Last time, our hero Intaglio, a living puppet with dreams of literary grandeur, escaped a dismal writing sweatshop with his friend Marge and set out to find Total Freedom Island, where writers can write whatever they want, however they want, and get paid for it (yes, this is a fairy tale). They accepted a suspiciously convenient  ride from a shady-looking coachman in a carriage pulled by a team of wombats. Now, they’re on their way to the fair port of Lucretia, where they hope to catch a ferry to the island.

If you’ve not been following along, it’s probably best to begin at Part 1. For the rest of you, onward to Part 3!

—————

Despite the coachman’s promise, Intaglio was able to get through several thousand “Bob’s your uncles” before the black carriage arrived at the waterfront of Lucretia, a dingy, dirty little town that was anything but a “fair port.” It was dark, murky, and smelled of spoiled fish. A collection of greasy, muscular fellows in striped shirts and stocking caps looked on with bored malevolence as the coachman unloaded his passengers. The team of wombats collapsed onto their rotund bellies, gasping for breath, shivering, and whining.

“Ferry’s at the end of the dock,” said the coachman, pointing at a dilapidated wharf hung with cobwebs and missing several planks. A long, flat boat bobbed at the end of it, and a tall figure robed in black stood at the boat’s stern.

Intagio set off toward the dock. Marge followed in his wake, rubbing her eyes and looking anxiously all around as if she had just awakened from an unpleasant dream. Or perhaps into one.

“Hold up, young’uns! You’ll be needing these.” The coachman held out two pairs of shiny golden coins. “It’ll take a ducat for the ferry and another to get you started on the island. Off with you then, and enjoy your freedom…while you may.”

At the ferry, the man in black wordlessly accepted a single ducat into his thin, bony hands from each of the two travelers and turned the boat toward a hazy patch on the horizon. It sailed along without any visible means of propulsion. Intaglio tried to start up a conversation with Marge, but she fell asleep again upon entering the boat. He turned his attention to the ferryman, but the fellow was silent as a tomb.

“Perhaps I’ll do a little writing to pass the time, then.” Intaglio pulled out a sheaf of paper, a quill, and a bottle of ink he’d liberated from Vinnie and Guido’s sweatshop during his escape and started scribbling one of the stories the Writing Fairy had planted inside his wooden noggin. It was the tale of a cup, and a sword, and a tree, and a green hill, and Intaglio was at the verge of sappy tears as he finished, it was so beautiful. This was why he wanted to be a writer. This was his true purpose in life! His mind spun at the thought of what he could accomplish in a place like Total Freedom Island, where his imagination was the only limit.

The sun was rising as the ferry boat reached the island, a jagged little cone of rock crowned with a diadem of colorful buildings alive with pennons and bunting that fluttered in the ocean breeze. Faint whispers of music drifted down to the waterfront. Intaglio helped Marge from the boat, which disappeared into a fogbank without waiting for any outbound passengers. She recovered from her stupor upon setting foot on the island. Her eyes shined, and her face was radiant with joy. “Oh, Intaglio, we made it! We’re free! I can’t wait to start writing!”

They walked up a winding cobblestone path that led into the town. There was no gate, just a broad stone archway inscribed with the words, WELCOME TO TOTAL FREEDOM ISLAND. Below that, in smaller letters, was a motto: WE SEAL OUR OWN FATE.

Intaglio pondered that. “Sounds ominous.”

“It just means there’s no one to tell us what we have to write, so our success is in our own hands. Come on!” Marge hauled Intaglio along behind her as she hurried through the gate and into a broad plaza beyond.

The music was louder here, a merry tune that made Intaglio itch all over with the urge to dance. Or perhaps he’d picked up termites somewhere along the way. He hoped not. There were children of various ages seated at little round tables scattered about the plaza, and they were all writing or engaged in energetic conversation.

At first, no one seemed to notice Intaglio and Marge, but then a tall boy dressed in a top hat and blue frock coat trotted over to them, extending a hand. “Greetings, newcomers! Welcome to our island! My name’s Bill Coventry. I’m the current mayor, though we take that responsibility in turns. It’s my day job. Anyhow, you won’t want to waste a single minute of your time here, so let’s get you started straight-away. Follow me.”

Bill led them to a large wooden box at the center of the plaza. It looked like one of the cabinets Guiseppe made back home, framed with ornate scrollwork and carvings of chubby babies with wings. There was a window at its center that held a roll of paper, of the sort you might find on a player piano. Below that was a wide slot, below that, a row of buttons, and below that, a rectangular hole with a metal tray at its base. On the side of the cabinet was an enormous crank handle.

“This is the T.F.I. Publication Acceptance, Promulgation, Evaluation, and Reimbursement System, or ‘PAPERS,’ for short. You insert a ducat into the machine, put your manuscript into the slot, and turn the crank. In a little while, somebody will come along and review your story on a five-point scale. You’re paid one ducat per point. It’s a merit system…the better your story, the more you get paid. While you’re waiting for your story to be reviewed, you need to evaluate somebody else’s story. We all work together, we all get feedback, and we all get paid. Simple as that. Understand?”

Marge nodded. “Makes sense.”

“Actually, I don’t think I got all that, “said Intaglio, who had been watching a squirrel perched on a vacant table nearby. “What is this thing called again, and what does it do?”

Bill laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Instructions scroll up behind the window. Tell you what, once you’ve got a story written, come find me, and I’ll walk you through the steps.”

“I’ve got one already!” Intaglio pulled his manuscript from his jacket pocket and waved it at Bill.

“Excellent! So, first, you need to drop a ducat into the coin slot. It’s there on the right side, next to the window.” Bill pointed to a tiny opening Intaglio hadn’t noticed.

The coin went into the machine with a musical clink, and paper scrolled beneath the window, revealing a message in cursive script: Insert manuscript, press red button, and turn crank.

Intaglio did so. The manuscript vanished into the machine, a bell jingled, and the paper scrolled again. Return in three hours, then press black button to receive feedback and payment.

“That’s all there is to it,” said Bill. “Now, you can each take a turn at rating someone else’s work. Ladies first?”

Marge stepped up to the machine. “What do I do?”

“Press the green button and turn the crank.”

The machine clicked and whirred, a manuscript popped out of the slot, and there was a new message: Assign rating using numbered buttons. 5=Outstanding, 4=Average, 3=Smells, 2=Reeks, 1=Stinks on Ice.

“Kind of a strange rating system,” said Marge, “and harsh.”

“Well, we strive for excellence here. It’s a deep pool.”

Intaglio peered over Marge’s shoulder at the manuscript’s title. FAIRY TALE ROMANCE #708: THE LITTLE CHICKEN WHO CRIED WOLF. And below that, Once upon a time there was a little chicken. Who cried. Wolf.

“Hey, this is the same gorgonzola Vinnie and Guido made us write!”

Bill flipped a couple of pages. “Hmm. Probably from one of our recent arrivals, somebody still trying to break old habits. Our philosophy here is to encourage fledgling writers as much as possible. Skim through it and give it a rating, Marge, but be gentle…we wouldn’t want to crush someone’s dreams, would we?”

“No. I know how that feels.” Marge leafed through the document, looking more and more with each turn of the page as if she’d taken a bite out of a lemon. Her fingers wandered over the buttons. “Maybe a…three?”

“I wouldn’t go lower than four, if I were you. This is a fellow writer. Imagine how you’d feel.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” She pressed the “4” button. The machine chimed and scrolled. RECORDED.

“See, easy as pie. You’re already part of the community. How about you, Intaglio? Want to give it a go?”

“You bet.” Intaglio had been paying more attention this time, so he was able to repeat the process with only a little prompting from Bill. He squinted at the manuscript the machine ejected. FAIRY TALE ROMANCE #542: CINDERPUNZEL…Once upon a time, there was a girl. Named Cinderpunzel. With two ugly stepsisters. And long hair.

“Eww. This is as bad as the other story. I thought you said everybody here strives for excellence.”

“Maybe this one’s a slow starter. Give it a read.”

Intaglio’s face looked like Marge’s by the time he finished, and that was quite an accomplishment for someone whose head was carved from a block of wood. “I’m sorry, but this is awful, and the Writing Fairy said I always have to tell the truth.” Intaglio’s finger hovered over the “1” button.

Bill grabbed his shoulder. “Wait!”

Intaglio gave the button a decisive jab. The machine rattled, shook, and cut loose with an ear-piercing siren. Everyone in the plaza stopped writing and talking. A few stood up, fists knotted. Someone shouted, “What are you trying to do? Starve one of us?”

“No! I mean…I was just trying to give an honest score!”

“Try again,” Bill whispered in his ear.

Everyone was staring at him. Intaglio turned back to the machine. Under the window was a single line of text: PLEASE MAKE ANOTHER SELECTION.

He gulped and pressed the “4” button. The siren stopped, and the machine chimed agreeably. The children in the plaza returned to their writing and chattering.

Bill patted him on the back. “Don’t worry about it. There’s always a bit of a learning curve at first. I guarantee you’re going to fit right in.” He straightened his top hat. “You’ve got a few hours until your feedback’s ready…let’s go find you and Marge a day job.”

Oh, that’s right, Intaglio thought, the Writing Fairy said I needed one of those. I wonder what it is?

To be continued…

Fans of speculative fiction all know J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis. In fact, I recently heard Tolkien referred to as the father of modern fantasy. This was an acknowledgment that he did not invent the genre, per se. Before him was Celtic, Norse, Gaelic, and Greek mythology. Nevertheless, his legacy rests on the fact that he created, or “sub-created,” as he said, a world and myths that belong to the modern world.

Speculative readers can hardly talk about Tolkien without mentioning Lewis because they both have had such a far-reaching effect on the genre.

But besides these two greats, who else has had an impact on Christian speculative fiction? Specifically, what titles would you consider “required reading” for someone trying to understand the shape and history of present-day Christian speculative fiction?

The question isn’t actually mine. Friend, author, and occasional Spec Faith guest, Mike Duran posed the question over at Facebook.

Unless you’ve already entered the discussion there, I urge you to hold off reading Mike’s question (because he gives some of his answers which might color your own) and the ensuing comments.

As much as I’d like to give my answers, I’m going to refrain for the same reason. I really want to know what you all think.

Mike’s goal is to form a list of ten books that might be considered “required reading,” and he is having a hard time finding that many titles. Personally I think the more a person reads in a genre, the easier it is to find the titles that belong on the list, but that’s beside the point.

In Mike’s question he clarifies that the titles he’s interested in are “not necessarily the best written, but the most influential or enduring books” (emphasis added).

I commented this morning that deciding on which books will last from the contemporary list is next to impossible–something I think commenters here at Spec Faith mentioned in previous posts on this subject (See for example “Hard Work And Cotton Candy“). Personally, I’d prefer to see a “required reading” list consist of the best of the genre.

So maybe we can do both. How about if you Spec Faith readers nominate as many books (or series, since speculative fiction often comes in groups 😉 ) you wish, but specify which list you think these belong in–1) influential and enduring or 2) best books (which means they are both well-written and rockin’-good stories). Remember, we’re looking for titles of present-day (within the last twenty-five years, or so) Christian speculative fiction.

Oooohh, I can hardly wait to give my answers … but I will. I want your pure, unadulterated opinions. Please include title (book or series), author, and list on which you think your nomination belongs.

Looking forward to your answers!

I’ve reached a milestone in my writing journey. My debut novel is hitting bookshelves as we speak, and it seems only natural to look back and ponder the stepping stones that led me here.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the angry Applebee’s lady.

It was my first week at a new job, and it happened to be someone’s birthday. To celebrate, the entire office went out to Applebee’s. I didn’t know a single soul, so I sat silent, observing, honing my people watching skills. It wasn’t long before one rather feisty individual demanded the table’s attention. Oh, she didn’t tap her water glass with a fork. She didn’t need to. Her voice carried throughout the entire room as she ranted and raged.

You see, her son’s teacher was reading Harry Potter to the class.

Now, I’m not here to make a stink. I know some folks have problems with the books, and I think you have every right and every responsibility to monitor your children’s reading and to encourage the healthy stuff. And certainly, to be concerned about age-appropriateness. But I do think we—as Christians—also need to have the wherewithal to discuss our opinions rationally and with some semblance of education.

My plate of food went cold as I watched the angry Applebee’s lady tell the story. She was just so proud of herself for marching into her son’s classroom during reading circle and pulling him out. By her own admission, she planned the moment, waiting until the teacher had brought out the book before entering and causing a scene.

I was mortified. Mostly for her son, but also because she and I both serve the same God. And because, also by her own admission, she said an awful lot about Him to that teacher as she marched her son away. She waved her belief in the faces of elementary school students, using it to justify her bad behavior.

I said nothing, but another brave soul next to me couldn’t resist. “Just what is it about the books that you object to?” he asked.

The lady sputtered, her face all red, but she said nothing. Eventually, after several gulps of water, she was able to convey that she’d heard about them on a radio show. She hadn’t read the books. Not a single word.

I was in my early twenties, and the Harry Potter phenomenon hadn’t yet reached its fever pitch, so I knew little about the books. But you can bet I walked out of Applebee’s with a mission. I needed to know: are these books about a boy wizard going to have the same effect on me that they did on her? It had been some time since I’d read a children’s book, and I just had to know.

For the record, no, they didn’t. In fact, they reminded me just why I like make-believe, why I put so much stock in story. They reminded me that imagination has value.

I’ve never understood the animosity toward fantasy or speculative fiction. I think it’s the use of words like ‘witch’ and ‘wizard’ and ‘magic’ that does it for most folks, but as the fabulous bloggers here at Speculative Faith have so articulately pointed out, we need not fear words. We can—and oftentimes should—examine such writings ourselves. We should consider the good and the bad they offer. We should consider the lessons they teach and the journeys they take the reader on. And whatever our prayerful conclusions, we must acknowledge that the printed word is always a perfect springboard for discussion. Educated, rational discussions. Conversations that aren’t motivated by fear, but full of words that pull others toward the light of God’s goodness.

Jesus told the truth. Boldly. Without shame. Without fear. I’ll even maintain that He used a bit of speculative fiction to make a point time and again. The Rich Man and Lazarus, anyone?

I want to be like that. To be so grounded in truth that I don’t fear words. I want to know who I am in Christ so that I can accurately decipher just where He is in the fiction I’m reading. And I do see Him there more often than not. Even His absence in a story lights a path to Him if we’ll take the time to see it.

So, yeah. The Applebee’s lady set before me a challenge that led me back to young adult literature. Back to a world of fantasy and adventure. Of make-believe and heroics.

I suppose I owe her a thank you. Her angry words were a stepping stone—one of many—that led me to penning my first novel. A novel of speculation and adventure. Of angels with fiery swords, demons who use fear as a weapon, and a girl who can see it all. It’s a story I believe in and am excited to share.

So, thank you, Applebee’s lady. Thank you for sharing your opinions so brashly. For terrifying a room full of diners with your tale. Thank you for being a part of my journey. Thank you very much.

– – – – –
Shannon Dittemore has an overactive imagination and a passion for truth. Her lifelong journey to combine the two is responsible for a stint at Portland Bible College, performances with local theater companies, and a focus on youth and young adult ministry. The daughter of one preacher and the wife of another, she spends her days imagining things unseen and chasing her two children around their home in Northern California. Angel Eyes is her first novel.

SATURDAY, MAY 19 — Moments ago, my subconscious mind literally dreamed the Ultimate Action / Disaster / Superhero / Suspense Film. And I’ve awakened early on a Saturday morning, before all of it evaporated, to tell you all about this blockbuster story.

By now I've seen this truly fantastic film twice. (What about you?)

It begins with a Spielbergian small-town montage. A farmers’ market, I think. People saying howdy and being Small-Town America.

But what they don’t know is that a Something has Landed. It must have been a meteorite. It landed in a way that a bit flew off and stuck into a crate filled with vegetables.

Next a montage of clips, tracking how this produce is sold, handled, transferred to different carriers. The Suspenseful Contamination has begun.

New scene. It’s a delightful small house at the end of a road (and strangely close to a picturesque cliff in its front yard). Who lives here? Why, Spielberg-esque Struggling Single Mom. She has two children, a boy and a girl, who get into comical sibling rivalries. And this family will soon be drawn together even closer, with Single Mom to show her true strength, because, as I recall, they recently bought some of the meteorite-contaminated vegetables.

(The alien material did something weird, weeks ago, to a container of hamburger meat suspended in fluid, sitting in the kitchen sink, that everyone had forgotten about. The alien material had somehow preserved that meat — a quickly dropped subplot.)

But then Spielberg-esque Young Boy, after being exposed to the contaminated vegetables, is worried because on his hand is a small, oddly colored blister.

This single mom is no fool. She’s also intensely genre-savvy. So she gets her young boy — I’m unsure what happened to the girl — and prepares to take him into the large city to have him analyzed by Scientists.

(And suddenly, dream-fashion, I was briefly the Young Boy myself, making sure to bring my laptop computer, whatever books I was reading, some extra clothes, and even my new-old smartphone, so that I would have plenty to do during my spare time between action scenes. Apparently I was also genre-savvy.)

How do we travel to the city? I’m sitting in the back seat, not of a car or minivan, but a futuristic recreational motorhome. What happened to the “struggling” single mom? This was a sci-fi-pimped-out motorhome; I believe one could have taken over driving the vehicle from the back seat. It had multiple little viewscreens inside. Also, outside the back window, all the world was coming forward to the vehicle, as if it were driving backward. It was actually a wide viewscreen showing whatever was seen from in front.

So we arrive in the big city, and already we catch up with the previous suspenseful-contamination montage. The meteorite itself has been airlifted by helicopter into the science place (university? lab?). It’s in a sealed crate, suspended by cables, and scientists aren’t even going to try bringing it inside. More genre-savvy.

Events here become slight fuzzy. But I do remember this …

People, perhaps moviemakers themselves, were trying to do some mad science in the middle of Spielberg-esque, or perhaps Roland Emmerich-esque, Big-City America. Their reasoning was this: if colliding weather fronts during severe storms can spawn tornadoes, why not come up with some way to combat them by generating our own weather fronts of hot or cold air? So they did. (I think my brain filled this in, as behind-the-scenes.) Naturally, things began to go awry. Instead of fighting against naturally spawned funnel clouds, whatever technologies these mad scientists had developed — ironically — themselves spawned the tornadoes.

Also: aliens. Aliens were coming. (“Audiences love aliens.”)

From here comes the disaster scenes. Huge torrents of whirling wind slamming into cities. Buildings being eaten apart from the sides by black winds and smashing debris. Fleeing people trying to find shelter and escape the carnage. It was great stuff. My subconscious mind’s visual-effects department budgeted high for this.

"This tornado just came and *erased* the Hollywood sign! The Hollywood sign is *gone*!

Also, to my mind’s credit, some originality: these cities were not New York City or Los Angeles. According to some disaster films, those must be the only important cities on Earth; and if they are destroyed, life is no longer worth living and our planet is simply doomed.

Then in the horrors’ aftermath, when cities are devastated and all of humanity reeling …

Aliens!

They attack. My mind’s visual-effects department, having already gone overbudget for the tornado-disaster scenes, budgeted very low for this. Whatever: aliens invade, trust me, and we had already enough terrors to go through because of the tornadoes. But guess who’s there to fight the aliens?

Naturally, superheroes.

Specifically, Tony Stark/Iron Man, Bruce Banner/The Hulk, Thor, and Peter Parker/Spider-Man! (Captain America was not there, as he was still frozen in ice at the time.) This was a trial run of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Avengers Initiative.

They kicked alien butt. I only remember one moment in which all four superheroes had been thrown into a garbage dumpster, along with at least two others guys who were dressed like Spider-Man, but in too-baggy costumes and no muscles. But the heroes didn’t stay down for long.

… Then the movie scenes switched to filming the movie scenes, and the costumed heroes all got out of the dumpster and took a break and were handed water bottles.

Joss Whedon was directing. You Whedon-ites will turn Hulk-green with envy to learn that Joss and I got along well. My mind replicated him accurately, with that orange beard. (Was this a Spielberg/Emmerich/Whedon joint production?) We chatted about what came next in the filming, and then I realized, well, if I’m to know all this and we’re getting along so well, why could I not interview him for the newspaper for which I work?

But when I asked, Whedon was reluctant. He only wanted to hang out and chat, no interviews. So after each of my repeated requests, he ignored me and simply continued talking to himself — all the time with his best attempt at snappy clever dialogue — while holding up his hands to imagine and block out his next series of shots.

Whatever happened next, The Avengers (and I’m sure Hal Jordan, the Green Lantern, made a cameo) must have won. The aliens were defeated. But, of course, the storm-ravaged cities were still crumbling. People wondered if they had any hope.

But of course, we needed one other element …

Morgan Freeman, the Stately Courageous President! He was there (along with another guy who looked like him?), holding up his hands, and kindly reassuring the world that all was not lost. We will rebuild, he intoned. The human spirit cannot be vanquished. And so hope will arise from the ashes.

Queue credits. I can’t believe my mind made it that far, or that — before all the details faded — I managed to awaken early on a Saturday and capture the gloriousness of this Ultimate Action / Disaster / Superhero / Suspense Film for you readers. I hope you enjoyed it almost as much as I did. This, however, must be the end.

… The End(?)

What dreams do you have about your favorite novels and films? Do you wake up, as I do, at first thinking “that was incredible!” and taking excessive personal credit for the plot?

And now for something completely different . . .

Last week, we left our hero chained to a table in a literary sweatshop, where he was forced to write really lousy stories.

He’s still there.

Intaglio spent the next several days transcribing a seemingly endless supply of mangled fairy tale romances like “Hansel and the Beanstalk,” “The Ugly Gingerbread Man,” and “The Three Little Mermaids.” Since he had no need for food, sleep, or bathroom breaks, he only paused in his task when the weeping and groaning of the children chained at the table with him became emotionally overwhelming, or when one of the two thugs whacked him for not working fast enough. The blows hurt. He might have been a wooden puppet, but he still had feelings. And they used a hammer.

One night, the thugs left the shack and trudged off into the forest with a sack full of fresh manuscripts, leaving their prisoners alone in the dark. A scrawny girl sitting next to Intaglio nudged him with an elbow. “Psst. Blockhead…we’re busting out of here tonight. Care to join us?”

“Sure! But how are we going to get loose from this chain locking us to our chairs?”

“I’ve been here for almost a month. Longer than anybody else. My leg’s skinny enough to wiggle out of my shackle now, and once I’m free…”

“You mean, like this?” Intaglio pulled out the peg that secured his knee joint, and slid his disconnected leg out of the iron loop welded to the chain.

The girl froze, mouth agape. “How long have you been able to do that?” The other children were staring at him with expressions which traversed the spectrum from astonishment, through disgust, to purple rage.

“Always, I guess.” Intaglio shrugged. “Sorry. Non-linear thinking isn’t my strong suit.” He knocked on his head. “Brains of oak, and all that.”

“Whatever. Find a rock or something we can use to break the chain. We have to get out of here before Big Guido and Little Vinnie come back.” She reached out to shake Intaglio’s hand. “I’m Marge, by the way. Everybody used to call me Large Marge, once upon a time. Now…not so much.”

“I’m Intaglio.” He reassembled his leg, and after a few moments of searching through the debris on the hovel’s floor, he found a jagged block of granite that was propping the door shut. In no time at all, the children were free and staggering along the road leading out of the forest, their path lit by pale moonlight.

Just as they reached the country lane where Intaglio had been abducted, a huge wolf with a bright red cape tied around its neck leapt from a nearby thicket and blocked their way. It growled and snarled, but instead of pouncing on them, it sat back on its haunches, shook its head sadly, and stalked back into the forest.

Marge sighed in relief. “I guess this is where we part company, everyone. The city’s along the road to the west. Don’t talk to any more strangers on the way.”

“What about you?” asked Intaglio.

“I’m going to Total Freedom Island.”

“What’s that?”

One of the children piped up. “Aw, that’s Fairy Tale Romance #328, Marge. It’s not real.”

“I think it is. Remember Fairy Tale Romance #15? We just saw ‘The Reluctant Red Riding Wolf.’ If he’s real, there’s no reason Total Freedom Island can’t be.”

Real or not, the other children were sick of fairy tales. With an assortment of hoots, howls, and raspberries, they trotted away toward the city and soon vanished from sight.

Intaglio remained. “I want to go with you.”

Marge patted his head and straightened the pigeon feather on his little alpine cap. “Listen, Intaglio, you’re a good kid and all, but they’re probably right. Besides, don’t you have a puppeteer or something waiting for you back home?”

“I was on my way to college, but it’s too late to start the semester now. I’ve already missed Rush Week. All I really want is to be a writer…a real one, not a galley slave making copies all day.”

“Then Total Freedom Island is the place for you. Everybody’s a writer, and everybody’s their own publisher. You control all the rights to your work. Nobody can tell you what or how to write. Whatever you write, you sell, and you get a fair price for it. It’s just like the name says. Total Freedom.”

“That’s for me! Which way do we go?”

“East, toward the sea. We’ll find a port and start asking around. Sooner or later, we’re bound to run into somebody who knows how to get there.”

As it turned out, Marge and Intaglio found help sooner than later. The sun had risen and the air was beginning to edge toward the uncomfortable side of warm when they heard a rumbling sound behind them. They moved a safe distance off the lane as a black carriage drew up beside them and came to a skidding halt in a cloud of dust. It was pulled by a dozen plump, grey-furred creatures that looked to Intaglio like enormous woodchucks. The driver, a rotund, nattily-dressed fellow with puffed red cheeks and a gold tooth, dropped from his perch and inspected Intaglio and Marge with a broad smile.

Since Intaglio lacked experience in both zoology and geography, it is little wonder he had no idea that the animals pulling the carriage were wombats, which are not commonly found in Northern Italy and not customarily used as draft animals, even in their native Australia. You might hope it would have raised his suspicions if he had known, but that would probably be giving him too much credit. As for Marge, if she thought the situation was in any way odd, she gave no sign.

The coachman wiped his florid brow with an enormous handkerchief. “Well, well! Where are you two young people headed on this fine spring day?”

“We’re traveling to Total Freedom Island!” Intaglio said brightly, and stupidly. Marge stomped on his foot, but since it was made of wood, the hint was less than obvious.

“Oho! You’re in luck, then. My coach provides transportation from the Northern provinces to the fair port of Lucretia, from whence you can hop a ferry to that island, and a wondrous gem of the Adriatic she is. Climb aboard, and I’ll have you there before you can say Bob’s your uncle!”

Marge started to back away. “I don’t think…”

“Bob’s your uncle!” squealed Intaglio.

The coachman snickered. “It’s a figure of speech, lad.” He took hold of Marge’s hand and led her to the carriage. She struggled at first, then her eyes seemed to lose focus, and she climbed the steps and sat down without further protest. “Total Freedom,” she murmured. “Total Freedom.”

Intaglio clambered inside without any prompting or assistance. The coachman mounted to the driver’s seat, gave the team of wombats a flick of his whip, which elicited a brief chorus of bone-chilling screams, and they were off and away, thundering down the road to the sea.

Finally, Intaglio thought as he leaned back into the carriage’s soft cushions, I’m going to have everything I’ve ever wanted.

To be continued…

Alec Ramsey was my hero. He was a gutsy kid, resourceful and caring. And he was a survivor. Dumped into the ocean on a voyage to see his uncle, Alec and a wild stallion he called the Black, made it to a deserted island where they built a connection. And so, a series of books was born based on a beloved character and his horse.

Over the years, I’ve come to love many more characters beside Walter Farley’s young protagonist. There is Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, Jo March of Little Women, Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn in Mark Twain’s classics. I even loved Scarlet O’Hara of Gone with the Wind, though I hated her a little, too.

I could go on and on listing characters I loved who appeared as the star of their books, but there’s another set of characters that aren’t front and center, yet they nearly steal the show.

Perhaps no character so embodies the enticing secondary character as does Falstaff in Shakespeare’s Henry IV Parts I and II and The Merry Wives of Windsor.

“Falstaff is perhaps the most substantial comic character that ever was invented,” one scholar said (See Shakespeare Online). Any number of works have been written in an effort to dissect what makes him so beloved, and other stories have been created to put him in the spotlight.

In contemporary Christian speculative fiction I can think of several secondary characters that hold great appeal and nearly demand a book of their own. One is Dobro in Jonathan Rogers’ Wilderking Trilogy.

The main character, Aidan, is himself endearing, but Dobro, though having a minor role, is memorable. Here’s his introduction in the first of the trilogy, The Bark of the Bog Owl.

Aiden had never seen such a person, but he thought he knew what he was. He was one of the feechiefolk. Aidan’s grandfather had told him many tales of this wild, nomadic tribe … But then again, Grandfather had often invented wild tales to entertain his grandchildren.

The house servants often threatened to throw him to the feechiefolk when he misbehaved, but Aidan had always assumed the feechiefolk were imaginary creatures, like leprechauns or boogiemen. Yet here before him stood what appeared to be an actual feechie boy. Aidan had no idea what this wild boy might do next. He was fierce–no question about it–but not exactly threatening. On the other hand, he didn’t appear to be friendly either. He was just wild; there was no other way to describe him.

The two boys regarded one another. At last the wild boy’s nasally voice broke the silence. “Are we going to tangle or not?”

Dobro is quirky and courageous, a fierce fighter and a loyal friend. The feechie in general are unforgettable, but Dobro rises above all others.

Another similar character appears in Donita Paul‘s DragonKeeper Chronicles: Dar of the doneel race. Here’s his introduction in the first of the series, DragonSpell.

The whistling first sounded like a double-crested mountain finch, but then a few too many high notes warbled at the end of the call. Kale’s eyes sprang open, and she sat up. A doneel sat on a log by the stream. From his finger, a string dangled over the edge of a rock into the water. His clothes were tattered but bright in hue between the smudges of dirt and blood. His whistle changed to the song of a speckled thrush.

…if he stood, his little frame would not reach four feet. His tan and white furry head sat on a well-proportioned body. His large eyes hid under shaggy eyebrows that drooped down his temples and mingled with a long mustache. His broad nose stuck out like the muzzle of a dog, and his black lips met with hardly a chin at all underneath…

“Hungry?” he asked. Smiling, his face became round, half of it the huge mouth. Two ears covered with soft fur perched on the top of his head near the front. They twitched and turned as he listened.

Dar is particular when it comes to fashion and style. He seems austere in his treatment of others, and can be intimidating despite his small stature. But he, too, is a fierce friend, loyal to the core.

Actually, Ms. Paul has created other memorable minor characters: Wizard Fenworth, with bog creatures nesting in his beard and his habit of becoming treelike to the point that it’s hard to tell him apart from the real thing. Or how about the little fainting minor dragon, Gymn.

Some stories are notable because of the action and their fast pace, others because of their epic nature, and still others because of their vivid world. But when it comes to characters, which stand out in your mind? Are they protagonists or minor characters? And what about them makes them memorable?

Look at your feet. Look where you’re standing. Okay, do what I do. Lift your left foot over the edge and place it on the floor. Now lift your right foot over as well. Now. See there? That’s what it feels like to stand outside the box.

Actually. I’m on the wrong side. I tend to do that. Outside the box, but on the wrong side. Let me come around.

Now, follow me to this round table over here. We’ll call it the “Thinky” table. There are no bad ideas at the “Thinky” table. Let’s just be a little wild and crazy for a moment. Forget about that box over there. You can go back to it in a few minutes.

Let’s talk about multimedia. Music, video, art, sound fx. And let’s also talk a little about our society. We’ll start there.

Our society is not what it was. People have shorter attention spans and no discipline. They have microwaves and smart phones and GPS and cable internet and streaming movies and Pandora. They can have just about anything they want as fast as they want it. They can learn something new quicker than you can determine in what encyclopedia volume the information may be located. Two things characterize this trend in our society…speed and multisensory perception. In other words, they want things faster and to engage as many senses as possible. They want it realistic and they want it now.

Funny. But wouldn’t that just be…oh, I don’t know…LIFE??

Speed and realism spill over into our media. Action movies are hotter than ever, the ultimate sensory overload with tons of speed. Music is very rarely music alone because almost always there’s some music video online to go with it. Concerts, even orchestral concerts, now often feature large video screens for a multimedia experience. Everything’s going multimedia…

…except books.

Let’s face it, the digital book age is here and it is here to stay. Yes, there’s something awesome about having a real book in your hands. Yes, they probably will never go away. But they will diminish. They will eventually become the minority of the book industry. (Wait, I think they may already have. Must check the facts.) And as the digital book age progresses, the technology will also progress.

It is time for us writers to embrace multimedia.

How can we do that? I see you looking at your box. Stop it and pay attention. Here are just some ideas…a few of which are already being done quite successfully by a number of authors.

Book trailers. I’m not talking about boring old picture stories. Remember, multimedia! There must be sound, music, text, and acting! Get your camera and your friends, kids friends, youth group, whatever you need, and be creative. Shoot a live action trailer. Video editing software is cheap and easy to use, so don’t be scared. Watch movie trailers for ideas. And keep it under two and a half minutes.

Audio books. With Acx.com (a service of Amazon) providing an easy way for authors and producers to connect with a royalty share program, there’s absolutely no excuse for any author not having an audio book made. Why not get a decent microphone and record it yourself? Make a video of it! Post some chapters to YouTube!

Don’t just blog…vlog. Any webcam can record a short one to two minute video of you ranting about something. Post it to YouTube. Don’t forget to add in music and your website links.

Are you musically inclined or know someone who is? Write an original soundtrack and put it on iTunes or YouTube. Can’t write original music? Then just make a track list of music you like that should be in your soundtrack. Encourage people to download your soundtrack and provide an audio cue guide so they can play certain tracks at certain points while they read your book to create mood and ambiance.

Book signing/Concert events. Partner with a local musician to have combination concerts and book signings. You’ll be the MC and will get to do a little “talk” about some major theme in your book…though not specifically just about your book. Set up your book table right beside the CD table.

And when technology catches up, we’ll embed short video, soundtrack music, pictures, and snippets of narration directly into the electronic manuscript so that readers need only tap a button to have a multimedia experience.

So there’s some of my ideas. What about the rest of you? Do you have any great ideas about bringing multimedia into the world of writing?

Oh. I see. Your brain hurts. Okay then, you may return to your box. I think I’ll stay here a little longer.

Keven Newsome is a graduate student at the New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary, where he is pursuing a Master of Arts in Theology specializing in Supernatural Theology. He writes stories that portray the Supernatural and Paranormal with an accurate Biblical perspective. He is the author of Winter, a thriller published by Splashdown Darkwater. He currently lives in New Orleans, LA with his wife and their two children.

Find Keven at his website or on Facebook. He is also the founder and administrator of The New Authors’ Fellowship and produces music and video through Newsome Creative.

I love stories. If I didn’t love them, I wouldn’t be hosting this website!

Yet I do believe that sometimes, in our zeal to defend what we enjoy and oppose poor arguments against story, Christians may come up with some poor justifications for fiction.

1. It keeps the children distracted, I hope harmlessly.
2. I like it, and there’s nothing wrong with entertainment.
3. Only legalists oppose all fiction, and I don’t want to be one of them.
4. It reminds me of a) Moral Values, b) the Gospel c) the value of cultural engagement.

My mission is not to deny all those reasons for enjoying stories, but to suggest that they result from what I term the chief end of Story. This is based on what the Westminster Shorter Confession says is “man’s chief end,” as noted last week:

Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever.

We have other goals: to love others, to help the poor, to love our families, to evangelize. But those are results of our chief end. Stories also have other ends: to flesh out truths and thus reinforce them, to entertain us, or to help us engage culture. But those are also only results.

Story’s chief end

The “best” criticism of fiction says that Christians have “more important things” to do than to sit around enjoying even good stories. That’s why the Scripture-based “chief end” line is helpful, because it reminds us that Christians’ life mission is not only evangelism or church work, but glorifying God in all we do. That includes tasks like evangelism and story-reading.

As we should ask about man’s chief end, so we should ask about all other activities.

Story-suspecting Christians often ask, “Of what use is story?” without defining that elusive term “use.” Without knowing it, what they’re really asking is:

What is the chief end of Story?

If we answered that question according to some silent preconceptions, we’d answer: “The chief end of Story is to remind us of valuable truths and morals.” Or: “The chief end of Story is harmless entertainment, for myself or others, if there is truly nothing better to do.”

But why should that definition be any different from that of the chief end of man?

Instead I would answer:

Story’s chief end is to glorify God and help us enjoy Him forever.

Let’s break this down.

Story’s chief end …

Again, this is the main “point” of a story. Yes, everything should have a point — or in other words, pragmatic, practical value! But we don’t want to define “point,” “use,” or “pragmatic” wrongly. If humans have a chief end, stories and all else should have that same chief end.

… is to glorify God …

This sounds “spiritual.” But it’s a key point of Scripture: that God created the universe to glorify Himself. By “glorify Himself” I mean to act for His Name’s sake, to vindicate His holy nature, to make Himself known to the nations and be rightfully worshiped (Ezekiel 36: 22-23, 32). All God’s deeds, even love for His creation, are done for this chief end — not as some ego trip, but because in glorifying Himself, God gives people His greatest gift: Himself. (For more on this topic, I recommend this from Desiring God: Is God for Us or for Himself?)

Stories are a good part of God’s creation. Therefore good stories also glorify Him. They act for His Name’s sake, vindicate His holy nature, and make Him and His truths known to the nations so He can be rightfully worshiped, rightfully enjoyed.

… and help us enjoy Him forever.

Sam Storms Biblically grounds our definition of “enjoy” like this:

Enjoying God is not a secondary, tangential endeavor. It is central to everything we do. We do not do other things hoping that joy in God will emerge as a by-product. Our reason for the pursuit of God and obedience to him is precisely the joy that is found in him alone.

Story’s unique worship

Christians may enjoy God in many ways: church work, evangelism, family, recreation, civic action. We enjoy God in our songs, writing, doctrine exploration, and story-reading.

Still, enjoying stories is unique from all other modes of worship, for at least three reasons.

1. A story’s form more-directly reflects God’s true-life Story.

Like good songs or nonfiction books about doctrine, good stories use excellent craft and content to reflect God’s nature. But unlike those things (whose uses in worship Christians rarely question!), stories directly reflect Scripture itself. After all, though God’s word contains songs and systematic theology, God did not communicate His Word in only those forms. Instead He gave His Word as Story. The first, truest, primary, only real-life Story.

2. A good story’s structure echoes God’s Story.

I define “good story” as one that contains a protagonist and plot, supporting characters, and a well-crafted story-world that operates according to Biblical rules.

Just as any kind of house, no matter how “postmodern” its outside architecture, is built on a foundation of physical laws, so any good story, no matter how “postmodern,” is built on the basis of the Christian worldview.

• A good story’s protagonist and plot, supporting characters, and well-crafted story-world are founded on God and His plan, His people and humankind, and our world.
• God’s true Story has a Hero, God Himself, and the plot of His eternal plan that many oppose. It has supporting “characters.” And it has a well-crafted story-world: reality.
• Man’s stories also have heroes — either God Himself, implicitly, or a human hero who has a desire that villains or circumstances oppose. They have supporting characters. And they have well-crafted story-worlds; the best ones use words well, as God does, to portray them.

This is true even if the story has no explicit Biblical connections (e.g., what many readers would claim makes a work of fiction “Christian”). Rather, all stories have some semblance of the Christian worldview. The more there is of that worldview, the better the story becomes. But the more the author tries to reject that worldview, the more the story’s value drops.

3. A good story applies and amplifies beauty and truth.

Yes, God’s Story is real. Man’s stories are “real” only in our imaginations.

But our heroes can reflect Him. Our plots can portray His good against His enemies’ evils. Our characters can reflect us. And our story-worlds, and the words used to describe them, can reflect His beauty and truth, and how those are visible even in a fallen world.

Stories are more than mere means to repeat truth memorably. They’re more than a way to understand our culture or reach out to friends. They’re more than “entertainment.”

Stories give us Bible-reflecting, unique worship of God alone, for His glory and our good.