Category: Creativity

Who is Christian Fiction For?

Posted on by Hilarey

I’ve recently and unexpectedly begun desiring to write fiction again. I say unexpectedly because when I published Sworn to the Desert in 2019, I felt like I’d closed a loop. I kept thinking “full circle,” and I felt done. But since I’m hearing voices again I’ve started to consider a few things that have been on my mind since I was first a reader of Christian Fiction, then a writer of Christian Fiction, a writer of a not-safe-for-CBA (at the time) allegory, then a reader of anything but Christian Fiction, and now, a Christian fiction writing again.

So, if I am writing, you probably won’t see many posts here. The opposite is also likely to be true. If I start posting here, I’m not working on my manuscript. Although I do like the timeline of one week from ponder to production, and a novel usually takes me a year. I might just post for the completion reward.

Decades ago, I remember comparing Christian Fiction to romance. I thought since no one would be satisfied by a romance where the couple didn’t “get together” in the end with some sort of consummation of their relationship—a kiss, a declaration, marriage or sex—then a “Christian” story was only satisfyingly resolved with a life turned over to God in the observable snapshot of a sinner’s prayer. Since the right words in the right order irrevocably changed your life, I needed to read them to be sure the one-and-done event happened. It was true love’s kiss.

Granted, that had more to do with my theology at the time than anything else. But today I want to contemplate: who is Christian Fiction for? I’m not going to resolve this. I’m just going to ask some open-ended questions like a shark swirling around ideas, tasting multiple sides by bumping into them. And all of these thoughts could relate to non-religious writers as there are plenty of preachy reads out there, regardless of the writer’s world view.

I won’t explore “what is Christian Fiction?” Whether you can talk about God. Not talk about God. Whether universal truths are allowed if they do or don’t show up in the Bible. I’d rather sit backseat and let the closed-door, no-spice girls work it out, because we have a thriving community here writing what they call bell-pepper reads so the stories won’t cause you to sin.

Even though the question what is Christian Fiction is closely linked, I only want to ask who is it for?

Because writers are supposed to keep their ideal reader in mind when they write. Maybe not in the “outrunning the inner critic, first draft phase“ but at least in the editing phase. This isn’t who you dedicate the book to, or necessarily who pays for the book. But that special niche person who will pick up your book, and it will resonate with them. That is who it’s for. That’s who you keep in mind when you write.

Is the Christian Fiction label just a trigger warning for unbelievers and ex-vangelicals so my brothers and sisters who write can pour their whole-selves in? Phileo, eros and agape without reviewers feeling like it was a bait and switch? See some of the complaints against Theo of Golden like “sneak attack Christian Novel*.”

*I’m not agreeing with that review here.

Should Christian Fiction be a sneak attack? Who doesn’t want to write a cross-over that slays unsuspecting millions with a sickle and makes you rich? Treasure in heaven, check. Treasure on earth, also check.

Could Christian Fiction be for unbelievers? People who have no context for Christianity but want to see what modern American Christians have to say about their faith instead of what haters online profess that Christians believe?

Is Christian Fiction for the spiritually curious? People who want to experience an unknown context? I’ve greatly enjoyed peaking into Hindu and Muslim minds through books. It’s healthy to see beauty in all people, and it’s healthy to read things you don’t agree with—to be OK with it, and to either understand why you don’t agree or to sit in the indecision of it. And I believe most readers are looking to experience something foreign to them, whether it is how to live on Mars, how to survive witchcraft school or Amish courting, and how they make butter.

I once heard a new believer say she read Christian Fiction to understand Christian life. So it could be for someone from a non-religious culture who has zero reference of what following God “should” look like. Sort of a crash course in the cause and effect of prayer, submission to God, and resistance to sin.

Christian Fiction could be for parents to give to their children to show them, “See—it isn’t just our family. Other people in the world think and believe these things.”

But I know from my kids’ experience, one thing they learned from Christian Fiction was that their Testimony Snippet was boring. My young readers were exposed to cutting, extreme dieting and all manner of things they might not have been ready for—with a quick caveat that prayer takes away all the pain. (I know, I know. Teaching your kids to read puts you at the risk of them learning things you didn’t teach them… my bad.)

Is Christian Fiction best used as a confirmation bias tool for adults? Let not pretend we don’t buy material to support what we believe. “We are men of action, lies do not become us.*” Christian Fiction could be used to affirm a reproducible path to the good life. We seek a formula to prevent the effects of evil in the world from touching believers or at least if it does we have a satisfying 300 page play out of “all things working together for good for those who love Christ Jesus and are called according to his purpose.”

*Quote from The Princess Bride

Next is where I want most to challenge and provoke: Christian porn.

Isn’t Christian Fiction used as gratuitous fables for believers? Like the subreddit “earth porn” which shows gorgeous, unearned (you can’t hike that far), high definition imagery of the earth. The pictures you see scrolling across televisions that are for sale. Those are prettier, brighter and clearer than the view would be for the person standing on the mountain in real life.

Just like the Northern Lights can’t be seen by the naked eye—neither can we view color and definition underwater with our human retina like we can with a camera. So, just because we can see something in print, it doesn’t mean it’s exactly accurate.

But as I reconsider, I won’t stop looking at pictures of the ocean depths. And I will still use them to glorify God for the wondrous beauty of creation. What’s wrong with the story-dream version if it somehow increases faith? (I’m pretty sure it’s consensual.) It’s one reason we read any fiction at all: to escape our un-promised reality for a guaranteed payoff.

I guess my overthinking is that when we read about sexy dragon academy we understand that we will not actually get our own chance to create a telepathic mental bond with a flying wyrm, who will protect us with their life, while we save our lover’s kingdom. But something is a little different with Christian Fiction. I think Christian storytelling runs the risk of slipping out of the realm of fantasy for believers who have been trained to take everything literal in the Bible, even allegory. After all, God could do anything.

Instead of celebrating the noteworthy possibility of miracles resulting in love and rescue—we expect the storybook version. But the onus here is on us as the consumer. The one who puts their whole-self in to the story doesn’t have control on how it is interpreted.

Because, like climbing that mountain we saw in a picture, we feel jaded when we see litter, dead and diseased trees, or electricity lines through our itchy-from-allergies, and sweat-dripping-into-eyes lenses… not the edited timelapse panorama with a vibrant filter image that we expected.

Who do you write for

When the voices are talking, they seem to have their own words and often, their own agenda for the plot I prepared. I romanticize writers who confidently write for themselves, or purely for a loved one. Or the bestsellers who say, “I wrote this for you, dear reader.” Though I sometimes picture the reaction of people I know—I wrestle with wondering if it’s ego cutting in front of the first draft by focusing on the future reader or just prudent marketing for the business of writing. What humans, if any, do you want viewing your creative work?

I’ve been told that you are a writer only if you would still write when no one ever read it. There could be creatives out there hiding their contributions but we wouldn’t know, because, well, they’re hiding ‘em. So far, I’ve tried to write books I wanted to read but my insecurity is certain the more I write uncensored for myself—the more content I’ll need to cut later. But no matter what, everyone writes from their paradigm. Whether they write something that’s so entertaining you turn your brain off, or they obtusely slip in their agenda because it’s just too important to them to hold it back in sublety. Inexplicable compulsions to write anyway aside, most of us want to… contribute.

Two things are true again. God created wonders we haven’t yet discovered and may never see, purely for his own enjoyment. We are made in this image, but/and are brought together to share our gifts with each other.

How do you still pour your whole-self in? Phileo, eros and agape. Especially since loved ones might be apathetic toward reading, liked ones might not like it, and strangers edit their reviews if they discover an author’s politics. Who does a Christian author (with or without a conversion scene) write for?

(Long pause here. Because every kid who attended Sunday School will know this is the time to yell out, “Jesus!”)

I know: seek first His kingdom. I know: do all things as unto the Lord. He is number one, I am number two. But it would be insincere to say I’ve completely ascended to either yet. I long for all things that I do to glorify him, and not just because everything else will burn like chaff.

Who do you live for, create for, work for? Likely, it’s complicated, and depends on the day. But it is a good day when you can say it was all for an audience of one without measure of success.

Sorry…

A Ceremony of Grief

Posted on by Hilarey

When my husband and I were younger, I wanted to adopt. We went through two home studies. We attended classes, borrowed children’s beds, planned with our kids, and informed our neighbors. Finally, we brought in a young sibling group. Health and Welfare wanted a trial situation as part of the interview process. We didn’t finish the trial.

In the aftermath, when I was returning the crib and other items, I tried to hide my brokenness as I stood before the woman who’d loaned them. She looked at me and asked how I was “really doing” in that way of people who actually want to know—and aren’t just exchanging passing niceties. I told her I didn’t think I was doing good. “I might even feel a little…” and here is where I whispered my shame, “…depressed?”

She said, “Oh Hilarey! Of course you are. You’ve had an adoption miscarriage.” She explained that people bring casseroles for new babies but no one normally visits if you lose a baby. We mourn miscarriages alone. She also reminded me that even though I didn’t have the physical loss from my body, we had prepared our home, brains, and hearts for new family members. We had spent time (years) envisioning it and suddenly it was taken away. It was like a death had happened in our family and no one acknowledged it. Since then, if I have known of a miscarriage—I’ve tried to reach out.

A quick blessing for women in the light of Mother’s Day this weekend. Christ wept over Jerusalem and said how he longed to gather her children like a hen gathers chicks under her wings. Any desire you have inside of you to nurture, comfort, or protect—reflects the heart of God. If you have unsatisfied longings for family, you are in that phase of pouring out from your body and lacking rest and comfort for yourself, your children have moved on, or you have been rejected by those you love… May you feel the tender promise that God has not forgotten you.

Death of a dream

It was painful to release the idea of our imagined family. It can hurt to let go of any goal or dream. Recently, I’ve seen different dream-deaths in my close community. Major changes or plans of major changes. My husband moved to a new company and left the one where he’d worked for more than a decade. Even intentional changes can land you somewhere between feeling slightly unsettled to completely losing your footing in the overwhelm of irrevocable change.

Sometimes a dream dies peacefully in its sleep, and sometimes it twists and writhes like a B movie actor.

In my experience, that’s been the pain for me. The death throes. The last gasps of air when you thought the dream had already passed over. Any sudden reminders that you still want it—even though you thought you had let it go.

You don’t always know something is an idol until you cannot have it.

I used to visit with a refugee friend from Iraq who shared a verbal tradition about the story of Jonah in Nineveh. She told me that when the people realized their danger and the depth of their sin, they didn’t allow any man or animal to drink even a sip of water for three days. The mommas would not nurse their babies; they let them cry.

I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t imagine a nursing mom doing that. Forget the pain of swelling, mastitis and your milk drying up. Think of how a baby’s life at the time was already so precarious, infant mortality was likely high, a woman’s future was her progeny, and women risked so much in childbirth.

Ours wasn’t the kind of relationship where I could argue with her or express doubt, and she was so insistent. She assured me that the cows were screaming, and the entire city was wailing and crying out together as one. She’d descended from the people, so she knew.

I pulled out Jonah and reread the story. In chapter 3, verse 7 and 8 the king says, Do not let people or animals, herds or flocks, taste anything; do not let them eat or drink.

It could be literal, but nearly literal would still get the point across. What I received in the exchange was another example of where I cannot help, at least initially, to understand the Bible through the lens I have. In America, we encourage drinking plenty of water while fasting.

Recently, our church had a corporate fast for lent. The preacher kept coughing. Someone brought him a water bottle. I was sitting next to a young girl from east Africa and she looked at me with incredulous confusion. After the service, she asked, “I thought we were fasting this week.” She likely wondered why he callously tempted the entire congregation. (It was not a mandatory fast. People took part in whatever capacity they desired.) Once we talked, I discovered that in her culture, fasting meant nothing touched her lips, food or drink, sunrise to sunset. She ate and drank water at night.

It wasn’t just culture that dictated how Nineveh reacted to Jonah—but contrition. I realized I might not have experienced that kind of remorse, certainly not on such a scale. There have been many times that I’ve felt so much emotion that I wasn’t hungry… but never so much impending doom that for three days I wouldn’t even put a bowl of water in front of the cat. And that sound of my captive animal, crying out and maybe even eventually giving up in order to save energy, would resonate and echo within my soul.

But the communal experience—it would help you grieve with the sounds everywhere. And in the context of this, to mourn their pride and violence with a visceral ritual would be life-changing. You would cross over and never want to return to that sin.

I think our culture tries to hide grief. We keep uncomfortable things like disability and weakness hidden away. To the point than many people didn’t know their president, Franklin Rosevelt, was paralyzed from the waist down. Depending on your church culture, it could be worse. Because feeling pain must mean you aren’t trusting God if your religion promises finances, freedom, health and good married sex when you obey him. You can be sad about it for a minute… but now, where is your joy in the Lord? Haven’t you learned what you needed to from that trial yet, so it can be over?

Of course, some people never leave their pain to the point of wearing it as an identity. I know I have been on all sides of this. Either wondering why someone is still wallowing, hiding how I am not yet better, or letting my loss influence everything I say, do, and think. So we isolate.

Sometimes you need to grieve. And grief takes time. Your time, not someone else’s.

When you can’t move out of the grief

But sometimes the pain is just keeping something already dead connected to a machine. It’s clinging to the way you wish things were. I think we also refuse to mourn because either we hold the dream up higher than what God has for us, or we don’t want to admit failure.

I want to suggest that releasing a dream will be less painful than the alternatives of living in delusion or cultivating a deep root of bitterness.

I see now why some cultures hired mourners to wail at the home where a death had taken place. To voice your own heart-cry and legitimize the pain enough to let it pass. So that when you have mourned, you cross over. You stand up and wash your face. You do not camp in the slightly hidden shame of unprocessed grief.

Lisa Terkeurst writes in the last chapter of her book Good Boundaries and Goodbyes about this when she mentions having “a million little funerals” and opening up her hands to let each one go.

We have very little ceremony to mark the passing of something other than actual death, as a healthy way to grieve. Sometimes we don’t even know we need to mourn the release of a dream.

What I am proposing is to find a ritual to let something go. A sort of liturgy or ceremony to mark an ending. We have ceremonies for weddings and baptisms to show before and after. I think it might be worth creating a way to pass over the threshold and acknowledge the change when a dream dies.

Create a visual reminder of the change in your life. Light a candle, or blow one out, write a ditty, bake a cake, hang a banner… or throw a wake. And do it with your community.

Here is the way Mike Meyer’s character in So I Married an Axe Murderer mourned the end of his relationships:


Why You Matter

Posted on by Hilarey

I haven’t posted in such a long time. It felt overwhelming to redo my site after I deleted it, and all of my free time and dedication has been required to re-launch our local writer’s group, IdaHopeChristianWriters.org. After I built that site, my writing time was frequently directed to the Meditation Mondays portion of the blog over there. You can read some of my writing devotionals here.

I also want to include a podcast I did on Christian Living Spotlight with a fellow board member about the relaunch.

The biggest hindrance was that I wanted this website finished before I blogged again—or even restored last year’s recorded posts.

But last weekend I spoke at the first Fall Gathering for IdaHope Christian Writers and I wanted to share my talk here.

Why You Matter—ICW Fall Gathering 2023

You’ll see that I have the bones of my website back up and I’ll be changing things around over the next few months. I guess that could turn into years. Sometimes just doing it is better than doing it perfectly, especially if “perfect” freezes you to inaction.

In the meantime, I have a Christmas audio book coming soon… When it’s available at all major distributors, I’ll send out a newsletter announcement. My son laughed when he heard a snippet. He said it didn’t even sound like me—but like someone who wanted to fall in love at Christmas!