New Writer Facebook

Friends,

If you've browsed this website for any length of time, you know it's dedicated to my creative work, and you've possibly watched it evolve from amateurish to hopefully more professional over the past four years. This blog has helped me explore the world of online platform building. Thanks for staying with me through those explorations--after four years, I now feel much more competent in this arena.

However, tinkering with this blog has also taught me that, for the purposes of creative writing, facebook is really more suited to building my platform, at my current level.

Platforms are a reality for people in the publishing world. Platforms sell books. But I don't think blogging is the right platform for me. Facebook is easier, quicker, and more widely used, generally. So I've made a writerly facebook page. If you'd like to follow my thoughts and updates about creative writing, or contact me about anything, facebook is the place for it. At least, that's the plan.

Click here to visit my author facebook.

Thanks for reading!
Luke

Bulbous bio

In my fiction writing class this semester, we were assigned to create bios exactly 350 words long. The biggest challenge was to include everything I wanted while keeping the flow of the piece--every time I removed or added something, it became choppy or bulbous, like a list of bullet-point info.

It's been awhile since I've updated this blog, so I thought I'd post it. Hope you enjoy!

Luke A. Wildman is a writer, fantasy novelist, and all-around weirdo. He wants his writing to resemble glass—clear and sharp—but it’s usually more like vomit. See, Luke is a Christian, but believes the African god Mbombo created our world when he puked out the sun, moon, and stars. Then Mbombo’s three sons tidied the mess and finished the work of creation, like a troupe of devoted editors.

Luke is not the African god Mbombo—despite having never been photographed with him—but his writing is usually messy and requires obsessive editing before it’s reader-worthy. Luke and Mbombo have Africa in common: Luke was born in Liberia during a civil war and reared in Nigeria amidst terrorism and religious conflicts. He misses the Nigerian people and food. Oh, and his parents. Them too.

You probably shouldn’t trust his growing-up stories, which are muddled with scenes from Tolkien, Lewis, Baroness Orczy, Robert Jordan, Neil Gaiman, Patrick Rothfuss, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, James Herriot, and countless others. Please don’t ask for one favorite author—Luke has a love/hate relationship with that question—but he’d love to hear about some of yours. Why don’t you chat with him over drinks? In conversation, he’s socially awkward—but, frankly my dear, he no longer gives a damn.

Luke got to study in Yorkshire, U.K., during college, and brags about it frequently. That’s the same area where Dracula sucked Lucy’s blood and James Herriot tramped around the Dales as a veterinary surgeon. Luke has a terrible sense of direction, and wandered lost for hours through ruins and tangled alleyways in the ghost-gray rain. He adored every minute.

Looking for him now? He currently studies Professional Writing at Taylor University, in the cornfields of Indiana. Indiana sunsets are gorgeous, and the people here are warm and hardworking. You should visit.

You might enjoy Luke’s published works, which include short stories and more. In 2014 Brimstone Fiction gave his unpublished fantasy manuscript an Editor’s Choice Award. In 2015 he received first place in a student creative writing contest.

Feel free to peruse his poorly updated blog: lukelawwildman.blogspot.com.

Here is a picture of me and some friends pretending to be vikings in Valhalla. No real reason for it--I just like it.

The Beauty of Corn

Hello, friends!

I recently got an article published with a student-run magazine for York St. John University in the UK. If you're interested in a quick browse, my article is on page 14, titled "The Beauty of Corn."

Ciao!

Wait, did I just say "ciao?"

On the Endings of Stories

Everything reaches its conclusion. Best friends part ways. Couples break up. Our journeys, which shape us and teach us and take everything from us, finally end.

Stories are no different.

This blog has mostly featured my stories—the ones I’ve lived and the ones I write. But now I want to talk about something related to the craft of writing: worthwhile endings. Gravity Falls ended recently, an animated show about the summer adventures of two twins. In the days after its finale, waves of bittersweet fulfillment swept through me. It was “only a TV show,” but I’m grieving, though I wouldn’t have it any other way. So, what did Gravity Falls do right? What can any of us do right?

1.      Know when to stop.

Don’t you hate it when your favorite story drags on until all you’ve loved becomes desecrated? I’ve heard that Alex Hirsh, creator of Gravity Falls, was asked by Disney to continue his show beyond two seasons. But he refused. All good things must end. So, how do we know when they’ve reached those conclusions?

2.      Fulfill promises.

A story ends when it’s done what it set out to do. The monster is slain. The bomb is defused. The hero finds confidence and gets the girl (or boy, as the case may be). Examine your beginning and see what you promised. The revealing of secrets? A tragic ending? A fun adventure story? Make the ending match. But whatever you do, do it well. Which brings me to another point:

3.      Don’t cheat.

This means several things. First, don’t use a dues ex machina: a contrived solution that resolves the conflict through coincidence or outside interference. Your characters have to solve the problem, not the gods, luck, or magic. It’s the only road to a satisfying conclusion.

Another way writers cheat is through tragic endings. A good tragedy is beautiful, and very difficult to accomplish. But as writers, we sometimes find no way of providing satisfying conclusions, so we cheat and have our characters fail. If we want to succeed at failure, it needs to be spectacular, and it needs to serve a purpose. Which raises another point:

4.      Provide real substance.

An ending should make readers feel something. Grief. Relief. The bittersweet solemnity of a journey’s conclusion. Whatever it is, make it real. In my opinion, one of the best ways to do this is by endearing your characters to the reader throughout the story, then bringing them to satisfying conclusions. Also, make your readers feel like they’ve been journeying with the characters, and that their journey is now over. Readers have experienced endings in their own lives, and, if you remind them of those endings, yours will have more power. For good examples of stories like these, think Gravity Falls or The Return of the King.

I’m out of time, but if you want much better advice, visit the Writing Excuses podcast. Goodbye for now!

Goodbye!

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!

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.

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!

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.

Transcendent Hope

Coach died today.  He was a mentor to me, a mentor to almost every student in my school, from the kindergartners to the seniors.

"Uncle" Jay Tolar did something incredible.  He had hope, which isn't easy in the face of a disease as crushing and terrifying as ALS.  Sometimes, people exaggerate pleasant qualities after someone dies, but I doubt that any who knew Coach Tolar could ever suspect that of him.

From childhood, I remember him bouncing.  Brimming with energy.  Constantly laughing, and making others laugh.

You know something?  Even when I "grew up" and coach grew older and ALS paralyzed his body, that's still how he seemed.  The wheelchair didn't confine him, somehow.  He confined IT.  His energy and liveliness transcended it, and he still made everyone laugh -- sometimes using the paralysis to help him imitate a zombie, and sometimes singing hilarious songs while machines sucked the phlegm from his chest, since he could no longer cough.  He had hope, and he laughed at the disease.

His faith gave him hope, and he gave this hope to others.  Even in his death, his incredible family and those of us blessed by his life still have hope; hope that we will see him again, someday, and hope that his body is now strong and free, dancing with even more unquenchable energy before God's throne than he always displayed on this earth.

I thank God for Uncle Jay Tolar's life, and I thank him for a hope bigger than paralysis or disease or death.  In the meantime, whenever I'm tempted to lose hope in any struggle of my life, I think I'll remember that Coach did not.

Why Write? Includes an Article by Brandon Sanderson

Before I begin, I'd like to say that technology blows me away.  I'm writing this several days before it will be posted, and thanks to the "schedule" feature, I can set it to automatically post without my engagement.  Such 21st century.

Alright, here's something to which I've given quite a bit of thought: why write?  After all, as a medium, isn't the written word dying?  Many more people listen to music and watch movies or tv shows than read books, correct?  Yes?  Maybe not?

Lots of people debate this assertion, and according to Brandon Sanderson (my writing god), there are actually more people reading now than there ever have been before.  I question this, especially since his views might be slanted due to the survivorship bias* of being a bestselling author.  I'll post his article so that you can decide for yourself, but first I'll make you wade through my own inferior slew of words.  Or, you could skip to the end.  Darn you, divergent system-breakers!

Let's not confuse the question of "why write?" with "why read?"  In my opinion, that's much easier to answer.  Any activity, reading included, shapes the pathways in your brain.  Reading basically trains people to think and analyze in ways that other actions cannot.  Also, because reading puts you inside the minds of characters with potentially differing views and experiences from your own, it makes you more able (and willing) to see others' points of view, and also to feel empathy for others' situations.  The reasons pretty much continue from there.

So, I ask again: why write?  I've gotten into debates about this subject, mostly with myself.  It seems that, for those intent on sharing stories, film is a better option.  It gains wider exposure.  So does music, and I am often awed by the ability of certain musicians to powerfully and succinctly tell stories in their songs.  An argument could be made that written-word is more capable of communicating emotion, but I'm not sure I agree.  Perhaps not more capable, just capable in a different way.

It's been suggested to me that the reason for writing is that I enjoy it.  This is very true, and I'd like to think that I'll continue writing "just because" even if I never get a book published, which stands a good chance of being the case.  Writing keeps me sane.  But, regardless of what authors say about not being able to not write, I believe firmly that it's an overly emotional argument.  At least personally, a life without writing would be difficult . . . but not impossible.  Sometimes, you just have to face it: art forms like writing and music are not something humans need to survive.  Thrive, perhaps.  But not survive.

At the end of the day, here's what I've decided.  It's not a concrete conclusion, and my views might change.  For now, however, it's the product of years of musing.

Writing may not be the only way to impact people through stories, and it may not be the most effective.  But, it's something I can do.  I don't think I'd be very good at the technical aspects of medium such as film, even if I received proper education.  And I know from experience that I have very little musical talent.  Plus, I'm a lousy puppeteer.  Writing, however . . . it very much remains to be seen whether I can make my living as a writer.  But writing is something I consider myself reasonably adept at, and, even if it isn't to the professional level, I know that people have been impacted by pieces I've written.  I know that I have been impacted by things that I and others have written, and I know that writing is something I can do.  It's a more personal art form: one writer, speaking to one reader.  As is hinted at in the Brandon Sanderson article I mentioned, writing only takes one main person, plus a dedicated editor.  Publishing takes more, but publishing is not writing.

I know I said that the point of this article wasn't to defend reading, but the reason for writing is also a reason for reading.  Because it's personal, and because more people have the option of writing than, say, directing, you get a broader variety of writers than you do directors, who're a pretty elite group, by my understanding at least.  So, some people might consider reading worth it just for the chance to experience the opinions of people who otherwise would not have a voice.

Perhaps I'm not a very good writer, after all, because that's a very succinct way to sum up all these words:

Writing gives me a voice.

It's a voice I would not otherwise have, and a voice that I have the option of using for others' benefit.  Plus, writing is fun for me, and I believe it makes a difference.  But, ultimately, it's the voice that makes writing unique as a medium, I believe.

Here's a link to that Sanderson article I mentioned: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/brandon-sanderson-on-why-we-still-read-books-in-the-internet-era/

Enjoy Sanderson's voice!

*Survivorship bias: the assumption that people who appear at the top of any particular field must know more about getting to the top than anyone else.  Not necessarily true.

An Aspiring Street-Sweeper in the Kingdom of Heaven

I don't think I've ever fully explained on this blog why I refer to myself as "an aspiring street-sweeper in the Kingdom of Heaven."  I sign my emails this way (really hope it doesn't sound pretentious), and recently wrote an answer to a friend's question about the signature.  I decided that I liked the way I answered it, so I'm posting the answer bellow:

The "God's Aspiring Street-Sweeper" thing is a lesson I feel I've been learning.  For many years, I've struggled with issues of identity.  In the midst of me asking God who He wants me to be and why I'm consistently unhappy with who I am, I sort of feel like He said, "Luke, I want you to be a street sweeper in My Kingdom of Heaven."  This idea comes from several different sources, including one quote from Martin Luther King Jr., about doing the best with whatever our calling is, even if it's lowly:

“If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as a Michaelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, 'Here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.”

  And after God gave me that identity, He confirmed it by arranging for me to listen to this author, who basically said in his speech, "If you were made to be a street-sweeper, don't stoop to be a King."  The whole idea behind the concept is, God has given me something He wants me to do, and it's not about doing something grand.  It's about doing the best I can with what He's given me, and about striving to live a life of conscience, a life of making the world a better place (this ties into an idea from the movie Kingdom of Heaven, a fantastic [and very violent] story set during the crusades in which the main character questions what the "Kingdom of Heaven" really is, ultimately deciding that the Kingdom of Heaven isn't a spiritual place that men serve by killing "infidels," but is a physical place in the here-and-now where men live according to their consciences and strive to make the world a better place.  I only agree partially with this definition of "Kingdom of Heaven," but it's still an excellent movie and the idea is still partially true.)

As for the "Aspiring," that's because I generally do a pretty terrible job of serving God in the little "street-sweeping" things, because I'm so me-focused and flat out selfish most of the time.

Anyway, that's my two-cents spiel on street-sweeping!  I really hope that, at some point in his life, Stephen Spielberg has made a joke about spiels.

My Epiphany

I have come to an epiphany.  I was not struck by this epiphany, I did not fall into this epiphany.  I have come to an epiphany.  By logical conclusion.

I love clichés.

I love them more than good writing, I love them more than clever twists.  Clichés make me wriggle with pleasure.  That's right: wriggle.

Why did I not see this before?  Every story I dream up bears their mark, and most books and movies that I truly love are fraught with them.  Of course, in those works, the clichés are original, and so they're known by a different name: "classics."  If not classics, then at least they're very well utilized.  And sometimes the stories I love may not even be that well crafted, but they introduce me to a new type of cliché that I find wonderful.

Spies wearing trench coats carrying briefcases full of money, heroes with shining swords staging epic last stands on causeways, socially awkward underdogs embarking on quests to win true love and ultimately finding confidence (think Neil Gaiman's Stardust) . . . all of these are stories I love.

With my dying breath, I will passionately defend stories that others hate for this very reason: the Tobey Maguire Spiderman movies, Ben Affleck's Daredevil, the Mummy movies with Brendan Fraser.

My best friend has experienced the consequences of this passion when I vehemently rave to him about how much he'll like some book that really isn't that good, and my roommate has observed my tendency to extol the glories of almost every movie we watch together, because those are the types of movies that often introduce me to new styles and ideas.

So, now that I've discovered this passion, what do I do with it?

In the writing world, clichés get a bad rep.  People are exhausted by seeing the same, tired old storylines.  However, there are unconsidered merits to clichés: when pitching books to publishers, it's important to relate your books to successful, existing works.  You also have to show how your books are different from those works, but the point is, certain kinds of stories sell.

Here's the thing of it: I have a whimsical belief that certain stories are in our blood, echoing and woven into the fabric of our species at an elemental level.  It's the orphan who becomes a hero, the despicable villain who is brought to justice.  We love those stories, and we can't always explain this love.
 
The stories that make us cry.
The stories that inspire us.
The stories we never forget.

The world needs these stories.  People need to see someone fall into real love, not just Hollywood lust.  People need to see someone who encounters real difficulties and doesn't give up.  People need reminders of what it means to be human.

That is my epiphany.

Academic Sabotage

     Let's face it: every student possesses tricks to lengthen tedious papers and satisfy annoying word counts.   A few of my personal favorites: lengthening sentences under the guise of making them appear more "scholarly," expanding contractions, and using passive voice.  Why use a short, succinct word when several convoluted, complicated words can be implemented, especially when the definitions of such words are known to very few, causing the writer to appear knowledgeable and educated?  In fact, because many such traits exist commonly within "scholarly" writing, I am almost convinced that much of said writing style originated from such mechanisms.  See what I mean?  My last sentence is a perfect example, as is the majority of this "scholarly essay."  Generally, this writing pattern is quite inefficient, both in terms of length and of readability.
     However, students are partially justified in their efforts, even though such tactics add a great deal of unnecessary baggage to an essay.  When Professors assign length mandates (necessary because this  resembles real world assignments), most students will find the quickest, most efficient method to complete the task, because there are likely a plethora of other tasks jostling for priority.  The consequence?  Students are naturally inclined towards messy, inefficient writing.  Teachers are actually cultivating bad writing habits.
     However, lets be real: professors do need to ensure that students cover all necessary information in essays and papers.  How can they achieve this without conventional limits?  For one thing, word limits are much more efficient than page limits, and perhaps can be included along with a list of points that must necessarily be covered in the student's essay, at least for basic students.

I would expand further on this topic, but it's late and I have more work before I rest.

King Solomon's Mines

     Who says classics have to be boring?  I'm currently reading "King Solomon's Mines" by H. Rider Haggard, a book brimming with action, adventure, and narrow escapes!  Basically, it's the original version of Indiana Jones, about an elephant hunter in Africa in the 1800's searching for a friend's brother who got lost while seeking the legendary mines of King Solomon!
     At the time this story was told, many hailed it as "the greatest book ever written!"  I recommend this short novel; just be prepared for some slight racism reflecting the views of the era, though this is largely mitigated by Haggard's creation of noble, self-sacrificing African characters.
     Alright, I'm done ranting.  As you can tell, I'm on a one-man quest to rejuvenate reading among our generation.  Think I'm succeeding, or is reading a dead art?
     Seriously, though.  Will leisure-reading have a place in society's future?  I'd love to hear some views on this in the comments, though it will likely be a biased survey considering that all of you have taken the time to read this blog, and thus are likely people who enjoy reading.

Defending Spiderman

     There's no doubt about it: The Amazing Spiderman is a superior movie to the original webslinger trilogy. The graphics are better, the acting is better, the humor is funnier, and the script is less cheesy; all around, it's just a higher-class act.  Yet something in me wants to defend the originals.  After careful thought, I think I have a handle on why I feel that way.
     Peter Parker's story, at its most quintessential, is the story of a kid growing into a man.  People mock the Tobey Maguire portrayal because he spends so much time crying and feeling sorry for himself.  In a culture obsessed with charismatic personalities who seem to have it all together, Peter definitely breaks the mold of Hollywood action-heroes.  There isn't an ounce of "cool" in him.  It's a far cry from Andrew Garfield's portrayal, with his skateboard and perfect hair.  Sure, he makes the occasional awkward remark, but I have a very hard time seeing anyone that attractive being ostracized at any public school.  At the very least, he would have hordes of adoring fangirls.
     But here's the thing: personally, it's easier to identify with an awkward Peter than with a Peter who's always ready with an unrealistically witty comment.  True, Spiderman is supposed to have classic snark, which is why I think the newer version captures the heroics better.  But it seems that the original captured the spirit of seeking manhood through life's difficulties.
     The best heroes, in my opinion, are the ones who teach us lessons.  Christopher Nolan's Batman teaches us to stand for decency and hope in an indecent, hopeless world.  Mathew Vaughn's Charles Xavier teaches us to defend even those who hate us, to become the better men.  And Spiderman teaches us that if we have the ability to help someone, to right a wrong, then we have the responsibility to do so.  "With great power comes great responsibility" is thrown around so often that it's become trite and cliched.  But unlike the "morals" found in many popular stories, this is more than a catchphrase.  Maybe we could better say, "With any power comes some responsibility."  Befriend someone lonely or do a mundane task to the best of your ability.  Exercise responsibility in the little things.  Later, when you face greater decisions, you'll possess a character that drives you to make right choices.  Along with Spiderman's story, this concept can be found another place: Luke 16:10.  "With great power comes great responsibility" possesses meaning that we can apply to our own lives, whether uttered by Tobey Maguire or Andrew Garfield.
     For myself, I simply find it easier to connect with that lesson when it comes from someone identifiable, with realistic struggles and emotions, rather than someone whose level of Hollywood perfection I can never hope to attain.