Fantasy/sci-fi/speculative authors who happen to want to glorify God in you writing, one way or the other, here is one way to do that:

Register for the Realm Makers writers’ conference on August 2 to 3, 2013, in St. Louis, Missouri.

Complete registration is now open for $185. On a personal note: that’s much cheaper than your average everyday Christian fiction writers’ conference.

Novelist Rebecca P. Minor gives this update at the new site, RealmMakers.com:

Realm Makers: 2013
A Faith and Fantasy Alliance Event

August 2-3, 9:00 am — 10:00 pm

JC Penney Conference Center
1 University Blvd, St Louis, MO 63121-4400

What is Realm Makers?

Realm Makers is a writers conference geared specifically to creators of speculative fiction who consider their faith-based world view their highest priority. The event will present panels and classes appropriate for authors of all experience levels, from the beginning writer to the seasoned industry professional.

Below you will find all the particulars about this year’s conference registration. Be aware that space is limited at this year’s venue, so it is very possible this conference will sell out. Don’t hesitate to submit your registration.

For information on classes and conference content, visit the Courses page.

We have already seen …

1. Too many Christian-fantasy blogs focus on the joy and business of writing rather than reading. That’s a grave miscalculation in engineering, designed as if to prevent a launch.
2. Before teaching others, we must learn how to read and receive stories ourselves.

That last brought some just criticism, on which I need to touch before moving on.

R.E.A.D.-ing bad stories

Austin said this:

[The suggested R.E.A.D. paradigm] artificially limits the spectrum of discussable stories to the awesome end only, and requires all book reviews to constitute potential back-cover blurbs.

To which I replied:

True, I was thinking mainly of the “awesome end” of stories. Yet surely even subpar works should be Received, even if they don’t also lead to Delight.

So what if a story is less incredible, or at best awful? We might modify the megachurch-sermon-style acronym a bit. It still starts with Receive, for criticism must still be humble.

1. Receive. Even a bad story deserves our attention first. We can try to “lose ourselves” in it. (Parallel: Even in church we would listen politely to a bad vocalist, and not boo her.)
2. Enjoy. Thanks to God’s common grace, few stories are fully horrible. What is good about it? What was the author apparently trying to do, and how might we admire that goal? (Parallel: We can be grateful for a church vocalist’s goal to worship, even if she’s awful.)
3. Ask. Here is where we depart humble optimism, yet with humility. What made the story so bad? How could it be better? (Parallel: gracious yet truthful suggestions for a church vocalist. Even those who know little about music technique know what sounded poor.)
4. Delight. Even constructive criticism will bring hurt feelings and outrage, often of a faux-spiritual sort — e.g., how dare you judge my heart; this is the story God wanted me to tell, and there are many worse pagan stories out there. In this case we would want to point to truly objective Biblical standards for art that glorifies God. Our goal in criticism is not having fun or even Improving the Industry. Our goal is to encourage better worship. (Parallel: our off-key church vocalist should be asked what helps her delight in music, and then be encouraged to seek training as that artist did, or another worship method!)

Now for some explorations on how to encourage R.E.A.D. concepts — positive and negative, with or without the corny acronym — in others. Here I’ll touch on the three likely ignored reader groups I mentioned two weeks ago, and in a format very familiar to we “writicists”:

The elevator pitch

Consider this. We get plenty of blog posts and columns on how to pitch a work-in-progress to an editor or agent. Less often do we hear pitched pitches on how to address readers.

Below are my scripts, which I invite you to read, challenge, and modify.

“Oh, so you read and write Christian fantasy? …”

1. Parents

“… I want to find good stories for my (son/daughter, [name], who is X years old).”

That’s fantastic. (If applicable) So do I, for my (child, [name]). And I don’t want only to find stories that will only edify, evangelize, or entertain, you know? They should be better.

“What do you mean?”

I once thought the goal of a story was limited to moral edification, or direct evangelism, or even just to distract the kids with entertainment. Since then I’ve found that God in His Story of Scripture doesn’t think like that. All those three things do matter, just as edification and pleasant melodies matter in a song of worship. But a story of worship should first glorify God and explore His beauty, goodness, and truth. That’s also why I want to enjoy stories for His glory. After all, if others don’t see me doing that, they may think that stories are only for those other things. (If applicable) My children should see that I love God-honoring stories.

“If the author didn’t get this famous, I’m not interested”?

2. “Lewis/Tolkien or bust” readers

“… I don’t read much other Christian fantasy. Just give me Lewis and Tolkien any day!”

I love those authors. We likely wouldn’t have any other stories today if it weren’t for them. But I’m sure they wouldn’t agree with us only enjoying their stories and not at least trying to determine if other God-honoring stories exist. They are out there; you would love them. Absolutely, some evangelical fiction is bad — but often because their authors get stuck on trying to imitate only Lewis and Tolkien, without tracing their art and beliefs to the roots. Let me tell you about this fantastic novel I was reading the other day …

3. Church folk

“… I don’t get into that fantasy stuff. I’m more of an Amish/historical/romance person.”

Ah, I’m certain every fiction genre can glorify God. Do you think fantasy or sci-fi can?

(If “yes”) Let me tell you about this fantastic novel by I was reading the other day …

(If “no”) How come? (Bypass objections to magic, someone-else-used-it-to-sin, etc. After this reply, the person will need to choose whether he/she really wants to call you a liar outright.)

Here’s why I think otherwise: because God’s Story is fantastic. I believe He is working today in miraculous ways to call out a Covenant people and redeem the world. He has promised that His people will someday live in a fantastic realm, when Heaven touches Earth to give birth to eternity. I love stories that help me think about such a time, and about good and evil, redemption, the miraculous. Fantasy and science fiction are fun, yes, but the central reason I want to love them is because they draw me closer to the Author of fantastic reality.

Invitation

You be the editor. Revise those scripts. Add realism based on your own experience dealing with those groups — or your own script about another group. What has worked for you?

How have you previously explained your fantasy story enjoyments to such folks?

We think of speculative fiction as a fairly new art form. After all, who ever heard of anyone writing about fantasy worlds and that sort of thing in, say, the 17^th century? Anyone who’s ever heard of John Bunyan’s classic allegory, The Pilgrim’s Progress, that’s who.

(We’re talking John Bunyan here, by the way, not Paul Bunyan, the big dude with the even bigger blue ox whose hoof prints created the Great Lakes. Have you seen those things? That critter must have had really big feet!)

Though no one described it as “speculative fiction” at the time, The Pilgrim’s Progress  fits the definition. Rudyard Kipling is quoted as saying Bunyan was the father of the novel. If that be true, it would mean the first novel was Christian speculative. Take that, all ye who would dismiss the genre!

The Pilgrim’s Progress was an immediate success when published in 1678, and it’s enjoyed steady popularity ever since, even being translated into more than 200 languages. Bunyan was hardly a one-hit wonder, however. With some 60 published works to his credit, he was one of the most prolific authors of his day.

But for all his literary fame, Bunyan had little education.

His family appears to have lived in Bedfordshire, England, from the twelfth century through modern times. Despite living in very humble circumstances, Bunyan’s parents managed to send him to school, at least for awhile. We know that as a boy, he also worked with his father, learning the brazier’s trade (the making and mending of pots and kettles), and it appears his school career was short.

His mother died in 1644 and his father remarried two months later. This may have caused a falling-out between father and son, for on Bunyan’s sixteenth birthday, he joined the army.

England was engaged in a civil war at the time, with Oliver Cromwell leading the Parliamentarians against the Royalists and King Charles. The conflict was as much a religious war as civil, with Cromwell’s faction seeking (among other things) an end to the Church of England’s monopoly on worship in England.

This was only one of the numerous religious conflicts that plagued Europe in that era. Religion was big in those days—nearly everyone was religious, though it can probably be safely presumed that the majority of the people then, as now, weren’t what we’d call “saved.”

After the war (which the Parliamentarians won, by the way), Bunyan returned home to help in his father’s business, and he married soon thereafter. Little information exists about his wife—not even her name—except for that fact that she came from poverty as he did. She did, however, bring to the marriage two possessions, gifts from her father. Bunyan wrote: “This woman and I, though we came together as poor as poor might be (not having so much household stuff as a dish or a spoon betwixt us both), yet this she had for her part, The Plain Man’s Pathway to Heaven and The Practice of Piety.” With these two books and the help of his new bride, he re-learned to read, having apparently forgotten since his short childhood education.

These volumes had as profound an effect upon him spiritually as they did on his literary skills. He began to have terrifying visions. He’d always been moody and introspective, even as a child, but the more he read these religious works, the more distressed he became.

Steeped in religion though he was, Bunyan was, like all of us, a sinner from birth. He was a prankster and popular man about town, including with the ladies, and his creativity with profanity gave him a reputation as having few equals in the art of “cursing, swearing, lying, and blaspheming the holy name of God.”

The Holy Spirit gave him no peace. The more he cursed and caroused, the more miserable he grew, until he felt compelled to turn over a new leaf. One by one, he abandoned his vices, started going to church regularly (the Church of England), and tried reading the Bible. Apart from the historical parts, though, he just couldn’t get into the Scriptures. He later wrote: “Paul’s Epistles, and such-like Scriptures I could not away with.”

Despite his determined efforts to live righteously, peace escaped him—until the day he ran across some old women sitting out in the sunshine discussing the things of God. As he listened to their conversation, he realized they had something he’d never been able to find. He prayed like never before, asking God to open his eyes to the truth and not leave him in blindness.

Soon thereafter, he began attending the church the old women went to. It was one of those renegade, or Nonconformist, churches. These days we’d probably call it nondenominational. At one point soon after he got involved there, he underwent a transformation and, as he put it, he became a servant of Jesus Christ. With the help of the pastor, John Gifford, he began studying his Bible and became increasingly eager to tell others about the new life he’d found. Upon further Bible study, as well as much poring over a worn copy of Luther’s commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians, he began to preach every chance he got.

But meanwhile, back at the palace, the Parliamentarians lost control of the government. Oops. No more freedom of religion. By the time John Bunyan took up preaching, the king was on the throne again, and he shut down all the meeting-houses of the Noncomformists. The separatists continued to worship in secret, but when the preachers could be routed out, they were thrown into prison.

Despite the danger, Bunyan made no bones about his being a dissenter. In fact, he began his writing career about a year after he’d begun preaching, publishing pamphlets and books based upon his messages. His first, Some Gospel Truths Opened, appeared in 1656.

Perhaps because he was considered just a poor tinker (or possibly they still considered him just a good old boy trying to have some fun?), the authorities didn’t see him as worth prosecuting. But as he continually preached, traveling the countryside and encouraging the nonconformists to stand true to their faith, they finally put their foot down. He was arrested in 1660 while conducting a worship service in a farmhouse.

At trial, he was convicted of “perniciously abstaining from coming to church to hear Divine Service, and for being a common upholder of several unlawful meetings and conventicles to the great disturbance and distraction of the good subjects of this kingdom.”

During the two decades that followed, he was in and out of prison several times. Sometimes the Act of Uniformity was in force (requiring all public worship to be according to the Liturgy of the Church of England); then later, the tide would shift. Bunyan would be released only to be imprisoned again. But whether in bonds or free, he followed Paul’s example and never stopped preaching.

Bunyan did a lot of writing during his first and longest incarceration (from 1660 to 1672), though recent evidence seems to indicate he wrote The Pilgrim’s Progress during a later imprisonment.

Thanks to his writings, The Pilgrim’s Progress in particular, Bunyan was the best-known Nonconformist in England. In 1680 he published The Life and Death of Mr. Badman, intended to be the counterpart of The Pilgrim’s Progress, showing the progress (or rather, regress) of the unrepentant sinner. It never achieved popularity, though, as it lacked the liveliness of its predecessor and its subject matter was so unpleasant. (Besides that, the title’s pretty lame.) As well received as Pilgrim was, his most popular book during his lifetime was the allegory Grace Abounding. This was an account of the defense of the City of Mansoul against the attacks of the Devil. He also wrote another allegory, The Holy War, in the 1680s. Yep – John Bunyan wrote Christian spec-fic.

As a popular author and preacher, Bunyan exerted considerable influence, and was invited to speak all over England. In 1688 he traveled to London to mediate a reconciliation between a father and a son. After being caught in bad weather, he became ill and died three months before his 60^th birthday.

John Bunyan’s world was far removed from ours in just about every aspect. Nevertheless, The Pilgrim’s Progress still resonates despite the passing of time and cultural changes. The scenarios Bunyan depicted are relevant and recognizable in today’s world. Bunyan’s Savior is our Savior; we share a common experience, a common inheritance, and a common enemy. Such commonality—something we can each relate to—makes for an enduring, classic tale.

I expect the pilgrim, Christian’s, story will be remembered long after Paul Bunyan’s ox has been forgotten.

Interested in reading more of John Bunyan’s works? The John Bunyan Library has an extensive collection.

Last week we started something new on Tuesdays. My first entry into what will be a weekly serial fiction story entitled “Last Son of Earth” released. The response was overwhelming and I’m so excited to see how we can adapt this story together. This week I’ve incorporated a few changes per your discussions last week. Alden (our hero) is sixteen. It’s a dystopian, steampunk world and the governing body has been renamed to CON (instead of ICON) to avoid confusion with another series. I’m thinking CON should stand for Conclave of Nations, but I’m leaving it open for discussion. I hope you enjoy the second installment of our story.

——

Chapter 1: The Gulf

It wasn’t the first time Alden had reached 180 kilometers per hour in the Rumbler, but it was the first time he didn’t plan on slowing down before the gulf. Four man-sized rubber wheels tore through the dust of the flatlands, kicking up a trail of dust behind the dimpled copper chassis of the salvaged vehicle as it rocketed forward. A pair of pressure gauges on the panel were reading well into the red, the glass on his windshield still cracked from a previous crash.

A voice buzzed through the static radio on his control panel.

“Talk to me, Alden,” the voice crackled. “How is she holding up?”

Alden flipped a black dial on the radio and shouted into the speaker over the roar of the machine.

“180 and steady.” The vehicle hit a bump in the ground, jostling Alden around the cockpit like a rag doll. “Smooth as silk, Tin Man.”

“You can’t make the jump at less than 200,” the static voice of his friend replied.

“I know, I need more pressure. I’m tightening the valve.”

There was a pause.

“What’s your mark?”

Alden glanced at the gauge which was already a quarter of the way into the red bar.

“I’ve got room,” he lied.

Tin-Man wasn’t buying it. “Alden, be honest with me. Thirty seconds to point of no return. Do we need to abort?”

“Negative. We’re clear. She can take it. Increasing to maximum pressure. Just keep the camera rolling.”

Alden pushed hard on a valve. The Rumbler began to shudder even more violently as the pressure gauge slid deeper into the red. He knew it wasn’t safe, but if he wanted to be safe he wouldn’t have set his mind on jumping the gulf in the first place.

He had been sneaking junk parts into the flat lands with Tin-Man for the past year in hopes of building the Rumbler. Needless to say, it wasn’t exactly a permitted vehicle. His designs for modifying the trashed steam car into a high speed vehicle would never have been approved by the CON District Masters. Anything over sixty kilometers per hour was strictly forbidden except for CON men and CON sponsored race drivers – just another way of ensuring the safety of the citizens.

Alden was sick of all the rules. He just wanted to feel free for a moment – to feel like there was nothing holding him back.

“Come on, baby,” he muttered aloud as the Rumbler trembled around him. “I didn’t build you for nothing. Let’s fly.”

The speedometer inched upward to 185…190…

At 190 the steam tank began to groan.

Alden held his breath. The Rumbler was reaching her limits. Every bolt and rivet quivering like it could come undone at any second.

“Ten seconds,” Tin-man buzzed over the radio. “What’s the status.”

“We’ll make it.” Is all Alden said in return.

“You dont’ have room. Abort now!”

Alden didn’t respond. Tin-man’s voice sounded more than a little concerned.

“Alden! Don’t be a fool. Five seconds to abort. Do it now!”

“No can do, Tin-man,” Alden said, “I want to fly.”

Tin-man started to say something else but Alden shut the radio off before he heard it. He knew it wouldn’t sit well with his friend, but he’d have to get over it. In the distance, Alden caught his first glimpse of the rise. It was nature’s perfect temptress – a natural rise with enough elevation to make the 500 meter leap to the far side of the canyon.

With a thousand meters left to the leap, the speedometer hit 200 and for the first time Alden thought he might have a chance, but that was when everything fell apart. The pressure tank burst a rib and his acceleration dropped in a heartbeat. White steam filled the cockpit, blinding Alden just as the Rumbler reached the cliff edge.

With wheels spinning wildly, the vehicle soared out into the open air of the gulf like a copper comet. The afternoon sun glistened off the side of the Rumbler with a magical glow, but the magic didn’t last – Alden was going down. The pressure leak spun the vehicle out of control forcing Alden to scramble desperately for the bail switch.

He pulled the switch and ejected from his beloved vehicle. His captain’s chair tumbled wildly out of control before its chute deployed and steadied him right side up just in time to catch sight of his Rumbler hitting the far side of the canyon wall. His vehicle crunched and tumbled three-hundred meters down to the floor of the canyon. He had been so close to greatness, so close to reaching the other side. Close…but not close enough.

The chair landed hard on the rocky terrain of the canyon floor. Alden collected himself, removed his leather helmet and goggles and messed up his sweaty blonde hair. Glancing skyward he took note of the sun’s position. Four hours to sundown, he’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it back before curfew. Recovering the survival pack and grappling hook from beneath his chair he flipped the switch and tuned in to Tin-Man’s frequency.

“Tin-man, this is Alden. Do you copy?”

There was silence.

“Tin-Man, are you there?”

There was a short silence again, but this time it was followed by an overly dramatic response.

“Why should I even talk to you? You never listen to me. Who do you think you are trying to pull a stunt like that?”

Alden smiled. “Only the best mechanic in Steel City, that’s who.”

“That’s debatable,” came the reply, “You’re only sixteen and you’ve already destroyed the Rumbler and nearly succeeded in killing yourself too. Not exactly something CON hands awards out for. Besides, if they found out we were out here we’d both be reconditioned – or worse.”

“Hey, I survived, didn’t I. That’s worth something, right?”

“Depends on who is valuing your life. You won’t always be so lucky, you know.”

Alden smiled. “Whatever. Did you get the footage at least?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the radio.

“Tin-Man?”

The silence broke with a barely audible whisper.

“Hang on, I think we have company.”

Silence again. Moments later a red light flashed on his radio. He recognized it immediately, it was the warning signal that CON Men were in the area. It also meant there would be no more communication between he and Tin-Man. Alden was on his own. He set to work immediately gathering the parachute and using its camouflaged pattern to cover up what remained of his crumpled up vehicle. As much as he hated to leave it in the open, there wasn’t time to deal with it today. He’d have to come back for it another time.

He set his sights on the southern wall of the cavern and picked as good a place as any to start scaling out. With the help of the grappling hook, he reached the surface in less than an hour. Resting at the ridge he scanned the horizon with binoculars from his survival pack. No movement. A half hour later he was back to the cave where he had left his steam cycle. Tin-Man wasn’t there – his cycle was already gone, only Alden’s remained.

Aiden threw his satchel over his shoulder, pulled on a helmet and tore off into the evening sunlight at a respectable and lawful sixty kilometers per hour.

It wasn’t long before he realized he was being followed by a pair of CON-cycles, lights flashing.

Alden’s heart sunk – he’d been caught. If CON didn’t kill him, his latest mother surely would. He didn’t know who to fear more.

I suppose many readers would disagree with the idea that world-building is an undervauled element of speculative fiction, so perhaps I’m only speaking for myself. Generally, when I think of books I love, I think about the overall “what happened.” I may also think of the main character and how he changed or grew or learned. And yet, when I think of the books I love best, I realize they have one thing in common–they transport me to another place and time. I live in that world.

Certainly most of us speculative fiction readers would recognized the world-building of J. R. R. Tolkien in The Lord of the Rings and of C. S. Lewis in Narnia. We are most likely as familiar with Middle Earth as if we had grown up there and with Narnia as if we took all our vacations there. Those worlds are so rich they practically take on character status.

It is that richness, I’m realizing, that makes me lose myself in a story. Yes, I want to keep reading when a character captures my interest or my heart, when danger threatens him and he must find a way to overcome. But there are stories that take me further.

These are ones that cause me to blink when I put the book down and re-orient because I expected to find Gandalf standing nearby or a white wilderness outside my window.

I’ve had that kind of strong reaction to a few books–though certainly not all the ones I have enjoyed. Most memorable was Watership Down by Richard Adams. Perhaps the very otherness of the world Adams created caused me to be lost in the rabbit warrens along with Fiver and Hazel, Bigwig and Silver. How often do you think like a rabbit, after all?

Another author that transported me to a different world was Stephen R. Donaldson in The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever. Here’s an excerpt from Lord Foul’s Bane in the chapter in which the main character, who believes he’s dreaming, first encounters the fantasy world into which he’s come.

“Have you been to our Stonedown?” [asked Lena.]

“No.” [Thomas] was tempted to ask her what a Stonedown was, but he had a more important question in mind. “Where–” The word caught in his throat as if it were a dangerous concession to darkness. “Where are we?”

“We are upon Kevin’s Watch.” Springing lightly to her feet, she stretched her arms to the earth and sky. “Behold . . . This is the Land,” Lena said joyfully, as if the outspread earth had a power to thrill her. “It reaches far beyond seeing to the north, west, and east, though the old songs say that High Lord Kevin stood here and saw the whole of the Land and all its people. So this place is named Kevin’s Watch.”

In just that small sample, it’s apparent that world-building that transports a reader is more than a place with different sights or strange names. First there are people and they have a history and geography. They have songs.

The latest book to transport me so thoroughly to another places was Captives by Jill Williamson. This dystopian story actually has two distinct cultures, which makes it all the more believable. Here’s an excerpt told in the point of view of one character making the transition from his primitive culture to that of one steeped in technology.

“You juicing, shell?” Skottie asked.

“Skottie’s mustache looked like two strokes of paint going out from each nostril. “What?”

“Stims, joy juice, hard candy, vapes. Uh . . . narcots?”

“Narcotics?” Omar asked, recalling the word from Old movies.

“Skottie bobbed his head. “That’s what I said.”

“The guy thought Omar was on drugs? “Someone killed my father! And it was because of me.”

“Ahh, premie lib,” Skottie said.

Omar looked over at Skottie. “Premie what?”

“Going on to the next life after reaching your age limit. I hear having someone go through that can be tough. How old was your friend?”

“Omar rubbed his scar. “My father was forty-six.”

Skottie shrugged. Past his time then. Safe Lands used to liberate at fifty, but they changed it to forty back in seventy-two. It’s for the best. No one wants to get old.”

The best? “But I just left him there. I should go back. Bury him maybe. And the others. Can we turn around?”

“Walls, no, shell.”

Books that transport me somewhere else have a dense culture filled with rituals, slang, moral right and wrong, tradition, art, entertainment, bureaucracy, and so much more. Captives has it all.

What books transport you somewhere else? How do you think the author pulled that off? How important is world-building to your reading experience when it comes to speculative literature? Do you think it’s undervalued?

Hi, God.¹

It’s me, the geek.

So I think you’ve hardwired the geek thing into my DNA.

I’m incurably curious, for one thing. In fact, I’ve made it a way of life. I like asking the questions no one else is asking and making the connections no one else is making.

I love the world you made, but I daydream about other worlds, too. Or about places in this world no one has discovered yet.

My imagination is pretty active. No, that’s not true. My imagination is pretty awesome, if I may say so myself. To be clear, I give you the credit for blessing me with it, but there you go.

As you know, sometimes my imagination takes me away from things that matter because it’s easier to live in a dream world. Other times, though, it gives me a technicolor, epic perspective on life that other people don’t seem to have. So thanks for that.

I like using my imagination when I pray. Instead of just talking to the air, I approach your throne, see the rainbows, feel the power of it all, and it’s awesome. Knowing that what I’m seeing — or something like it — is actually real? Mind boggling. Knowing that all prayer is a form of time travel is particularly delicious. It makes me feel like a kind of time lord (you’re still the Lord of lords in my books, of course).

Thank you for the rich imagery tucked like treasures throughout the Bible. Being a bit of a Whovian, I enjoy traveling into the stories I read about. I particularly enjoyed David and Goliath, the Jericho battle, and when you walked on water. “Being there” has made all the difference. Brilliant.

That said, regular people don’t get me.

It’s like they think their work suits and power ties are more in touch with reality than my Yoda t-shirt. I wish you’d show them that here in North America, the clothing people wear is a kind of costume, and that we’re all playing roles in a larger story.

If that’s true, God, and I think it is, I don’t want to play a suit holding a briefcase that works in a cubicle. I don’t want to conform, to be one of many just like me. I want to explore the eccentricities of who I am, who you’ve created me to be.

When I find geeks that believe true geeks can’t be Christians, I just sigh. Because I don’t think a true geek could ever put all their stock in science — in laws and observable, testable facts. To me that sounds anti-geek, like a different kind of suit holding a different kind of briefcase. It sounds like bondage to a grey cubicle made of formulas and algorithms and a boring kind of math god who needs to get out more.

No thank you. The universe is a whole lot wilder and mysterious and colourful than science can describe. I think science is fun, I really do. But it has its limits.

Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t actually believe in The Force — or time-traveling call boxes or Klingons or zombies or Malcolm Reynolds. I just don’t think you’re a math god. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re partial to geeks.

In the Bible, you say “faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see” (Hebrews 11:1).

Your buddy Enoch was teleported to heaven before he died. Geek! Noah built a giant boat by following instructions from beyond. Geek! Abraham left his hometown and settled in a foreign country, content because he was imagining a heavenly city to come. Geek, geek, geek.

The heroes of the Bible, you say, were aliens, strangers, foreigners on earth. Geeks! Prophets seeing the future, deliverers seeing the invisible, slaves avoiding the original (and far more terrifying) weeping angel, following a pillar of fire, walking through a sea as the waters parted … I could go on for pages here.

Geeks, every last one of them.

So thank you, God, for making me a geek in the true sense of the word.

May our tribe increase.

Amen.

PS: If you could let me know what happens in the second half of this season of Doctor Who, that’d be great.

Three groups of readers possibly forgotten by Christian-speculative blogs, mentioned last week, are challenging. Christian-speculative fans may feel tempted to give up on them.

• Parents. They may include “moms who want things child-friendly, sanitized and safe.”
• The “Lewis/Tolkien or bust” crowd. “They want Christian fiction to match the best in secular fiction, despite there being at least 40 + year difference in the age of the genre.”
• Church folk. They prize safety and tend to dislike challenges.

D.M. Dutcher noted these annoyances in a followup blog, apparently an expansion of this comment. Others noted potential hardships in trying to “discuss reading as an activity” (Austin Gunderson) or a shortage of topics related to reading (novelist Morgan L. Busse).

What do we mean by ‘talk about reading’?

In asking if blogs, websites, and groups overemphasize writing-related topics …

I don’t mean: story structure, characters, emotion, truth, beauty, realism, creativity.

(Surely anyone who “enjoys” a story without exploring these buys cheaper/imposter “joy.”)

I do mean: this week’s personal wordcount, contests for writers, grammar peculiarities, Chicago Manual of Style changes, agents, publishing, proposals, pitches, provincialism.

To compare with another Christian “industry,” it’s those last terms that may resemble theologians exclusively talking shop about obscure symbolism, Greek language nuances, or exact translation matrixes rather than first discussing Biblical doctrine-applied-to-real-life. Yes, we should discuss all of Scripture. But first we must receive the Story, enjoy the Story, ask of the Story, delight in the Story. Isn’t the same true of manmade stories?

Perhaps before discussing potentially other neglected readers, we must first check to make sure we’re not neglecting genuine reading ourselves.

1. Receiving

Upon seeing a sight like this, which of these should we do first? 1) Take a photo to post online. 2) Get to work discussing home landscaping methods. 3) Gaze in wonder at the beauty, and call others to see.

Lex Keating suggested an excellent image that reminds me of an earlier metaphor I tried:

Keeping the reader-only mentality is hard, especially when trying to deepen a discussion that requires elements of critical thinking that are typically stored in the “writer’s toolbox” section of the average human’s education.

Ah, a writer’s toolbox. It echoes this earlier question. Do writers see other stories, starting with the Bible, primarily as worshipful-art first to receive and enjoy? Or do we tend to see them as tools to use for our own arts and crafts, parts to salvage and use for practical goals?

In receiving a story, we lose ourselves in it. If possible, we’re not even thinking of “how can I use this” for some other means — not our children’s enjoyment, not moral instruction, not evangelism, and not even for personal entertainment. Part of this is the storyteller’s job to deliver, and part of this is our jobs as readers, to receive. Often this takes some training. Before we can share beliefs and discuss, we must listen. Before we run, we must breathe.

Of course, our breathing doesn’t always come easily. With the onset of spring, our allergies may be flaring. Maybe we just finished using previous oxygen for a long workout and are feeling winded. Maybe life, the universe, and everything, are sucking air from the room.

This is ultimately about our fight for Biblical humility. It’s the kind of humility that first says, “Not my story, God, but Yours.” ¹ Our other stories do matter — but later.

2. Enjoying

If a story doesn’t lead me to enjoyment — true enjoyment is the same as even subconscious worship of God — it’s likely a poor story. I was concluding this the other day when considering many Christian writers’ or artists’ appeals. Look, some say. I wrote a song about the Gospel. Or, Look, I wrote a fantasy novel, only Christian. Even if these claims are unique (they’re not), I have only this question: will your artistry bring me joy? In that way I gladly admit I’m “selfish.” I should want to gain from your work — to gain Godly enjoyment.

3. Asking

Great stories keep us asking. This alone could power for weeks a city of reader-centric discussions on blogs and in person. What about this character? Did you see this plot twist coming? How did this theme grip you personally? Would you read this again? This is not “writicist” shop-talk (though it has implications for writing craft). It’s thinking like a reader, responding to the story-receiving and -enjoying by engaging the author and other readers.

4. Delighting

This ties back to humbly-receiving, and handily completes the R.E.A.D. acronym (which will surely stay with you for perhaps seconds after this megachurch sermon). Story’s purpose isn’t “practical” as we often understand it. Story’s purpose is to cause delight — in God the Creator and in others’ creations. If a story doesn’t bring delight, it’s likely a bad story.

Summary

That’s what I mean by saying, Let’s first discuss reading before we discuss writing.

Next week: how we might encourage those skills in others. This may help deal with those annoyances of parents, the “Lewis/Tolkien or bust” crowd, church people, and others.

British television is odd. Programmers and data managers for Amazon Instant Video and Netflix must certainly agree: just try to find new episodes for subscription using, say, the streaming apps on a Blu-Ray player you got for your birthday.

Yet Doctor Who in slightly-larger-screen HD is a welcome sight, and not just because of the surface details.

The series is still bigger on the inside, especially given its power to bury such phrases so deeply in our brains that they’re already cliché.

As I write this, Series 7(?)’s latter half of eight episodes is itself halfway through. Fans have seen the religious-sounding-but-not-religious The Bells of Saint John’s, the nonreligious-sounding-yet-religious The Rings of Akhaten, the submarine-tension thriller Cold War, and the haunted-house-movie-homage-with-a-twist-themed Hide.

Whovians, what have you thought so far? Naturally I’ll start:

• The Bells of Saint John’s: Fantastic opener, yet with familiar themes. Somehow Moffat’s episodes manage to “tribute” precedents, without looking like lazy ripoffs. Villains echo the rotating-head critters from series 5’s The Beast Below, and someone practically repeats “Are you my mummy?”
• The Rings of Akhaten: this was reviewed as The Religious One, yet at least some Doctor Who staff are either getting braver or less so in their dealings with religion. Its pacing was uneven, greenscreen use a bit obvious, and themes left unexplored. Sometimes I prefer a theme strongly yet subtly emphasized even if it’s one I’d end up disagreeing with (e.g. religion is bad, as harped on in several overzealous Star Trek original-series episodes). And sometimes I would rather not deal with propaganda.
• Cold War: great stuff. Loved the monster, loved the Who twist on the submarine-tension theme, loved the resolution.
• Hide: some issues, but overall great. That atmosphere reached out and grabbed you, though the subtle eucatastrophic ending was a bit similar to that of Cold War. Christians skittish about horror/occult themes can also enjoy this episode without putting up with scenes of séances or demonic spirits making walls bleed.

A few other observations:

• The Clara-arc isn’t advanced enough to know much or make a judgment. That doesn’t stop folks from trying.
• That new new new new new new mix/opening sequence of the Doctor Who theme tune is, of course, still amazing.
• Our next episode, Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS, should be a highlight. But they keep misspelling one word.

This week marks the beginning of an epic journey for Speculative Faith fans. Better put, it is a exploration…an adventure in which the destination is not fully known.

But first a confession.

Over the past few months I’ve enjoyed sharing my thoughts about a variety of subjects related somewhat to the theme of speculative fiction and faith. However, as a fiction writer I must admit I’ve been getting a bit weary of writing topical discussions related to speculative fiction and its relevance in our world. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t enjoy discussing those things – I do. Rather, I think the creative writer in me is dying to write…well…speculative fiction and not just talk about it.

So, here’s what I propose.

Tuesdays are going to be a bit different for Speculative Faith fans. Instead of talking about speculative fiction, we’re going to write some together. Each Tuesday, if you choose to join me, I’ll be posting a new chapter of an ever growing speculative fiction story I’ve been batting around for a few years called “The Last Son of Earth”. It’s an idea, a concept really, but the story has never fully been fleshed out and I have no clue where it will ultimately take us.

I’ll be writing a chapter every week. You’ll be helping me write it by adding your comments and ideas about what has been written and what will be written. Week by week, chapter by chapter, the world of our combined imaginations will begin to grow.

Serial fiction is nothing new, of course. Charles Dickens, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Alexander Dumas thrived in writing serial fiction. I don’t expect our story exploration to be anything nearly as polished and timeless as they have accomplished in their works, but it will be a fun way to explore the emergence of a story and let you “peek into the process” a bit.

I imagine the short story will take a few months to complete in its first draft form…but it may take longer. I’m not sure how far we’ll get with it, but together we’ll have some fun.

And so, without further ado, I present to you my first installment of the first chapter of the Last Son of Earth.

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Prologue: The Parting

“Stay,” Alana pleaded, desperate for her husband’s answer to be something other than the one she knew it was. She had known for a long time this day would eventually come. The telegraph he had received this morning confirmed her worst fears. Tonight was it, the Restoration would make a stand and her husband would lead the charge. Over the years she had hoped, even fooled herself into believing, that somehow this day would never come. Now, here it was, and there he was, packing feverishly to leave her and their only child behind – likely forever.

She watched helplessly as he retrieved a sweater from his locker and moved back to the bench where his container waited to be filled. Every item was another nail in the coffin of their life together.

Alana moved in close and took hold of his arm, pulling herself against him in hopes of capturing his attention. Anything to slow the moment down.

“Justin, stay with me,” she repeated softly. “Please. You don’t have to do this.”

Justin dropped his sweater on the bench and turned to his wife. He took her pale face gently in his hand and she allowed herself to get lost in his chocolate eyes once more. It was remarkable how much she loved this man. When they had first been assigned to each other she had left all thoughts of love behind. But he was perfect, he captured her heart quickly. Now, she couldn’t imagine life without him.

“Could you really love a man who lived in a lie?” he asked.

“At least I would have a man to love.”

“I cannot keep silent about who we are – about what has been taken from us all. The time has come, Ali, you’ll see. ICON has hidden our true past. Once that is exposed, others will follow the Restoration’s lead. The truth will lead us to freedom.”

“No! You speak like a fool,” she snapped, pulling a full step away from him, “and you will die like one and I will be left alone with the shame of it. To oppose ICON is a death wish.”

“If I stay nothing will change, Ali,” Justin reminded her. “We will both be reassigned and I will lose you anyway.”

He was right, of course. There was less than a year left before the census would determine how the populace would be rearranged. Every four years the men, women and children would be randomly reintegrated into new family units by a system designed to ensure the greatest diversity of thought and keep the roots of family unit shallow. It was, according to the District Masters, the only way to keep allegiance to ICON first in the minds of its citizens.

“I’ve made plans for you and Alden to be kept in safety. There is a hidden Restoration stronghold deep below ground. The Red-Eyes will not find you there. After I leave, Talon will lead you there if you choose. Wait for him. I’ll come back for you when the war is over.”

A knock at the door reminded Alana they were out of time.

“Sir, the gathering is ready,” a strong voice called through the door.

“One minute,” Justin replied. Moving quickly, he reached into his locker once more and retrieved a wooden block hand carved on all sides with curious markings Alana did not recognize.

“This is for Alden,” Justin said handing it to Alana. “If I don’t return, make sure he gets it when he is old enough. Tell him the answer lies in the stars. And tell him, I love him.”

Alana nodded nervously, her eyes welling up with tears.

Justin took her in his arms and embraced her tightly for a long moment. The crude leather and steel of his battle armor kept his heartbeat at a distance. Then, he kissed her gently and moved quickly to gather his things. Everything felt rushed and wrong. Not at all the way she had wanted the parting to go.

“Justin,” she called out after him as he picked up his container and headed for the door.

He turned back to catch her gaze one last time.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Justin smiled proudly.

“I’ll find you.”

Then, he was out the door and he was gone. Gutted, Alana sat on the bench and cried for what seemed an eternity. Her duty as a citizen of the district was to report any signs of disturbance. But her loyalty to her husband and her child tore at her concience.

When she had cried her last tear, she spotted the telegraph machine in the corner of the room and she knew what she had to do.

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In a control room across the district, a signal was received and transferred to a supervising ICON officer. It was deciphered and passed along to the District Masters. It seemed an uprising was at hand. If it was a war they were after, the iron fist of ICON would be ready for them.