Literary Things: A Christian's Response to Fantasy Novels

     There were certain rules we had growing up. As children, we didn't watch questionable movies. We didn't discuss certain subjects. And we didn't read any fantasy.

     Fast forward about two decades, and I'm now the mother of an avid bookworm who recently discovered the Percy Jackson series by Rick Riordan. This series, if you're not familiar with it, is Disneyland for mythology lovers. My son Nate has read about a modern-day, turban-sporting Medusa; a son who rescues his mother from Hades; and a god of revelry who now only drinks Diet Coke as part of his twelve-step program.

     I've asked myself several times how I feel as a Christian about fantasy novels, and I usually end up answering myself with, "I have no stinking idea," or something equally as helpful.

     I recently read a novel by one of my cyber writing buddies. First of Her Kind by K. L. Schewengel is exactly the kind of book my father would have banned when I was growing up: the heroine's aunt is a devoted servant of The Goddess, the heroine herself possesses magical powers beyond her control, and the hero possesses many "out-there" talents like miraculous healing and mystical telepathy.

     I read First of Her Kind and enjoyed both the writing style and the plot line. Nothing in the book threatened my faith or shook my relationship with the Lord. But it was still a stretch for me -- both as a reader and as a Christian -- to read something so drastically different from my typical weekend book list (which lately has included Les Miserables, a Christian historical fiction novel by the Theones, and a mystery set in turn-of-the-century New York City).

     Positive arguments could be made for Christians to read fantasy. The characteristic good versus evil motif was strong and kicking in First of Her Kind, and I'm sure if I wanted to I could find parallels between how Christ helps deliver us from evil and how the hero defends the heroine in Schwengel's novel. (For the record, I was much more into enjoying a fun weekend fling with a good book than I was expecting to delve deep into theological matters.)

     I think an even more convincing argument for fantasy is exemplified by my son Nate, the fantasy fanatic of our household. Nate has a colorful, vivid, beautiful imagination, which has been nurtured by years of reading. Nate can dream up masterpieces of imaginative creativity because his mind has been stretched by all the books he's devoured in his short lifetime.

     As I've grown in my gifting as an intercessor (one who prays passionately for certain people or causes), I've discovered that the most powerful prayers require an awful lot of faith. And faith, in my opinion, can be bolstered, encouraged, and nurtured by an active imagination. My times of deepest intercession have involved vivid mental pictures of how God might answer my prayers. What else could you call that besides imagination?

     So if prayer is bolstered by imagination, and if imagination is inspired by works of fantasy like my friend's novel, could devouring fantasy like my son Nate does end up boosting someone's prayer life?

     Who knows? I have no idea if Nate is going to develop the same heart for prayer as I have, or if his love for fantasy will enhance his prayer life or not. But it's at least given me something to think about and chew on over the next few years as I watch how he grows as a Christian ... and how I grow as a reader.

     And by the way, I think First of Her Kind is definitely a book worth reading, regardless of your spiritual background (or lack thereof!). So I'm setting up a giveaway over the next week. Just check out below to see how you can enter to win K. L. Schwengel's novel. (Sorry, US shipping only.) And if you'd rather just grab the ebook, I highly recommend it!

Random Fact #15: The Red Violin was the first R-rated movie I ever saw. I was 17 and watched it with my mom.

Did you know? My Christian novel about a young girl in North Korea is free for the next few days on kindle in honor of North Korea Freedom Week. Get The Beloved Daughter free!

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The Beloved Daughter: Alternate Beginning

The following snippet was part of my introduction before I shelved the first few chapters and went with something a lot more dramatic. Even though this excerpt never made it into "The Beloved Daughter," I hope it gives you a glimpse of the struggles Chung-Cha faces as a young girl in famine-ridden North Korea.

***

[Context: Twelve year-old Chung-Cha's school teacher gives her a present to honor the birthday of North Korea's leader, Kim Jong-Il.]

I studied my bag of potato chips and fingered the crinkly package. I didn't know if I should eat my prize now or share it with my parents when they came home. On the one hand, weren’t the potato chips be God’s gift to me? But wouldn't the Almighty want me to share them with Father and Mother, who were just as malnourished as I? Back and forth, I argued with my young and inexperienced conscience.

Eventually I decided to eat half of the chips now, and save the rest for my parents to enjoy later. So, conscience and appetite both appeased, I put one hand on either side of the bag and pulled it open. The smell of salt and potato starch made my mouth salivate. I was dizzy with hunger and anticipation.

As I lifted one chip out of the bag, the greasy wafer felt so delicate between my fingers I was afraid it might break. Trembling now, whether from excitement or sheer starvation, I  lifted the paper-thin crisp to my mouth.

Just before I took my first bite, I remembered to say thanks. Our Dear Leader’s need for worship went so far that all North Koreans were required to recite “Thank you, Father Kim Jong-Il” before every meal we ate, starving to death though we were. Indoctrination began at the nursery level, where two and even one year-olds were taught to declare their gratitude to our nation's leader. One afternoon I saw a nursery school instructor whipping the face of a small boy because was lisping when he spoke the Dear Leader’s name. Within a few minutes, every single toddler in his classroom was shouting “Thank you, Father Kim Jong-Il” with such passion and ferocity that tears flowed down their dirty, sunken cheeks.

Father taught me a slightly different version of our nation's mandatory mealtime blessing. “Thank You, Father God,” I murmured, glancing at the picture of our great nation’s fat, greasy-faced leader. “And help the Dear Leader come to salvation,” I added. Then, with a deep breath of anticipation, I ate my first potato chip. 

I am embarrassed to tell you that I have no memory of what that bite tasted like. I only know that the mere thought of potato chips makes me feel nauseous to this very day. After I ate one chip, I had no will-power left to save even a few crumbs for my parents. The entire bag was empty a few seconds after my first bite. Maybe it was the excess salt and grease, or the guilt I felt for eating the whole bag by myself, but I threw up all over the table almost as soon as I finished.

A little while later, Mother came home from her education session. She ran to my bedside, where I lay sobbing, my hair and blouse covered in vomit, my mind repeating accusingly, “Thank You, Father Kim Jong-Il.”

Click to Tweet: A starving North Korean girl eats her first potato chip. Fiction excerpt

Westbow Press Prompt: "The Honeymooners"

     This Friday's writing prompt from Westbow Press is about your own "special place" (think Pearl the starfish in Finding Nemo). What's my special place? Well, here's a short story that pretty much sums it up. I'll leave it up to you to determine if it's fiction or not.

THE HONEYMOONERS

     She dipped her foot in the water and laughed when he swooped her up from behind, threatening to throw her in the lake.

     "How long until we need to check out?" she asked. The last time she wore her watch was the day before the wedding.

     "I don't know," he replied. "Another hour, I'd guess. Maybe two."

     She hoped it was two. He sat down next to her on the dock.

     "Ready to go back to the real world?" he asked. She laughed at the question. The "real world," whatever that was, wouldn't ever be the same after this week. She watched the diamonds in her wedding band glisten in the sun. She leaned her head on his chest, and he reached around and tried to tickle her side. She pushed him away.

     "I wish we could stay here forever," she whispered. He was skipping stones in the lake. She thought about the laundry, the grocery shopping, all the details she'd have to take care of when they got home. "I wonder what the next few months will be like," she said. He didn't respond.

     She wished the sun would stand still, but noticed with regret that their shadows were already shortening. As much as she might hope, she knew time wasn't about to stop just for them. The real world was waiting for them - a world of church meetings and youth group retreats and conferences and all-nighters. They already talked about starting a family soon. Would they ever be able to take all their kids on a vacation like this on a youth-pastor salary?

     There was so much at the time that she didn't know. Only one week into married life, how could she prepare herself for that first miscarriage? How could she foresee the degenerative arthritis that would steal her new husband's ability? The next time they went near a lake, he'd be unable to lower himself to sit by her side. 

     She couldn't imagine the six months of unemployment, or the depression and anxiety that would sneak up and threaten their union. She didn't know that so many of the dreams she now shared with her husband would be shattered one after another.

     All she knew was that it was almost time to go. Whether they were ready or not, the car had to be packed. The keys to the condo had to be returned.

     He stood with ease and stretched before helping her up. "Ready?" he asked. pretending one last time like he was about to throw her in the lake.

     She smiled and put her hand in his.

      "I'm ready," she replied.

    

Wednesday WIPpet: "Let's Do That Again"

     Happy Wednesday to everyone (unless it's already Thursday where you live). Today's WIPpet post features 13 sentences from chapter 3 of What, No Sushi?, my chapter book for young kids about three boys who travel back in time to explore a Japanese-American internment camp. What, No Sushi? is due to be released this spring. If you're just dying to read one of my books RIGHT NOW, please check out the Boy Named Silas ebook or paperback, which chronicle my son's traumatic birth experience and complicated medical history. Otherwise I hope you enjoy today's WIPpet!

***    

The next thing we knew, we were shooting up through some clouds.

“DAAAAAAAAAA-DEEEEEEEEEEEE!” screamed O’Malley, but his voice sounded excited, not scared.

“You boys are doing great,” Dad’s voice said from the speaker.

We soared up higher and higher. Then the rumbling noise grew quiet.  Before we could do anything, we started falling through the air. After a few seconds, we felt a big jerk and started going down more slowly.

“Dad must have put a parachute on the top,” I told my brothers.

“You better believe it, Lake,” Dad said. “I wouldn’t let anything hurt you boys, would I?” I smiled. Up until then, I wasn’t sure if Dad could hear us, or if we could just hear him. He must have put microphones into the SPM, I decided.

After gently floating for a few minutes, we landed with a soft thud.

“Is everyone all right?” I finally asked, looking around. I was especially worried that O’Malley might have gotten frightened from our fall.

O’Malley just laughed and grinned. “Let’s do that again,” he said.

***

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Writers, do you have a work in progress? Show it off! (click to tweet)

Do you WIPpet? You should! Show us an excerpt from your Work In Progress that has something to do with today's date (like 13 sentences from chapter 3 on 3/13). Then come and link up here or at My Random Muse. Happy WIPpeting!  

Short Story: A Surprise for Garret

      I'm killing two birds with one stone this week, which is probably a breach in some law of blogging etiquette stored up somewhere in cyberspace, but what can I do? I've decided to participate in the Friday writing prompt sponsored by Westbow Press. After all, they've named my novel a finalist in their writing contest. The least I can do is join their Friday fun, right?

    But I've also really enjoyed participating in Hidden Valley Simplicity's word of the week blog hop, and I'm already about to miss the linkup deadline.

    So here's the skinny. Westbow Press wants me to write a story about a celebration. Melissa wants me to throw the word adumbrate in my post ... so here it is! My vocabulary-enriched short story about a celebration that just might go terribly wrong.

Word of the Week: adumbrate: 
                              1. to foreshadow vaguely
                              2. to suggest, disclose, or outline partially
                              3. overshadow; obscure

    It was the first time that Sadie, the poster puppy of canine ADD, didn't come bounding out to greet Garret when he came home from work. Garret was busy laughing into his hands-free headset to actually miss the beagle's enthusiastic drool. Nor did he pause to wonder if Sadie's absence might adumbrate what was waiting for him on the eve of his birthday.

     "No, Chelsea's not home." Garret walked with something of a swagger as he spoke, tossing his shoes in the entryway. "I can talk a little longer." Sadie whined from the office.

     "Yeah, that's the dog," he continued. "Stupid mutt. Got herself stuck." He chuckled and threw his overcoat over the couch. "I'll go let her out before she wets the carpet or something." Garret smiled and strode down the hallway. He stopped as he went by the laundry room.

     "Oh, I forgot to tell you at lunch today." He leaned against the laundry room door frame and loosened his tie. "I told Chelsea I was out of work shirts this morning. We got into this big fight, because she told me she washed everything in the hamper yesterday and I told her if that was the case I'd have something clean to wear to work. So she's scurrying to do a quick load of laundry, and I realize I actually left my shirt in your car last weekend after our little outing." Garret's laugh echoed in the otherwise quiet hallway. From behind the office door, Sadie stopped whimpering.

     "Anyway," Garret went on, "I better go soon. I have no idea when Chelsea will be home." His lip curled up halfway as he listened to the remark on the other end of the conversation. "I wish so too," he replied, scratching his cheek. "But tomorrow's my birthday. I won't have any free evenings until the weekend." A charmingly sympathetic pout appeared on Garret's face that no one was around to witness. "We'll still have lunch though, right?"

     Sadie yelped from behind the office door. "Ok," Garret announced, cell phone in hand, "I gotta go. This stupid dog is about to - "

     The door opened. The talking stopped. The phone dropped to the floor. In Garret's home office stood his wife, his brother and sister-in-law, the next door neighbors, and two of his co-workers. Everyone was standing underneath a banner with the word SURPRISE printed in oversize letters made of confetti.

     Garret removed his headset in one swift motion as his beagle ran up to greet him.

Wednesday WIPpet: "Trip to the Past"

     Today was an exciting day for me as a writer. I just got my final (keep your fingers crossed) round of edits for my soon-to-be-published kids' book, "What, No Sushi?"

     This chapter book for elementary-aged students is the first book in My Solar-Powered History series, which features three adventurous boys who experience their family history with a little help from their inventor father. I've been working with a great editor from Do Life Right, Inc., and we're hoping for an early-spring release (again with the fingers crossed).

     This week's WIPpet includes six paragraphs from chapter 3 of "What, No Sushi."

***     

“Trip to the past?” Benson repeated. “What does he mean?”

Benson stared at the letter thoughtfully, then ran over to Kimuko. “Um, what year is it?” he asked.

“What?” Kimuko looked confused. Benson repeated his question. Kimuko looked over at me with a puzzled look in her eyes. I just shrugged.

“Why, it’s 1942, of course,” the girl answered.

Benson ran back to us. By then I had figured out what was going on. “Dad’s solar-powered invention isn’t a flying machine at all,” I declared.

“It’s a time machine!” we all exclaimed.

***

Do you WIPpet? You should! Include part of your WIP (Work In Progress) that has something to do with today's date (like six paragraphs from chapter three on 3/6). Then come back and link here on at My Random Muse. 

Tweetables:
A short excerpt from "What, No Sushi?" for kids.  
Do you WIPpet? You should!
Check out a new time travel history series for kids. 

"The Beloved Daughter" Excerpt: Last Image

     Inspectors broke into our cabin in the middle of the night.

     “Get up!” a raspy voice demanded as the door crashed in. Snow blew all the way to my bedside. Partially blinded by the flashlights, I wrapped myself more tightly in my blanket. I was too stunned to even tremble.

     Is this part of the inspection? I wondered. Are they going to interrogate us here in the middle of the night? Mother moaned and wrapped Father’s coat around his shoulders. Where does she think he’ll be going on a night like this?

     A man with dozens of pock-mark scars on his face strode to my parents’ side of the cabin. He wore the badge of the People’s Safety Agency [from North Korea (WIPpeter's note)] on his dark green overcoat. His heavy boots shook the floor with each forceful stomp he took. When he grabbed Father by the neck and yanked him out of bed, I yelped like a wounded animal.  

 

     The scar-faced man turned on his heel without letting go of my father and pointed at me. “The girl,” Pock-Marks ordered in a hoarse rasp, and immediately two officers were towering over my bedside. I bit my lip to keep from crying when I saw the guns swinging from their hips. I covered my face with my hands, trying to disappear by sheer force of will. I squeaked as the younger of the two officers lifted me up and swung me over his shoulder so that I was hanging down over his back. Mother ran towards them with my coat, but they ignored both her pathetic pleading and my frantic kicking.      

     “Take her to the precinct office,” ordered the scar-faced leader, and before I had time to call out again, I was outside in the wind and snow. Still in my nightgown, with no shoes or coat or blanket to ward off the biting cold, I hung helplessly over the young officer’s shoulder, nauseous from fear. 

     I strained my neck and saw Father standing in the doorway as soldiers roughly shoved him forward. He was staring straight ahead. He winced in pain as they fastened his wrists, then turned to see me watching him. Weakly, Father smiled at me, nodding his head slightly in my direction. As the officer carrying me turned a sharp corner, I clung desperately to that last image of Father.