meek as a lamb. And it is right. Oh, but it hurts.

If you're familiar with the story found in Genesis 21:1-7 and 22:1-19, then you know how it ends: God does not rip Isaac away from Abraham, but rather provides another sacrifice: a lamb caught in a thicket near the sacred altar. This is such a beautiful story. A heartache-journey of three days, a slow trudge up a mountain towards death, and two men who can stop at any time, but continue on bearing fire, wood, and blade. Finally, at the moment of greatest pain and commitment, they hear the voice of God himself. Then there is red blood on white fleece, and a wailed prayer of thanks as smoke boils up toward heaven.

Philosopher Soren Kierkegaard has said that "Life must be lived forwards, but can only be understood backwards." I'm not sure if that quote is exactly correct, but I think you understand. In retrospect, it is clear to us that God would never demand the true blood-sacrifice of Isaac. But it wouldn't have been clear beforehand. We know that Isaac grew up to be a faithful man, and I'm willing to bet that at moments when he questioned obedience, he remembered his father weeping as he stood against the backdrop of the lands surrounding Mt. Moriah.

How about you? Have you visited the place where Fear and Faith collide? Where the Giver and the Gift seem in conflict? Remember that obedience is not only right, but it is a legacy left for others. Remember that, as you walk up one side of the mountain, God's provision is coming up the other.

And remember Mt. Moriah.

Time Flies

The Lie

Time in the factory ain't reliable. What I mean by that is, five minutes on the clock can be an hour's weight in blood, sweat, and tears. Greenhorns is always complaining about this, which I never did understand. The factory has always been like that, for as long as I . . . I can . . . remember . . . .

What were I saying?

Anyway, there's this new Hoss we just hired, real green, first week on the job. I decided to show him a bit of the ropes, you foller me? After I taught him the proper way to unjam the stirrers, I ain't really too sure how he handled it, so I figured I should take it upon myself to educate the little greenhoss on the makin's of time. One afternoon, I went over to his table where he was busy foldin' and sortin' -- nothing I love more than the sound of a factory full of busy, hard-workin' employees all foldin' and sortin' -- and told him to foller me. His eyes got real huge like big ol' lug nuts. Maybe he thought it was gonna be something like what I showed him with unjammin' the stirrers. Weren't anythin' like that, though. This were regular stuff.

I took him down to the room where it all gets made, all the time. To get there, we had to go down through the three levels of the factory. I have the Masterkey, which I used to let us in through the airlocks. The first airlock hissed open, and we walked through hallways with green potted ferns on every shelf. Some greenhorns have asked what those is good for, but how else are we supposed to hide the chameleons?

We got to the elevator and took it down to the next floor, where I let us through the airlock again. This floor is where we have the scales that measure the blood, sweat and tears. All that comes from the employees, and it seeps down here through pipes, then they weigh it and decide how to pay those hardworkin' Hosses.

The last level is where it gets made. Time. I gave little Hoss a Zoot suit to protect himself, then put on one myself and opened the door. With a puff of gas the airlock hissed open, and there they were. The time flies. They was zippin' around, weaving little green strings behind them. We collect those strings and spin 'em up into balls of fabric and sell them in different increments. It's only one of the ways to make time for things, but it's a good 'un. People call it the string theory of time.

Like I say, we sell them balls in different increments. Say a company comes to us and wants to order a certain amount of time. They can order it in anything from hours to minutes to seconds. Of course, enough hours adds up to days which become weeks and months and years and so-on, but we don't sell it like that. Hours is as high as we go.

The little green Hoss pointed to the pipes juttin' from the ceiling of the fly room.

"What do those do?" he asked me.

"Why Hoss, that's where the waste comes down."

"Waste?"

"Sure. That's what we feed the flies on. Wasted time, wasted lives, wasted dreams." I nudged a pile of somethin' brown and splotchy with my foot. Looked like a deflated soccer ball that'd started to melt. "This right here was made by a parent who didn't go to her daughter's game. What a waste. But the flies love it."

Right as I said it, a whole swarm of the little critters buzzed over and started feastin.'

"So . . . what was all the soap for?" greenhorn asked. "The soap that the gnomes were stirrin'? I mean, stirring."

"Why Hoss, you don't expect people to make use of this time just as it is, do you? It comes outa flies and waste, boy! Naw, all this time has gotta be cleansed. Made new. Time redeemed, if ya speak like that."

Little greenhorn nodded, eyes still huge. What is it with these kids? Anyhow, I took him back up and sent him back to work.

An you know, it hadn't even been a minute since we'd gone down. I guess time don't always fly.

The Truth

This was a fun one to write. Work on Thursday seemed to drag exceptionally slowly, and so I wrote a bit of this in my head over the course of the ten-hour shift.

Factory Mother

The Lie

Mom and I walked through the big front doors of the factory. Well, I guess we didn't technically walk through them. That would be weird, like we were ghosts or something. But we walked inside. Together.

It was really warm in there, and there was this smell . . . a funny kind of smell. A bald man greeted us with a really big smile, which I guess is what happens when you're the daughter and wife of another foreman. I smiled back, although I felt shy, but Mom just nodded.

"Meredith and daughter," she said. "We had an agreement to work today."

The bald man's smile slipped a little, and his lips looked kind of stiff like when people are fake smiling for a picture. You know? But anyway, he guided us past tables to a big machine that kind of smelled like rubber, and showed us how to tug the lever, then press the button, then tug the lever, then press the button. That's how that machine worked, I guess.

He said it took two people - one to tug the lever and press the button and the other to count how many lever-tugs and button-presses the other one made. He gave Mom and notebook and a pencil for the recording. He brought both of us chairs.

"Comfortable, Misses?" he asked. "Alrighty, then. Now, just like I showed you."

I pulled the lever for the first time, and he gave me a smile before wandering away to swear at some workers. People really do swear a lot in factories. Mom put her phone on the chair arm and just sat there, slightly behind and beside me, making a scratch mark in her notebook every time I pulled the lever.

I guess we didn't really fit in. With the swearing, I mean, but also other stuff. Like we were both wearing gray company anniversary shorts and with black leggings, while all the other workers around us had on baggy jeans and uniforms with grease stains, stuff like that. One young man walked by, he kind of jutted out his neck to look at us -- it made me feel weird, for some reason -- and he had long blonde hair in braids, and blue-jeans that sagged down to here! You could see a wide patch of his underwear. It was gray. Mom gave me her look when she saw me noticing.

It didn't matter that we didn't fit in, though. Or that the boy with dreadlocks stared at us in such a funny way. I was there and Mom was there, and she'd come because of my idea. I couldn't believe it when she said yes. All she really thinks about now is money and how tight it is -- which I know I can't blame her for, she's just being responsible, but sometimes I really do with she would talk to me more or not be frowning when I try to tell her things. But that's one reason I had the idea and she agreed, because Daddy mentioned that one of his coworkers had his daughter do the same thing, that they pay you for coming in to help for a little bit. So when I suggested it, Mom really thought it was a good idea.

We worked there for, I don't know, maybe three hours. Then Mom said she was thirsty and it was hot in there and she needed a drink. So we stopped what we were doing -- I wonder if we were technically allowed to? -- and went to find the water fountain.

Well, it turned out there wasn't any water fountain, and when we finally got back, Mom was really frowning. It was that frown. And I felt a little bit bad, and after everything had been going so well! We hadn't actually been talking, but we'd been sitting together for three hours, which was really, really nice.

Then Mom gasped. She was staring at her seat -- especially at the arm of it. Her phone was gone.

"Thief!" she shrieked. It was really loud; everyone could hear. The Foreman froze where he was walking between the lines of machines and cranked his head around to look at us.

"There's a thief here!" Mom said. "Someone stole my phone! Check everyone."

"Now Mrs. Hursey," the bald man started to say, but Mom said "No, check everyone. I am not paying for a new phone."

My face grew warm, not just from the factory heat. He scratched his bald head and looked like he wanted to say something, but finally swore at the workers and called them all to stop what they were doing and stand in a line.

Mom marched up and down in front of them, demanding her phone. The foreman stood behind her, with a look on his face that wasn't sure whether to laugh or be irritated. I stayed back by the machine.

I kept my eyes low, trying not to watch, nudging around the cloths that'd fallen on the floor with the toe of my sneaker. Then I bumped something hard. From out of the pile, I pushed Mom's phone. It must've fallen.

"Mom . . . ." I said.

"Not now, Lisa." She whirled around to glare at me.

"Well . . . ." I said. Then I saw her face, all red and sweating. "It was nothing, anyway."

And I nudged Mom's phone back under the cloths.

The Truth

A mother and daughter did come in to work at the factory today, but none of what I just said happened. I tried for a slightly different style today. I've lately been interested in diverse viewpoints. As before, I haven't had time to edit.