Lent: The Ultimate Sacrifice

Stephen Swanson, despite his public expressions of dislike of columns governed by the calendar, writes about a personal struggle with "snark".

"Snark", a Definition and Use

In addition to the definitions from urbandictionary that I link to above, I think it important to give a personal definition in order to further what might be perceived as an overly general terminology.  "Snark", the combination of "snide" and "remark", fills a large quantity of time in on-line communication and chiefly serves as a tone for self-righteous indignation and belittling of others.  For that reason, my omission of snark for the coming weeks might appear as a wholly beneficial enterprise, and to some degree, they have significant points.

At the same time, my snarkiness also serves as an outlet of frustration and a mask for more overtly offensive reactions to others.  Rather than calling someone an idiot or just staring at them aghast and their comment question, I can compose a snarky reply in my mind which I will post later.  It allows for some degree of fantasy play where I star in an amazingly hilarious sit-com filled with cutting commentary and insightful absurdity.

The Cost of Snark

However, as with all fantasies, there remains a significant price to be paid.  Just like hours-upon-hours of GTA can breed a desire to not stop for a stoplight or an urge to pull in front of a better car and pull the driver out to claim their wheels as your own, snark can explode or, in my case, leak.

I find myself leaking snark in a variety of ways.  First, I make noises.  A not-so-subtle "humph" or a snicker that is not quite masked by a cough can emerge at the most inopportune times, faculty meetings for example.  Second, my eyes tell my story.  It is not just the huge eye-roll of adolescence.  Even a looking away or a squint can be noticed and queried by a friend, student, family member, or coworker.  It's unavoidable.  We are conditioned to pick up non-verbal cues, and when they are left unexpressed, the audience can interpret them as they will, often to my own detriment.  After all, people will often assume the worst when left to their own devices.

What to Do?  What to Do?

Well, I'm hoping to employ a two-pronged approach.  First, I'm going to work on composing the snark into specific communications, things I CAN actually say or write to people.  This will not only still allow me to think and create an outlet for my feelings but also force me to channel that into something public and more productive.

For example, this week in a college meeting, I was growing increasingly frustrated at the lack of direction in the meeting.  We'd been there two hours and not really made any progress.  A member of the campus communications and marketing area was having a devil of a time of pinning faculty down on who they were supposed to reach out to and what the message needed to be.  Generally, I would spend that time creating snark.  It's fun.  It makes for good bar/party stories and generally makes me feel better.

However, it does not really solve the underlying problem, and that's the problem that I'm really seeing with snark, especially when compared to effective satire or critique.  It papers over the issue and ignores the underlying causes, and I've determined that these sorts of communication represent central concerns in any hope in overcoming significant issues to our culture today.  It's much easier to snarkily point out others and label them as such.

As I tell my students, it's easier to construct a fallacious argument or a general opinion than it is to construct something thoughtful and useful.  I need to give it a try.  I need to cage the snark.

***

Stephen Swanson teaches as an assistant professor of English at McLennan Community College. Aside from guiding students through the pitfalls of college writing and literature, he spends most of his time trying to remain  aware of popular culture, cooking, and enjoying time with his wife and son. He holds degrees in Communications (Calvin College), Film Studies (Central Michigan University), and Media and American Culture Studies (Bowling Green State University. In addition to editing a collection, Battleground States: Scholarship in Contemporary America, he has forthcoming projects on Johnny Cash and depiction of ethics in detective narratives.

Photo Haiku Wednesday 2.24.10

Photo courtesy of Michelle Pendergrass. Directions:

1. Write a haiku inspired by the photo and post it in the comments.

For extra chances to win:

2. Follow @reliefjournal on Twitter

3. Follow @Quo Vadis on Twitter

4. Twitter @reliefjournal with your haiku and #PHW (Photo Haiku Wednesday)

* * *

The good people over at Quo Vadis have generously donated some prizes!!

The weekly winner will receive a Quo Vadis Habana Journal and a bottle of J. Herbin ink!!

Every week Relief will choose a random winner! So play along and tell your friends. See the information below for extra chances to win.

* * *

Winner will be announced via Twitter Thursday afternoons.

We can only ship to U.S. addresses right now.

You may only win once every three months, but you may play along every week for Twitter Super Bonus Points.

* * *

Would you like to have your photo featured on Photo Haiku Wednesday?

Email your photos to Michelle: photohaiku@reliefjournal.com

You'll get a photo credit link here on the main blog and you'll also be entered in the drawing for the Quo Vadis Habana journal and bottle of J. Herbin ink the week your photo appears on the blog!

Challenging Joe Hill (Stephen King's son) to a Battle to the Death!!!

Jason Hubbard Derr joins the blog to write about challenging another writer (who just happens to be the son of the Stephen King) to the death. When Chris Fisher asked me to do a blog post to help promote my story – "Live Nude Girls" – in the latest issue of Relief my mind jumped to several immediate possibilities. I felt I could talk on a range of topics like:

1. The writing life
2. How when someone like Neil Gaiman, fantasy author extraordinaire, goes on about not believing in God and then writes stories populated by Gods and uses them as a metaphor to explore human life and the human condition I immediately being to believe that his atheism is not at all what he thinks it is.
3. On the nature of being a MA graduate with an MA in theology and most of a BA in creative writing but no job what-so-ever so if you want to hire me to do some freelance writing work please contact me.

Instead I have decided to challenge author Joe Hill to a duel to the death. Mr. Hill is the author of Heart Shaped Box and the forthcoming Horns and is the son of Stephen King.

In life – as both a human being and as a writer (not all human beings are writers, it’s a much longer process for us) it is important to have a nemesis. If possible one should indicate their nemesis in writing and make several public declarations of the relationship. I should point out that having a Grown-Up-Professional nemesis relationship and, say, a Deep-Wish-For-Harm-To-Fall-On-the-Guy-Who-Made-your-Life-Torture-In-Grades-4-And-5 are much different things.

I am sure that you have already begun to ask yourself: why be the nemesis of Mr. Hill. Because he is Stephen King’s son and had publishing connections from the earliest glimmer of a desire to publish? Is it because in ‘Heart-Shaped Box’ he took what could have been a clichéd King-esq horror novel and instead – through a truly unique lead character – gave us a story that was as much about growing old and taking stock of our lives as it was about past sin? Or is it because he is doing what I want to do with life – writing comics and books (the comic I created but was not allowed to write? Apparently it’s coming out soon!)?

Yes. It’s that one!

But I won’t belabor the point – part of the fun of having a secret nemesis is that you get to keep your funhouse mirror life justifications to yourself in, say, a journal or in mad midnight ramblings.

In the end I feel Joe Hill would be a good nemesis because he seems like a nice guy – that as he ridicules your work he may actually say something nice about it. And I feel he may not agree with my weird pre-Acclaim Valiant Comic book fascination but he would get it.

So, Mr. Hill I want to do what you do: write stories of wonder that plumb the depths of humanity. And I’m a few years behind you. But I will catch up. And, oh lets say in 10 years, I want to challenge you to a Duel-to-the-Death on the top of the empire state building.

But before that – can we get a beer? Maybe poke around a used bookstore and would you autograph my copy of ‘Heart-Shaped Box’?

***

Jason Hubbard Derr is a theologian, author and independent scholar living in Vancouver, BC with his lovely new bride. Jason is a contributor to PopTheoloy.com, has been invited to submit to an academic journal and will soon see his MA thesis published. He has most of a BA in Creative Writing from Eastern Washington University and and all of a MA in Theology from the Vancouver School of Theology. Jason's story "Live Nude Girls" can be found in Relief Issue 3.2.

Relief News Tuesday 2.23.2010

My Name is Russell Fink a Kindle Bestseller

Michael Snyder's first book, My Name is Russell Fink, is #2 of 100 on Amazon's "Bestsellers in Kindle Store" page.  The digital text download is currently FREE, so head on over to the Bestsellers page and get yourself a copy!  Michael Snyder's story "Normal People"--mentioned in Robert Garbacz's blog on texture last night--can also be found in digital form on our Scribd page under Issue 3.1.

In case you missed it...

Relief is thoughtfully reading through some Psalms during this Lenten season, and you are more than welcome to join us.  In case you missed the first post on Left Relief, click here.

We are also sold out of Issue 3.2.  A blog was written about the details of the sell out, but, in case you missed it, click here.

Stories like Fine Beer and Cheese: The Importance of Texture (Part 2)

The following is part 2 of 3 from Robert Garbacz.

[Author’s Note: This is the second in my three-part blog series on the importance of a rich and multivaried “texture” in which different parts of the story resist each other, making for a far more engaging piece.  In part 1 (HERE), I discussed Greg Mitchell’s “Flowers for Shelly,” a piece that combined zombie mayhem, humor, violence, multiple characters, and a sweet-hearted love story in order to get itself on the “must publish” list.  Here, I discuss a piece from Relief that is similarly textured, though in a more literary manner.  Next week, I will conclude on a practical note, showing tips for writers and examining the payoff for taking risks.]

The sort of texture I talked about last week isn’t just for zombie romantic comedies, or even genre fiction.  Another story that blew me away was Michael Snyder’s three-page tale of grief and madness inRelief 3.1.  Read it yourself if you haven’t, as soon as possible.  Once you have, here’s the last paragraph in full:

“I walk now.  I talk a lot too.  Out loud.  Mostly to myself, sometimes to God.  All the good smells are gone.  There are no more kind eyes either, no more Tonys or groggy nurses.  I do have my photographs though.  And Hailey’s blanket.  I bartered away Maria’s bathrobe for a pair of Pumas that don’t fit.  When I get desperate, the priest will feed me or give me a coat.  He tells me to keep talking to God, to say it out loud if I have to, no matter how the normal people look at me or move to the other side of the road.  He says my decrease is Jesus’s increase, which sounds like total crap to me.  Still, I continue to testify about the things I have seen and heard and smelled and done.”

This doesn’t look like a zombie romantic comedy, because it isn’t.  What it does look like (and is) is a combination of different sorts of expectations, meeting in unique ways to provide a textured perspective that is true to life.

One would expect certain narratives, particularly in an explicitly Christian magazine: grief slowly giving way to acceptance, an increased understanding and reliance on God.  Those stories are there, like the love story element of “Flowers for Shelly.” The narrator is talking to God more, with the guidance of a priest.  He’s also moving on--maybe--with his final willingness to get rid of Maria’s bathrobe.

But there’s other flavors, as well.  In addition to the comforting taste of acceptance, there’s a strong flavoring of bitterness and continued, self-destructive mourning.  He may have given up Maria’s bathrobe, but he keeps Hailey’s blanket and the photographs.  And while the narrator may be talking to God, he’s still profoundly suspicious of the preacher’s words, which often “sound like total crap to me.” And then there’s the sheer mundanity of life; he gives up the bathrobe not in some glamorous ceremony but in a trade for shoes which didn’t fit.

Again, it is the multiplicity of voices--even if they’re all within one person’s mind--that makes the story memorable, and in this case heart-breaking.  And the conclusion doesn’t get rid of the complexity of flavors; it leaves them, in a melange of tastes that remain on the palate.  Like a fine (and highly alcoholic) Trappist ale, the story leaves the reader a bit disoriented and uncertain, but with a delicious aftertaste to contemplate.

***

Robert Garbacz, when in his natural habitat, can frequently be seen arguing theology, politics, and art over ale with often excessive volume, haranguing his friends repeatedly with obscure but fascinating facts about Medieval literature, or staring cloyingly into the eyes of his beloved wife Hannah. Unfortunately, his natural habitat is Oxford in the period from 1930-1950. This is a bit awkward for someone born in Tulsa in 1983, but he is studying towards his Doctoral at the University of Texas in Austin and feels this is a firm step in the proper direction. His short story, "The Salvation of Sancho," appeared in the previous Diner anthology, inducting him into this peculiar world of horror, bloodshed, and merciless ravagement of grammatical missteps.

The Speech that can Save Christianity

Travis Griffith has some advice for Pope Benedict XVI. What do you think of it?

A recent Associated Press news article says Pope Benedict XVI is condemning what he calls a "growing aversion" to the Christian faith.

The article says 'the pope is urging Christians to invigorate efforts to spread their faith's message despite what he described as the unfriendly climate to Christianity in parts of the world.' Benedict is quoted as saying,

In a world marked by religious indifference and even by a growing aversion toward the Christian faith, a new intense activity of evangelization is necessary.

The pontiff went on to say that Christians need to put aside their differences so they can unite their efforts.

Regular readers know by now that I adore the Christian faith and the people who follow it. I believe their religion is the correct one... for them. I also happen to believe that every other religion (or faith or form of spirituality) is equally correct for their respective followers.

I know I'm just a lowly blogger and Benedict is, you know, the pope, but that doesn't mean I can't disagree with him. Was he wrong in making the statement he did? Of course not. His truth lies with the Christian faith and he's just walking his path.

But, it's not a path I believe is best for the world. I believe intense evangelizing is exactly why there is an aversion to Christianity in the first place. It pisses people off.

With that in mind, instead of saying what he did, I would have liked to see the pope deliver this speech (yeah, now I'm writing speeches for the pope, which is kind of cheesy, but I'd sure have a lot of respect for him if he'd say something like this):

Dear Friends,

It is with great humility that I recognize a growing world trend; a trend that is leading many of the world's people away from the Christian faith. In fact, I acknowledge that there is even a troubling, and growing, aversion to Christianity.

Our world is marked by religious indifference, and even worse, intolerance. While I, and the followers of Christianity, believe that Christ is the way and the truth, we must also be aware enough to realize not everyone will believe as we do.

In the past I might have called for intense evangelizing to spread the Word and convert non-believers. Today though, I ask of you something even greater. Rather than join the ranks of the intolerant, I ask that we, as Catholics and Christians, evolve to the ranks of acceptance.

How can we preach tolerance without following it? How can we know love if we don't experience it?

It is simple arrogance to preach that all people of the world should believe as we do. So please, do not evangelize to your Muslim, pagan and atheist neighbors. Love them and accept them for who they are, but remind them the door to Christianity is always open should they choose to walk through it and follow us.

Upon all of you, I invoke the abundant blessings of the Almighty and, in particular, the gift of peace.

Love... to all.

Do you think a speech like this would help reverse the aversion to Christianity? I sure do, but feel free to discuss amongst yourselves, or make fun of me, in the comment section.

***

Travis Griffith, who left behind the corporate marketing world, choosing family and writing in lieu of “a comfortable life” financially, is a former atheist trying to define what leading a spiritual life really means. His children’s book, Your Father Forever, published in 2005 by Illumination Arts Publishing Company, Inc. captures only a fraction of his passion for fatherhood.

***

Editorial Note: The thoughts presented within this blog post are those of the individual author and do not necessarily reflect the beliefs of the entire Relief staff. Though there may be some differences between the journal's theology and that of the author, we believe that the questions this author raises about faith and love are important.

Giving It Up

Relief's Assistant Editor, Amanda C. Bauch, ruminates on ritual compulsions and Lent.

My fingers were bleeding. Again.

Even as I pause while typing this, my right hand reaches over to the left hand, longing to pluck at a piece of loose skin on my pointer finger. I worried this piece of loose skin on the drive home yesterday, when I was working out, and while I watched the Winter Olympics with my husband.

But it’s not only the fingers. It’s also my legs, my face, my scalp. All subjected to frequent, almost ritualistic, picking. I’ve scratched and dug at my legs so often that they’re bloody and bruised. My face bears scars from years of attempting to rid myself of imperfections, whether real or perceived.

The face digging began when I was in junior high. The finger mangling started in college. The leg scratching and scalp digging are fairly new developments, added to my repertoire over the past year or so.

The escalation of my finger picking during college prompted me to seek counseling. I felt out of control, and I knew the problem wouldn’t go away on its own. All of my fingers wrapped in band-aids, torn and bloody, I cried as I told the doctor that I couldn’t stop and I actually enjoyed hurting myself on some level.

This initial appointment set me on a road I’ve now been on for over a decade, trying to understand why I do what I do.

While I’ve been diagnosed with OCD for some time, I’ve only recently learned about a disorder that goes by many names, but is most frequently referred to as dermatillomania. In layman’s terms, compulsive skin picking.

Viewing a variety of websites and reading testimonies of those who suffer from this ailment, I am amazed to see my story reflecting back at me from my computer monitor. However, one young lady’s comment resonates: “I have not felt worthy.”

Now that we’ve entered the holy season of Lent, I had to decide if I was going to give something up, and if so, what. During Ash Wednesday service, I sat in the pew, praying to God to help me make this decision, all the while picking my cuticles into oblivion. I pulled a particularly tenacious piece of skin I’d been attacking for some time, immediately feeling the tingle and rush of pain derived from tearing off layers of skin.

At that moment, I knew it had to stop, and I felt that God was telling me that it was time.

Granted, this skin picking is a habit I’ve developed over about twenty years of my life, and I know that it’s not going to vaporize overnight. However, I made a commitment to the Lord to try to change. To truly believe that with Him, all things are possible. I am learning to trust Him, trust myself. I’m learning to combat the self-criticism and feelings of unworthiness with His Word: “When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ your love, O Lord supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul” (Ps 94:18-19).

Over these forty days of Lent, I’m giving up my self-criticism. I’m giving up the belief that if I just had enough faith, all of my problems would be resolved. And perhaps most importantly, I’m giving up the belief that I am unworthy.

***

Amanda C. Bauch, is Relief's Assistant Editor, a writer, and a teacher. She fled the harsh Upstate New York winters and now resides outside of Jacksonville, Florida.  She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University and is currently working on a young adult novel and a memoir.  Her short fiction has appeared in Tattoo Highway, Bent Pin Quarterly, The Hiss Quarterly, and nonfiction pieces have been published in Writer Advice, Empowerment4Women, as well as two print anthologies, Tainted Mirror and MOTIF: Writing By Ear. She is also a monthly contributor to 30 Points of View, a blog/ezine/something-or-rather ( www.30pov.com).

Living in the Hours

Good Morning. It is 5:45am, still dark. I have been up since 4:15. I woke up cold, restless, a little hungry.  In the past hour and a half I’ve done what I can to satisfy myself: I’m now wrapped in a huge quilt sitting on top of the furnace vent on the floor in my living room; my dog is under the covers on my lap. I have been packing boxes in the kitchen—we’re moving to our first house in under a week and a half. I packed dishes quietly in the kitchen as my husband slept upstairs. I wrapped glasses in newspaper and towels. All of this while bread baked in the oven and too hungry to wait for it, I ate a bowl full of cut watermelon squares.

I wish all days started like today—with purpose and darkness and quiet and productivity. Just today, I feel somewhat akin to the monastic life; I feel connected to all the others awake right now in the world—working in quiet—its not just about waking up early—its about getting to work, about the ritual of living in these divine early hours.

Today, I will pray the hours, connected with the monks and restless morning pilgrims. Today I will not just intend it, I will do it. I will remember. I will stop. I will allow moments to be holy.

Today I will write. I will pray for inspiration. I will ask God for help. Today I will let it come. I will not be in a hurry. I will move through this work as if my life depends on it, and it does. Today I will not be afraid. Today I will believe for myself what I believe for others. Today I will show up and do the work.  Today I will be a professional writer, even if I have to pretend. Today I will turn off my phone, today I will listen to silence. Today I will light candles. I will burn Fir Balsam incense and smell the air. Today I will look at what has been left undone and leave it undone. Today I will not be lost in distraction, in necessity that does not involve words. Today, I will listen to words; I will listen inside of my head. Today I will not use my ears, today I will not use my eyes. Today I will live in my spirit. I will condition my mind. Today I will work until the moon rises. I will pray the hours before I sleep.

An invitation to pray the hours during Lent, and maybe not during Lent too: 

http://www.explorefaith.org/prayer/fixed/

*     *     *

Michelle Metcalf feels inspired today because the sun has finally started to shine in Cincinnati, OH, where she lives with her husband and dog. She lead a writer's group this morning, just like she does every Friday. That's her favorite part of the week.

Shining Light into the Pit

Laura E. Steer joins the blog to share an editing challenge for a story she submitted to Relief.

Last year I was enrolled in a Non-Fiction Creative Writing class, but I didn’t have anything interesting to write about that had happened to me. After feeling sorry for myself that I’d never survived a natural disaster or overcome a terminal disease, I wrote the closest thing to fiction that I could get away with—a dream.

It was an epic tragedy. After journeying through miles of tunnel, I emerged into a sort of cavernous purgatory, where I found a young mentee of mine awaiting her sentence. The cave was complete with red lighting, smoke, and a gaping abyss that “beckoned its children to leap into its endlessness,” or, to take the drama out of it, a big hole representing eternal death. I begged the girl to escape with me, she begged me to stay in purgatory with her, and when I finally refused, she hurled herself into the pit. I then fashioned a story around the dream scene—blurbs of interactions between me and the girl, all of which built up to the emotional climax, which was the dream (and was much more exciting than anything I had to write about that had really happened).

I submitted it for publication at Relief, and it was accepted. Under the condition that I edit the dream scene. Heavily. Or remove it.

So I set to work editing. I had built the story around my dream. But the dream had morphed drastically from the abstract series of mental images produces by neurons firing back and forth in my brain that it had originally been. Somewhere along the way, I had written myself right into that endless pit and, at the bottom, found myself swimming in a vat of thick, sticky metaphor and imagery.

But the goal isn’t to fill in the Metaphor Pit with mounds of dry, subject-verb sentences. The goal is to shine a light into the pit and show its shape, to climb into it thoughtfully and chisel stories that are unique and stirring, worthy of being submitted to the public for scrutiny and applause.

I edited the dream scene down from 458 words to 87. It was scrutinized and applauded.

***

Laura E. Steer is a recent graduate of Malone University, where she majored in English (no, not to teach!) and minored in both Bible and Communication Arts. Though her ultimate goal is to pursue careers in editing and freelance writing, she has, in the meantime,accepted the position of Drama Director at her church. She also volunteers there as a middle-school youth leader, and plays keyboard and sings backup vocals for a Christian rock band. Beyond writing and music, Laura also enjoys consuming and creating visual art, namely photography. Her future plans include artistry, travel, and a possible move to Chicago. Laura's story "Phantom Child" can be found in Relief Issue 3.2.

Today's Attack - An Austin Perspective

It doesn't feel like 9/11 today, for which I am thankful.

For those of you not involved in the news, a plane crashed into a Northwest Austin office building, probably aimed at the IRS offices.  I am thankful that, so far, no deaths have been reported (though the pilot has yet to be recovered.)  Prior to his actions, the pilot posted an angry letter asking the IRS to "take my pound of flesh and sleep well."  The Austin American Statesman has coverage here.

At this point, I don't really feel I have all that much to blog about, even though the attack was less than five miles away from me.  I'm thankful that--miraculously--it seems that no one (except probably the pilot) is dead.  I'd like people to remember it as a reminder that Islamic foreigners don't hold a monopoly on terrorism.  We Americans have more than our share of home-grown sin and madness.  Other than that, well, I'm sure the government will do what they can to increase security and prevent similar actions from happening.

One other thing is strange, though.  This morning, feeling the wind on my skin and the warmth of the sun (it has been an unexpectedly cold winter), I thought of how odd it was to start the season of Lent in such pleasant conditions.  I didn't yet know about the attack, and it seemed like a weird day to think about the words "from dust you have come, to dust you will return."

It's a bit cloudier in Austin now, but still not uncomfortably cold.  It still feels like a pleasant day to be outside, a good day for a walk.  My prayers are with the victims whose lives have been turned upside down, with the friends and family of the "kind, quiet, not at all brooding" man who flew his plane into a building.   I pray that God will work to bring peace and love to a world with far too much hate and fear.

I am glad that things are far better than they could have been.

Susan is giving up Facebook for Lent

Susan is giving up Facebook for Lent.

Susan’s fingers instinctively reach for the F for Facebook.

Susan wants to check in with God fifty-million times a day, instead of checking for status updates.

Susan is grateful for the friend who emails her status updates the first day.

Susan wonders what role Facebook plays in her life, what boredom it staves off and what will become of her without it.

Susan has to go on Facebook the very first day – to retrieve business information from an old message. She shields the page with her hand, ignores the new message in the inbox and finds what she needs before exiting quickly.

Susan is not exactly praying more yet, but it has been a busy day.

Susan has realized she thinks of events now in terms of how she will frame or caption them for Facebook: how will life be shaped into a status update?

Susan thinks about how Facebook is utterly self-centred. What is the motto again: connecting and helping you share with friends. Something like that. But every sentence starts with me.

Susan has more than 25 random facts to tell you about herself. She is so fascinating. To herself. And can she employ her skills (Random Fact: Susan is good with words) to make you fascinated with her too?

Susan wonders what this Facebook fast is about, anyhow. Narcissus not being allowed to look into the pool? Perhaps.

Susan wants to express her feelings, to be heard. Is FB more gratifying than prayer? If a tree falls in the forest, does God hear? And will God comment on the status of the fall?

Susan misses the juiciness of the details. And can make a rational argument that FB is better than gossip or reading tabloid stories.

Susan decided not to break her fast on Sundays. It seems arbitrary and weak to take a break.

Susan’s grandma is sick and she wants to blurt it out once and get lots of nice notes back. Would that be so wrong?

Susan watches how she fills her Facebook hole and is not exactly proud. But I’m trying.

Susan thinks it’s funny to speak in the third person. Not the royal we. The self-reflexive she.

Susan really, really, really, really, really wants to go on Facebook. A lot. A really lot.

Susan is going to Italy tomorrow.

Susan is exploding with anticipation and she has already called everyone reasonable to call. Must. Get. Going. To. Italy. Presto.

Susan hopes she is not sending her children into therapy by leaving them on the other side of the world.

Susan is dreadfully homesick, jetlagged and culture shocked but she has never ever seen such beauty.

Susan was wooed in a garden today.

Susan is in a quiet place: no Internet, no phone, no tv.

Susan’s thoughts are clearer, way clearer.

Susan was afraid to be alone for ten days with her husband and without her kids and the props of daily life, but now she loves it.

Susan is dreaming in Italian...un poco.

Susan is dazzled by beauty.

Susan is pondering.

Susan is learning that anxiety comes more often than I would like, but it goes too, every time.

Susan feared they would have to spend the night in the car when they got lost, but they got home. Grace.

Susan’s children are doing well. More grace.

Susan thinks people are delightfully kind.

Susan learned to make pasta.

Susan does not have Stendhal Syndrome, just Art Overload.

Susan may have had the happiest time of her life.

Susan can’t wait to be home.

Susan is dizzy with fatigue. Her kids are not.

Susan needs more beauty, less noise.

Susan is scared it will recede and fade. How do you hold onto it?

Susan is sorting things out, examining the things I stuffed away, preparing to enter the fray again.

Susan feels like my garden: boggy, slightly mildewed and winter-weathered, but with fresh green shoots of hope.

Susan is editing up a beautiful storm.

Susan is sleeping naked.

Susan is glad to see the world greening up.

Susan no longer feels like there is a glass ceiling between her and God.

Susan has fancy eyelids.

Susan can now write about prayer in a visceral way.

Susan feels surprisingly regretful at the end of Lent: do I want to start narrating my life again? Unlike other addictions, this one is social. Can you go to a party and just sit in the corner? Why not stay home?

Susan circles the site like a cold pool, dipping a toe in here and there, reluctant to take the plunge.

***

Susan Fish is a writer, editor, wife, and mother of three school aged children who lives in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. Her first novel Seeker of Stars was published in 2005, while her second is still looking for a home. She is always intrigued by the signs people choose to erect on their garages, fields, or lawns, and once had both a pesticide sign and a Green party sign on her front lawn at the same time. Fortunately, she saw the irony in the situation. Susan's story "That Sign" can be found in Relief Issue 3.2.

Issue 3.2 SOLD OUT!

Less than a month after we received our shipment of issue 3.2, we've sold all of our copies. Good News: We are ordering more and expect them in the next month or so. We are still in the process of raising capital so we have the money to order another shipment, which is why there will be a delay. If you wish to help with this, click on the little "Donate" button at the bottom, pick any dollar amount that will fit your budget, and help us get our shipment ASAP.

Bad News: If you've ordered a copy in the last 2-3 weeks, we will ask for your patience as we do our best to obtain a new shipment. If you would like to help us, click that little "Donate" button.

But I can't wait. We understand how anxious you might be to get a hold of our fastest moving issue. We recommend that you visit the Relief E-book Store over at Sribd, where you can purchase issues 2.1-3.1 at a greatly reduced price.

Help us out: Every dollar received will go directly to the cost of shipment for issue 3.2. Relief/CcPublishing is a 501(c)(3) organization and all charitable contributions can be considered as a tax deductible donation.

Photo Haiku Wednesday 2.17.10

I love me some Cowboy Poetry and in my opinion there isn't enough of it! My cowboy and I went to see the SuperBull Series in Grand Rapids last weekend where this cowboy was talking to God a bit before trying for his 8 second ride. Photo courtesy of Michelle Pendergrass.

Directions:

1. Write a haiku inspired by the photo and post it in the comments.

For extra chances to win:

2. Follow @reliefjournal on Twitter

3. Follow @Quo Vadis on Twitter

4. Twitter @reliefjournal with your haiku and #PHW (Photo Haiku Wednesday)

* * *

The good people over at Quo Vadis have generously donated some prizes!!

The weekly winner will receive a Quo Vadis Habana Journal and a bottle of J. Herbin ink!!

Every week Relief will choose a random winner! So play along and tell your friends. See the information below for extra chances to win.

* * *

Winner will be announced via Twitter Thursday afternoons.

We can only ship to U.S. addresses right now.

You may only win once every three months, but you may play along every week for Twitter Super Bonus Points.

* * *

Would you like to have your photo featured on Photo Haiku Wednesday?

Email your photos to Michelle: photohaiku@reliefjournal.com

You'll get a photo credit link here on the main blog and you'll also be entered in the drawing for the Quo Vadis Habana journal and bottle of J. Herbin ink the week your photo appears on the blog!

Relief News Tuesday 2.16.2010

Submission Period Coming to a Close

Submissions for Relief Issue 3.2 will be closing March 1.  The submission system will not open again until May 1.  Submission guidelines can be found under the "Submit Your Work" tab at the top.

While you're thinking about submitting to Relief, you may want to take a look at Christopher Fisher's question series: "What Happens in This story?" "I Know What Happens, but Who Really Cares?" "Is This the Best I Can Do?" and "An End to Questions." (I apologize in advance for the broken links within those posts.  Just don't click anything on the old site and you'll be fine.)

You might also want to check out "10 Common New Writer Mistakes."  The list, from Mary DeMuth at BelieversPress.com, is includes the usual "Dangling Participle" and "Too Many Modifiers," but Mary also includes "Lack of Passion" (an extremely important aspect of writing that is almost never mentioned in an English classroom) and "Purple Speaker Tags"--which I had never even heard of before.

***

Finally, I'd like to present you with this absolutely incredible story:

Tim & Jill's Wedding

This story is perfect for Valentine's Day.  It comes from Tricia McCurry and can be found HERE.  It was written for Love Without Agenda, a fantastic organization looking to "inspire, network, and fund social innovators who are changing the world one act of love at a time."  While I could go on and on about LWA, the real story is about Tim and Jill and the love that they share.  Their story is simple and unique--just like love should be.  After Tricia's piece, there are 197 beautiful pictures that are absolutely moving.  Go check it out.

Stories like Fine Beer and Cheese: The Importance of Texture (Part 1)

The following is part 1 of 3 from Robert Garbacz.

[Author’s Note: This is part one of a three-part series discussing the importance of a rich texture in fiction.  Here, I discuss the way Greg Mitchell used contrasting genres and perspectives to earn “Flowers for Shelly” a place in the second Diner. Next week, I will take a more literary turn with Michael Snyder’s “Normal People” from Relief 3.1. I will conclude on a practical note, with hints for how to create a sense of texture and a promise of the rewards of taking risks.]

One of the greatest little pleasures of living in Austin is to visit Whole Foods, sampling the cheeses, wines and beer that are available for free.  There is something almost magical about the blend of flavors in a good cheese or ale; a sea of competing tastes, textures and sensations that changes as it trickles across the tongue.  A good beer might start with a soft, fruity taste and then kick in later with a bitter aftertaste.  A good cheese will often be uneven, with a delicious, organic texture as it slides across the tongue.

I hate processed “American cheese” and “light beer.”  Sure, they’re smooth, easy to eat, and they’re focused on their goal.  But they lack the complexity and texture of the good stuff.  In comparison, they’re crap.

The same thing is true of short stories.  Reading through a slush pile, nothing will make me sit up and take note about a story than a sense that it has a really good, complicated texture; that it goes in multiple directions at once, instead of trotting straight at its target.  And while nothing will guarantee acceptance, a story with the rich, variegated texture of a Trappist ale or Irish cheese will make me perk up, and at the least make me want the story to be good enough for acceptance.

But enough about foods, before I get hungry.  Let’s look at our first story, and the way it uses contrasting thoughts and “flavors”  to make something better than the sum of its parts.  (Minor spoilers, it should be noted, are a given.)

“Flowers for Shelly,” from the second Diner, started with the solid, earthy basis of a good character drama.  The narrator is obviously in love with his wife, and wants nothing more than to stay in bed with her all day.  His responsible wife wants him to get up and go to work.  The scene is cute, a bit saccharine, but already somewhat textured thanks to the narrator’s self-deprecating wit.  The wit is understated, but at least engaging:

“Work sucks.  It’s 9:30 a.m. and I want to go home, lie in bed, and wait for Shelly to return with less pressures.  And, preferably, less clothes.”

So far, it’s more textured than processed cheese, but not much.  Maybe Kraft mild cheddar, with a slight kick of humor and marital tension.

Then the narrator’s friend and co-worker gets slaughtered by zombie-police and the story takes on a different tone:

“Suddenly, I feel a cold sensation around my ankle and see a bloody hand reaching out from underneath the car.  Pulling.  Yanking.  Moans rise up like phantoms from the depths of hell and I look into the still teary eyes of Kevin as he lures me in.  At first, I think he’s somehow survived, but then it hits me.  He’s dead, too.”

All of a sudden, this story is beginning to feel more like the sort of solid, hand-crafted cheese that is worth shipping over oceans.  What are the dead doing coming to life?  How will our hero survive?  And what the hell does this have to do with his decision to give flowers to his wife Shelly?  It’s interesting, uneven, and because I have such dissonant tones I don’t know what’s going to happen next.  I like it.

Nor is the combination of two genres all that Greg Mitchell does in his story.  In addition to the gruesome descriptions of zombie mayhem, we have the narrator’s often incoherent thoughts, his gun-nut friends’ insane euphoria at the fact that they’re actually shooting zombies, a thoroughgoing sense of humor, and a mad quest to give pretty flowers to the beautiful Shelly.  I’m not much into zombie stories, but Mitchell’s ability to pile on a hundred different flavors and cram them into a small space made this a fun romp through death and mayhem that I won’t soon forget.

The moral: even with straight-forward, zombie killing genre fiction, odd combinations and unexpected, off-kilter happenings are key.

***

Robert Garbacz, when in his natural habitat, can frequently be seen arguing theology, politics, and art over ale with often excessive volume, haranguing his friends repeatedly with obscure but fascinating facts about Medieval literature, or staring cloyingly into the eyes of his beloved wife Hannah. Unfortunately, his natural habitat is Oxford in the period from 1930-1950. This is a bit awkward for someone born in Tulsa in 1983, but he is studying towards his Doctoral at the University of Texas in Austin and feels this is a firm step in the proper direction. His short story, "The Salvation of Sancho," appeared in the previous Diner anthology, inducting him into this peculiar world of horror, bloodshed, and merciless ravagement of grammatical missteps.

Damascus, February 1990

Lisa Ohlen Harris provides us with a short passage that didn't make it into her forthcoming book Through the Veil. The post first appeared on her website LisaOhlenHarris.com.

We bumped suitcases up a set of stone stairs, and into the narrow pathway of the Old City. Along with the eleven other Americans in my research group, I followed our team leader, Steve, through a maze of stone and dust, of small doorways and little children. I could not imagine finding my way in or out of these corridors every day for three months, but Steve assured us, "Everyone will know where the foreigners are living. If you get lost, just stop and ask." Two boys playing soccer with a grubby ball stopped their game to stare at our strange procession of suitcases and foreigners. I thought I heard one of them whisper the name of our Syrian host, Abu Mousa.

Steve smiled in triumph as we rounded the turn leading to Abu Mousa's doorway. One by one we passed through the front door and into a wide atrium garden, where Um Mousa had prepared a welcome feast—chicken over rice, with vegetables and pine nuts. We were jet-lagged and hungry, and the chicken was so good. We sat together and ate. A lot.

I remember it was cold in Syria in February in a hundreds-of-years-old stone house with no heat. I remember sneaking up to the rooftop to meet Todd after a day of ethnographic research. I remember weeping three months later when it was time to leave Damascus, the city I had learned in such a short time to love.

Twenty years ago. For every detail I remember there are dozens I’ve forgotten. And for every chapter inThrough the Veil there are memories that didn’t make it into the book. In these last months before the book releases (summer 2010) I’m going to post “deleted scenes” from Through the Veil. By sharing these memories I hope to serve up an appetizer for the forthcoming book as well as commemorating the twenty-year anniversary of our time living in Damascus.

***

Lisa Ohlen Harris is Relief's Creative Nonfiction editor. Her Middle East memoir, Through the Veil, will be published by Canon Press in 2010. Lisa's essays have appeared in journals like River Teeth, Arts & Letters, and The Laurel Review, and have received special mention in Pushcart Prize XXXIII: Best of the Small Presses (2009) and in Best American Spiritual Writing (2008 and 2010). Lisa enjoys mentoring and editing the work of emerging writers through her critique service.

Pilgrim's Ingress: The Fiction of Faith

I was instant messaging with a student of mine from a few years back and he asked me about a book I’m working on. When I described the main character – a guy named Diego who wants to destroy himself but can’t because the people he meets keep waylaying his problems with their own – my former student said, “Wow, that book sounds like me.”

Unfortunately, I don’t think he’d say the same thing about the vast majority of Christian fiction.

In its earliest form, Christian fiction was allegorical. Novels like Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress were built on the biblical model of the parable. The style persisted, finding a more modern version in Charles M. Sheldon’s 1896 sermon-as-novel, In His Steps. These stories, and the many like them, were merely vehicles for the lesson behind them – conduct instruction wrapped in a transparent story.

Sometime later, in general terms and by my estimation the mid-1980s, the pilgrim’s progress became the pilgrim’s egress (which, coincidentally, was an alternate title for Peter Kreeft’s 1996 book The Journey). This happened in a Christian culture increasingly alarmed by the idea that their beliefs were no longer valued and their stories followed. They are embodiments of the desire to flee from culture, reach the safety of the conversion moment, and escape into the light. And there it ends. In conjunction, the Christian fiction market grew as people looked for “safe” stories of belief and publishers increasingly focused on providing such middle-of-the-road fare. At this point, I don’t believe Flannery O’Connor’s classic Wise Blood would get out of the slush pile at most Christian houses given how “unsafe” a novel about a man’s desire to found the Church of God Without Christ would be considered.

This reminds me of a common description of the difference between the Victorian novel (which I would liken to a great deal of mainstream Christian fiction) and the Modern novel. The Victorian narrative ends with the wedding, a symbol of the achievement of the highest aims of that set of cultural norms. The Modern novel begins with the wedding because “reality” only happens when people move beyond the ceremony to the (often ugly) work that comes when you live (or fail to live) a life together. In a sense, the majority of mainstream Christian fiction sells short the day-to-day reality of living out beliefs in a sinful world by building most of its narratives around the conversion moment and failing to address the very real struggles of those who believe (which I would say is everyone).

The fiction of faith should instead be the pilgrim’s ingress, a daring genre considerably more focused on Christians in culture than believers escaping it. It should present pictures of faith in the ugliness, doubt, and circumstances of life outside the walls of assumed belief. Instead, we’ve raised those walls even higher to keep that same ugliness, doubt and circumstance out.

In essence, Christian literature needs an emergent movement just like the mainstream evangelical church needed (and still needs). Otherwise, how will nonbelievers see themselves inside Christian art? And more importantly, how will Christian artists and readers remember that their art should emulate their Savior – by addressing those who need the gospel most in a form that meets them where they are?

***

Michael Dean Clark is an author of fiction and nonfiction and is in the final stages of earning a Ph.D. in Creative Writing at the University of Milwaukee-Wisconsin. His work is set primarily in his hometown of San Diego and has been known to include pimps in diapers, heroin-addicted pastors who suffer from OCD, and possibly the chupacabra.

Worshiping Nature, Exorcisms, and a Retort… of sorts.

Clare Gajkowski-Zajicek responds to Travis Griffith's post "Avatar: What's the Big Deal?"

May I begin by saying that I have never seen Avatar nor heard about the Vatican’s remarks on the film before reading Travis Griffith’s blog post. Though I agree with Travis’ overall theme of love and embracing those of other faiths, races, religions, etc., let’s not hate on the Vatican, just to hate on the Vatican, shall we? What if they have… dare I say… their reasons?

Since people are so eager to talk about their spirituality these days, let’s talk about the spiritual realm on this Earth. There are believed to be two parts to this realm, the supernatural and preternatural. The supernatural is manifested by visible acts and the preternatural is manifested by unseen acts and forces. Miracles can fall under both categories. Evil, however, also falls under both.

“Not to believe in evil is not to be armed against it. To disbelieve is to be disarmed. If your will does not accept the existence of evil, you are rendered incapable of resisting evil. Those with no capacity of resistance become prime targets for Possession.” –Malachi Martin

When was the last time you heard about an exorcism? Do you think they don’t occur? Do you believe that people are just mentally ill and it’s just another crazy old Catholic ritual? (That argument never really made sense; the possessed has to go through a thorough examination and agree to the exorcism. It cannot be forced upon them.)

Dr. Malachi Martin is one of the hundreds of priests who have witnessed an exorcism- but he also wrote one of the most profound books on the issue: Hostage to the Devil: The Possession and Exorcism of Five Contemporary Americans. He followed and studied other priests who had performed exorcisms, finding them years later as broken and hollow shells of human beings from the stress of the ritual. Most of the occurrences had themes or similarities - the subjects who became possessed were obsessed with the Earth and its elements, “the mystery of nature,” they were cynical of religion, or they attempted to “transcend” this Earthy realm. In one way or another they opened themselves up to the supernatural and the preternatural. In their particular cases, evil snuck in.

During my years at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, I finished my major early and studied Comparative Literature with a Franciscan priest. It was around this time I read Malachi Martin’s book, after randomly picking it up at a used bookstore. I mentioned this book to the Franciscan, and he became extremely somber. He told me to be careful, and that he himself had performed three exorcisms in his lifetime. (It took him months to actually explain these events, and when I heard them I understood why. This is also a man who has probably never told a lie in his life.)

“Avatar asks us to see that everything is connected, all human beings to each other and us to the Earth.” – James Cameron

An excerpt from Malachi Martin’s book, the case of a young priest being possessed in 1964:

His yielding [control] at Mass had immediate and far-reaching effects. In baptizing infants, he changed the Latin words, which were unintelligible to the parents and bystanders. When he was supposed to say, “I baptize you in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit,” he said, “I baptize you in the name of the Sky, the Earth, and Water.” In Confession, he stopped saying “I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit”; instead, he said, “I confirm you in your natural wishes, in the name of Sky, Earth, and Water.”

My first point is: I don’t think the Vatican was only worried about the worship of nature and neo-paganism in Avatar- they’re worried about what those practices can lead to.

“As long as beliefs are based on love, who’s to say who gets to claim the correct one?” –Travis Griffith

My second point is: let’s be careful what we worship. I agree we need to embrace everyone, of every faith, with love. But it’s a fine line when worshiping the Earth- we need to see the danger in this. Jesus came to this world to build the Kingdom of God. Since that was impossible here, why worship such a place?

***

Clare Gajkowski-Zajicek is a graphic designer and videographer who graduated from UW-Milwaukee with a degree in Communication. She currently resides in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with her husband and pet snapping turtle, Roger. She spends most of her time watching movies and eating starchy foods. (Mostly potatoes.)  Clare's poem "Church Fathers" can be found in Relief Issue 3.2.