Archive - February, 2011

Memoirs: Self-Obsessed or Sacramental?

February 25, 2011 in Faith and Culture, Writing and Publishing with 0 Comments

Stephanie Smith

American novelist Henry Adams once wrote, “Everyone must bear his own universe, and most persons are moderately interested in learning how their neighbors have managed to carry theirs.”

This line, written in 1918, would be an understatement for modern readers who are consuming the published memoir as fast as it can be printed. The memoir, as a published form of self-narrative, has successfully climbed the literary ladder, claiming equal standing with the traditional novel and receiving recognition by literary scholars as a genre revolution. Within the past thirty years, the memoir has asserted itself as a rising trend in the writing world.

Yet public responses are mixed: skeptics claim that the memoir indulges in syrupy solipsism, the theory that the self is the only reality, while enthusiasts praise it for the value of self-discovery through story. With an emerging cultural impulse to chronicle the self and such conflicting estimations of this trend, the church must join the conversation. The church must recognize the rise of the self-narrative as a signpost for the human longing for transcendence and affirm storytelling as a sacrament in the high art of illuminating divine grace.

The memoir is a personal narrative that provides the author with a verbal processing of the self’s “becoming.” This kind of literature has charmed millions of readers with this human interest appeal in bestsellers such as The Color of Water by James McBride, The Liar’s Club by Mary Karr, and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. The voice of memoir offers its readers an occasion for personal identification so that a reader can find him or herself within the story of another and perhaps borrow the wisdom, healing or insight from similar life threads.

Henry Adams’ idea of the private universe of men is being born into memoir, as the individual universe of motherhood experience, healing from the trauma of abuse, or growing up in a racially mixed family is translated into print. The private universe of the writer, then, opens up a new world to the reader in which a common human spirit is realized, introducing the memoir as a catalyst for community.

The Church’s Response: Stories as Sacrament

The church is no stranger to self-narrative, understood in Christian circles as spiritual testimony, and Augustine’s Confessions is just one example. Beginning with the gospels and later patterned in martyology, hagiography, confession and conversion testimony, the story paradigm is rooted in ancient church tradition. The church has an evangelistic responsibility to engage the rising confessional characteristic of culture for kingdom purposes rather than dismissing it as a narcissistic endeavor. The church need not be suspicious of the collective cultural cry for self-understanding, having its own so satisfied in the Person of Christ. Instead, the church must bridle the technique of self-narrative for Christian testimony, and affirm the art of life story as a powerful witness for grace.

The pattern for spiritual testimony finds its structure in the grand drama of redemption, as the unfolding story of a believer’s sanctification is only understood in the identification with the rhythms of Christ’s life, death and resurrection. The storyteller must then recognize the tension between the cosmic Story of redemption and the echoing story of personal redemption. By telling personal story within the framework of God’s Story, we can engage the cultural trend of self-narrative while adding the new, redemptive element of pointing beyond the self to the Savior.

The cultural rise in the self-narrative affords the church a powerful opportunity to channel the very same confessional trait into spiritual testimony. The church can enter the social scene of life-writing by affirming it in theology as sacrament and encouraging it in practice as testimony. The church is already a credible voice in the self-narrative genre not only because of its tradition of testimony, but also in its sacramental ability to transcend the very story it tells by praising the grace of the Divine Author, something no secular memoir can claim. The art of testimony, then, trades a religion of solipsism, characterized by self-devotion, for a religion of sacrament, marked by the surpassing of the self to point to the Savior.

Stephanie S. Smith graduated from Moody Bible Institute with a degree in Communications and Women’s Ministry, which she now puts to work freelancing as a book publicist and writer through her business, (In)dialogue Communications, at www.stephaniessmith.com. After living in Chicago for four years, traveling to Amsterdam for a spell, and then moving back home to Baltimore to plan a wedding, she now lives with her husband in Upstate New York where they make novice attempts at home renovation in their 1930s bungalow. She is a member of the Young Professionals of the Southern Tier and blogs for Moody Publishers at www.insidepages.net.

Thankfulness

February 24, 2011 in Faith and Culture, Staff Posts with 0 Comments

Bonnie Ponce

Bonnie Ponce reflects on being thankful. Thankfulness.  It is a word that we think of around Thanksgiving but recently I have been thinking a lot about being thankful.  The other day my husband and I were watching Veggie Tales, which may be strange since we don’t have kids, but we were watching the episode with Madam Blueberry.  She is a very “blue” berry who is sad.  She is told that buying more stuff will make her happy but on her way to Stuff Mart she sees a less fortunate girl thanking her parents for a meager birthday dessert of apple pie.  Later she sees a little boy ask for a cool train set but is told no by his father and instead he gets a bouncy ball and he also says thank you, making an impression on Madam Blueberry, who learns to be thankful.

Seeing this short video made me think about my wish list – all the stuff I want and if I had money to burn I would probably begin to make a dent in my list.  It also made me think about what I am thankful for in my life.  Thankfulness is tough – it is so much easier to go through life, see stuff, and want it but to be thankful you have to use your brain and think of what you are thankful for.

Thankfulness is the language of love and joy.  It speaks from a heart overflowing with hope of good things to come.  With Relief I see many good things coming in the future and I hope that with the Love Relief campaign we can continue to bring great literature!

Just an ending thought on thankfulness:

Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a gift and not giving it.
-unknown

Bonnie Ponce is the Director of Support Raising for Relief and lives in Huntsville, Texas with her husband and betta fish. She has a BA in English from Sam Houston State University. After work she enjoys relaxing with a good book or working on her novel.

Backwards Blogging

February 23, 2011 in General with 6 Comments

Deanna Hershiser

Pondering some realities of journal and blog.

Recently I read through my physical journals. Again. Every year or so I get the urge, and usually I begin with the first journal I started since I haven’t stopped. My initial post was on March 3, 1989. A Friday afternoon. We rented a house in the countryside, where log trucks woke us mornings and deer spied us from the lawn after dinner. My daughter was three, and my son wasn’t quite yet conceived.

Nowadays it takes two or three weeks to finish my journals from ’89 to the present. I tend to journal about reading them along the way. Always new insights shine from the book(s) about my years raising children (and a dog, cats, rats, snakes, and mice, plus one mallard duck). I wrote discouragement and joy. I penned creative ditties. I jotted a gazillion ideas, a few of which became published articles and essays.

Sometimes reading through I’m impatient with my entries on writing. Blah, blah, blah, waiting for an editor, blah, blah, this title’s a winner!, blah, that rejection hurt, blah, I never expected such a nice response…

Other times I truly relish recalling the writerly process. I think it reflects the rest of my life journey well. Always the unexpected. New turns. Wow, I’ve really been through all that and lived to tell it.

I keep my journals in a metal file cabinet, and I imagine people reading them when I’m gone. In fact, I write with that in mind and don’t share just everything (a girl’s got to have some secrets). Rarely do I scratch things out. My basic post is one side of one page, and they aren’t super regular. Consistently, though, they’re there year to year.

After I started blogging nearly five years ago, my journal entries became fewer. Still, there have been weeks and months of needing only the grittier tools of expression: pen, ink, and welcoming blank pages.

I’ve enjoyed the similar yet different sensation of blogging, but I don’t know how long I’ll keep up my individual blog. With vague structure to my system, I find the best part of the experience reading other “journals” on the web when mine’s in play. Many good words are out there.

What bugs me about blogging is the nature of review. Blogs were made to be current, newsy. Their top-down, last-first nature makes it difficult to read somebody’s story from beginning to now. This may not bother anyone younger than 40. And I’m all for getting a sense of today’s happenings. But I don’t and won’t own an I-Phone. I live without a laptop, even. Instead I stick with my journal and my even more portable Moleskine. I carry books. Blogs could give me that booky connection to other author-type people, if they were accessible from first post to last without archive manipulation. (Maybe there’s an easy way to read a blog consecutively that I don’t know of…? Would love to hear it.)

You’re likely thinking, old woman, don’t fret over the way things have become. We read the immediate, we update each other’s thoughts all day, and what’s wrong with that?

You’re right, I’m sure. It’s a preference. After all, in his day Plato complained about the new technology involving writing things down, because it would take away the experience of remembering long passages. It would make our brains lazy.

I consider, however, taking my lazy brain off the Internet, though I like the other minds I connect with. I just want to read stories from the beginning. I’d like the chance to see where some bloggers were years ago, follow the flow of their journey, and see the contrast with who they’re becoming, to review and reflect on collections of the other me’s I’m reading.

Deanna Hershiser’s essays have appeared in Runner’s World, BackHome Magazine, Relief, and other places. She lives with her husband in Oregon and blogs at deannahershiser.com.

re:Place

February 21, 2011 in Staff Posts, Writing and Publishing with 2 Comments

Michael Dean Clark

This is the fourth in a series of thoughts on how place shapes and is shaped by the stories we tell. The first three can be found here, here, and here.

Recently, the writers I’m working with in a creative nonfiction class were required to take a mundane action and make in original. I went the low-tech route for doling out said actions, printing up phrases like “shaking hands,” “crossing an empty street,” and “changing a shirt” on small pieces of paper that would later be pulled from a stack on my desk.

That’s right; I’m too lazy to bring in a hat for them to draw from. Sue me.

 Their responses were fun. One student drew “sending a text message” and included an account of a girl so preoccupied with her phone that she fell into an open manhole. Another student pondered the existential pain of the limp fish handshake and the relative certainty hand-touching will turn out awkwardly. Another went the passive aggressive route and wrote an entire response without ever addressing the action on her slip of paper. To be honest, I still don’t know what she was supposed to be writing about.

The point of the exercise, of course, was not sparkling exposition. Rather, its goal was to push writers toward that particular alchemy of good nonfiction – taking a familiar subject and presenting it in a way that challenges the ways readers have internalized it. The big academicky term I use is denaturalization (though as close to the border as I work, that often leads to discussions of immigration).

I think this process is extremely necessary if a writer hopes their work will arrest readers who are more and more inundated with information that does little to nothing in terms of being artful. The best chance literature has of maintaining a place of prominence in general culture is to do what it always has and lift halos from the mire of the macadam (to paraphrase – loosely – a dead French poet).  

One element that begs to be made foreign is place. People like to read about exotic settings, but the stories that matter most to us happen in the most familiar locales. They happen on our cul-de-sac, at our supermarket, on the freeway we take to work, in the cubicle three rows over.

These places are not exotic. People don’t plan vacations to sit at the local Denny’s restaurant they eat at once a week. But to a writer this is a great opportunity.

Take what should be experiential wallpaper and give it the Charlotte Perkins Gilman treatment. Skew the image of a bus bench in a way that forces readers to focus on the people sitting there; the people those same readers fail to see as they pass by each day, locked up in their “Lexus cages” with the radio on to drown out the life being lived around them.

I remember reading Ishmael Beah’s book A Long Way Gone about child soldiers in Sierra Leone a short while after spending a couple months in the country adopting my daughter. What struck me most about the experience was not the story (although it is amazingly powerful in its simplicity).

What caught me was how his descriptions of Freetown recast my own mental images of several places I’d been while we were there. Images drenched in sunlight and success are now clouded in shadow and sadness because of what so many children like my daughter suffered. But those shadows also heighten my ability to appreciate the daughter I sometimes forget is adopted.

And that is anything but mundane.

Michael Dean Clark is the fiction editor at Relief, as well as an author of fiction and nonfiction and an Assistant Professor of Writing at Point Loma Nazarene University. He lives in San Diego with his wife and three children.

Share a Story

February 17, 2011 in Relief News, Staff Posts with 0 Comments

Bonnie Ponce

Bonnie Ponce encourages Relief readers  to love Relief through donations. When I think about helping Relief through support raising, I think about my current job – support raising at a university.

Support raising, I think can have a negative stigma.  Asking for money, even for a really good cause like Relief Journal, can be awkward for people.  But the support raising process can lead to rewarding new friendships and shared stories.

Relief Journal allows authors to bare their souls through their writing and they reach a unique audience. Great questions are asked through poetry, fiction, and shared experiences. We support raise because we want people to continue to find their voice and share it with others.

I remember when I first heard about Relief.  I was a little confused by the name but after I read the mission statement, I understood that Relief was raising the bar on Christian literature and bringing a fresh new point of view.  I was thrilled to find like-minded people that wanted to write and read faith based fiction that dealt with the sinful and painful side of humanity but also the hope that we have in Jesus.  I knew that I wanted to be a part of this group, to help support raise so these stories could continue to be shared.

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