A certain “holiday” is coming up, and recently I read one of the best columns I’ve ever found on the subject. This comes from alastair.adversaria and its three-year-old column to which an online friend had linked, and disarmingly titled, Of Boggarts.

I wish I could reprint the whole column here, and not just because of the Prisoner of Azkaban screencap showing Professor Snape (Alan Rickman) in a dress.

The author’s suggestion: the Harry Potter series, by virtue of its created-world and with its third book’s specific subplot about fighting against certain magical creatures, can help Christians react better to some evils.

When it comes to the accusation of witchcraft, I actually believe that Rowling can help us arrive at a more Christian view of witchcraft. The world that Rowling writes of is a world of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, self-shuffling cards, flying cars, wands hidden in umbrellas, bat bogey hexes, Whomping Willows, Quidditch, owls who deliver the mail, wizards who wear the most ridiculous garments to pass themselves off as Muggles, and the like. It is a delightfully humourous and playful portrayal of a magical world. It is not intended to be taken seriously. The fact that many Christians do take it seriously is a sign that something is badly wrong with us.

This has been long bandied about on Spec-Faith before. I’ve written columns about that myself, after finding out the wrong ideas I had about the Harry Potter series. Christians misrepresenting an author’s books, claiming she practices witchcraft, etc., is a sin, too, and those myths, coupled with failure to learn and implement Biblical discernment, have done some damage.

I’m not saying a Christian who doesn’t read Harry Potter is sinning. But such ideas about how to identify and avoid supposedly bad Things, when applied in other areas — music in church, for example — can be even more harmful, and misidentify where sin originates.

Author “Al” (I couldn’t find a last name) then quotes a scene from Prisoner of Azkaban, in which Professor Lupin, a kind instructor (with, it turns out, a secret) teaches his class about how to deal with Boggarts. These magical creatures are hostile toward humans; upon emerging from wherever dark space it has been hiding, one will shapeshift into whatever it identifies as its opponent’s worst fear. Thus, for Neville Longbottom, a Boggart will turn into Professor Snape; for Harry himself, the creature assumes the shape of a demonic, wraithlike Dementor.

But Lupin says there is one surprising way to fight a shapeshifting Boggart: laugh at it. Picture something hilarious, point your wand at the creature, and utter, “Riddikulus!”

Based on this comes what may be the best three paragraphs of the piece.

The pre-Christian world was full of dark, enclosed spaces for Boggarts to hide. People were plagued and tyrannized by fear, held in its bondage. Satan played with people’s imaginations, holding them in bondage as much (if not far more) by means of the fear within as by external demonic forces without. One of the effects of the gospel was to flood the world with light, driving the Boggarts out from their darkened lairs.

In the light of the gospel we can, like Harry and his classmates, learn to perform the riddikulus charm on our demonically-induced fears. After the gospel has taken effect we can mock things that once terrified us. This is one of the purposes of the celebration of Halloween. The gospel reveals that much of the fear that Satan excited in men prior to the advent of Christ resulted merely from the exaggerated shadows that he cast in the darkness. Now that light has come the shadows are removed and Satan is reduced to a far less terrifying stature. We can begin to laugh at the shapes that we once saw in the shadows.

Whilst there are undoubtedly evil forces at work in our world — Harry’s world contains Dementors and Death Eaters, not just Boggarts — we need to learn that many of the terrors that haunt us are merely products of our fearful imaginations. Satan loves to have the huge shadows that he tries to cast taken seriously. We will only truly defeat him when we learn to laugh at the shadows, walking through death’s shade while fearing no evil.

Al goes on to assure readers he knows real occult beliefs and practices do exist in the world. But some Christians, he says, frequently buy into the spooky shows put on by the bad guys. The power of the Gospel shows such superstitions for what they are:

There is witchcraft in our world and it is evil and dangerous and Christians should openly and strongly resist it. However, it is by no means as all-pervasive as some fevered imaginations might suggest.

And his addendum, from later in the comments:

There is a difference between mocking Boggarts and mocking Dementors. I do not recommend the latter.

So how do Christians discern between Boggarts and Dementors?

What kinds of “magic” can authors include in stories and still honor God?

What are real occult practices, and how do Christians best fight against them?

How else might even the Harry Potter series show the natures of goodness and evil?

How may riddikulus affect how our stories portray evil, or if/how we take part in Halloween?

So often in the act of world creation it is very easy to focus on the obvious things. Putting together your world’s history. Structuring the geopolitical landscape. Figuring out cultures and climates. And all sorts of other big world ideas. All very important, but I don’t think that’s what makes the world come alive.

I believe that if you want to transition your world from a two dimensional set-piece, to a living breathing world that really draws your readers in, you have to highlight the little details. Show snippets of everyday life. Meander just slightly in order for them to see that there are things happening in the world that have a weight and history to them beyond the scope of your current story’s plot.

Cinematically speaking, think of all the intricate design that Weta Workshops put into the props they made for the Lord of the Rings and Narnia movies. They didn’t just go for the bold strokes that would be obvious to the general movie-goer, but instead put in the craftsmanship to create things as if they were real and were going to be inspected under the microscope.

As an author, you can’t go into that much detail, but you can get the same kind of ideas across by having small interactions, conversations and observations that bring a clearer view of what it is like to live in your world.

It can be a tough balance to strike, as too much little side-descriptions will bog your story down. But if you skip them all together, then I think your world will be painted with too broad a brush and will appear as little more than a backdrop to your story.

What books have you read where you were caught up in the world as much as you were in the story? What was it that sucked you into the world? (And try to skip the usual answers of LoTR/Hobbit and Narnia.)

Speculative Faith uses a random quote widget that allows various sayings to appear at the top of each page. Some of the quotes are insightful, I think, and some thought-provoking. Two, for me, are simply provoking.

They touch one of my hot buttons—one of my pet peeves about Christian writers discussing fiction. First the quote that nudged my thinking toward rant level:

“The way in which a Christian who makes cars glorifies God is not by painting ‘John 3:16’ on the hood. […] Similarly, the artist glorifies God by making good art, whether or not it contains an explicit gospel message.” — Phillip Graham Ryken

Seems innocuous enough, doesn’t it. Why, then, am I railing against it?

There are two fallacies that grate on my sensibilities. The first is comparing car-making to art-making. Art, by definition, and particularly writing, involves communication. Making cars does not. Hence, the analogy breaks down at the beginning.

Secondly, and the one that goads me most, the idea that “good art” glorifies God is a fallacy. Lots of artistic expression has a worldview contrary to God. Contrary, not neutral. Take Philip Pullman’s The Golden Compass, for example, a book which won awards and which garnered many rave reviews. Pullman himself says

I’m caught between the words ‘atheistic’ and ‘agnostic’. I’ve got no evidence whatever for believing in a God. But I know that all the things I do know are very small compared with the things that I don’t know.

So maybe there is a God out there. All I know is that if there is, he hasn’t shown himself on earth.

Are his books, artistic as they are, still glorifying the God he doesn’t believe in? Apparently some people don’t think so.

Some people have accused Pullman of nurturing a dark agenda and an anti-Christian purpose. He was recently described in The Mail on Sunday as the most dangerous author in Britain.
– “A dark agenda?”

Did God give Philip Pullman his talent to write fiction? Absolutely, but instead of using it to glorify God, he used it to mock Him and denigrate Him and in the end “kill” Him (the conclusion of the His Dark Materials series).

As I see it, Philip Pullman epitomizes Romans 1:21-23.

For even though they knew God, they did not honor Him as God or give thanks, but they became futile in their speculations, and their foolish heart was darkened. Professing to be wise, they became fools, and exchanged the glory of the incorruptible God for an image in the form of corruptible man and of birds and four-footed animals and crawling creatures. (Emphasis mine.)

He has chosen against God. His writing may be artistic, but he slanders God with it. He is not glorifying God.

As if that isn’t enough, another random quote knocked me over the edge:

“Science fiction is the result of mankind’s God-given sense of adventure, wonder, creativity, and imagination. It emerges from being made in God’s image.” — Randy Alcorn

Science fiction emerges from being made in God’s image? How then do we explain all those who look at science fiction with loathing? Are they not made in God’s image? And what about those whose science fiction is an invention to explain away God? Is their science fiction still a result of their God image or is it a twist of their God image, more akin to their sin nature?

In short (since this post is drifting toward the long setting on your dial), I believe too many Christian writers claim a mulligan to cover up our unwillingness to work hard at creating a story that neither preaches nor pacifies, but causes readers to think deeply about spiritual things, especially about God.

After all, if we “only” have to write a good story or let God’s image show itself in our imaginative science fiction, then we are free from having to craft meaning into our story. We avoid being preaching and still get to claim a mantle of spirituality.

I don’t buy it. I think Christian writers should strive for more.

Here is the quote, which NarniaWeb posted in news on Wednesday .

“We were able to steal, really, from the book C.S. Lewis didn’t write, which is the one that would have gone between The Dawn Treader and The Silver Chair. He starts The Silver Chair with the witches [sic? perhaps ‘witch is’?] building up an army underground to attack the above world, and Caspian, having married The Blue Star […] is an old man with a son, and he married the Blue Star of Ramandu. In other words, a lot of things had happened between the books.”

To be sure, many Chronicles of Narnia book (and film) fans have been disturbed by this line. We have had such faith in Apted, who might have supervised a film that is based on a better book, and echoed its themes. Yet Narnia fans were already bothered about the film trailers clearly showing some clichéd modern-sounding dialogue (a plague infesting the first films, especially Prince Caspian), the White Witch, and more. And now this.

As a friend of mine quipped:

“The book C.S. Lewis never wrote”?

Last I checked, there’s a term for that: fanfiction.

Still, even a faithful book-to-film scriptwriter might need to write some “fanfiction” to make the transition. I don’t mind some changes — even some of the drastic alterations done to the Prince Caspian film — to ensure the story, its themes and characters, comes off as well in a film as it was in the book.

Yet such changes should make sense. Adding an already hackneyed object-oriented-fantasy-plot element such as “find the seven swords” (which in the trailer are even glowing blue, like Sting) seems unnecessary.

Here is the latest trailer, from which you might decide for yourself — and discuss, rationalize, grumble, or, of course, scream like poor Gollum.

“Gromit, that’s it! Cheese! We’ll go somewhere where there’s cheese!”

I’ve saved the “best” quotes, from one of my “favorite” so-bad-it’s-actually-instructive Christian novels, for this, the last of the Learning from bad books series.

Yet I’m still hoping for more here than just laughing at the cheese, though there will likely be plenty of that. Instead I’m asking myself, why? Why do books with screech-hideous lines and cornball characters get published? Doesn’t anyone notice? Agents? Editors? Family members?

A little review of at least six lessons readers and writers can learn from bad books:

• Part 1: Even the worst of bad Christian novels may contain lessons on what to avoid.
• Part 2: Maybe Christians with different callings shouldn’t insist on writing novels.
• Part 3: Only you can prevent info-dumping, especially the “TTM” kind in dialogue.
• Part 4: Some novel authors seem not to understand fantasy as a genre, or its elements.
• Part 5: Other authors, even while writing fantasy, hold back — as if they fear what it is.
• Part 6: Saying “it’s only fiction” isn’t an excuse for writing lies about the real-life God.

Authentic, grace-based accountability between Christians not only helps prevent an author from writing falsehoods about God. Such honest interactions may also help an author see his blind spots when it comes to his story’s style. I can’t help but assume this kind of honesty is missing, judging from the stuff that too often gets published with a straight face.

Christian accountability: not just for preventing real sin

Some Christian books are just kind of so-so. A careless statement about Biblical truth, a cliché or stereotype that serves as an easy foil for an author’s agenda, a clunky dialogue or obvious info-dump. Other books may have a few pieces of cheese trapped in the pages. But then there’s this:

“An international computerized banking system will be located in Rome for our central banking system. [… W]e will be using the ancient Babylonian system for numbering names. […] Since I am founding the system, I am asking that all social security numbers be preceded by 666 despite the silly superstitions surrounding that number.

[…] “Those supporting me can register their vote by dialing 1-900-666-6666. Opponents can  call 1-900-777-7777.” (The Third Millennium, pages 70-71)

“Emperor Gianardo! Emperor Gianardo! Are you hurt badly? […] The complete front of the White House collapsed. Guards are lying under the pillars. You have amazingly escaped alive!” (The Third Millennium, page 183)

Meanwhile, in Hell, two wisecracking demons are summoned by The Devil to do their best to wreck the humans’ lives and cause general recalcitrance and consternation. Their dialogue is evidently taken straight out of a Warner Brothers cartoon short starring Daffy Duck, only with less subtlety.

The following is an actual excerpt:

Satan arose. “Mercy? Where did you learn that word? … I don’t think you two slime-sucking swamp bottoms deserve to exist …” … Satan pointed to the center of the earth … “A perfect place to roast the likes of you two buffoons.”

(From my 2002 review of Beyond the Millennium)

And lest anyone think I am only picking on one book, I will also suggest a phrase from The Shack that could have been prevented if caring friends had sought to take action.

Instead of writing like his favorite authors, though, [the author] simply asserts in his own sentences the effects that their writing has on him. The result is oppressive, as in the description of a tree that the character Mack crashes into: As he lies prone and looks up into the tree, it is said “to stand over him with a smug look mixed with disgust and not a little disappointment.” Take a moment right now, reader, to see if you can arrange your face into an expression that communicates smugness mixed with disgust and disappointment. You will find it “not a little” impossible, and you have greater expressive range than trees. (From The Shack: Four Walls, Four Reviews, by Fred Sanders)

Perhaps nothing could have stopped these, and after all, everyone makes mistakes in a fallen world. (Discussion question: will out-of-place bad dialogue be “allowed” in New Earth novels?) Yet maybe accountability could have slowed these parts’ paths to publication.

Editors are friends, not enemies

Even as I sit here typing, I feel a clenching in my stomach. This is literally because the very idea of an editor is often frightening to me. Why? I work at a local newspaper; every article I write gets submitted to my editor. Yet a novel is much different. It’s the difference between taking care of someone else’s children or my own (future at this point) child. To each one I may give the same care, but my true and heartfelt affections are for a person or story that I have created.

Similarly, it sometimes it frightens me to read the Bible. Ever felt like that? I’m afraid of what it might say. God may, in those pages, challenge me to rethink my belief, or worse, behavior.

Yet even in discipline (not punishment), God helps His people grow. Similarly, friendly criticism can only help a novel get better. Editors, whether they are professionals or friends who don’t mind helping, should be unafraid to point out problems. Writers shouldn’t fear them either.

Just last month one author (you’d know the name) looked over my novel’s first chapter. She had very few criticisms. Then a well-known editor looked at the chapter. I have an idea for a better opening line, was one of the first things he said. Inwardly I flinched, but I hope I easily hid that reaction — not out of dishonestly, but intended to mortify that disgusting reflexive arrogance.

So I listened, and his suggestion was great. I made the change, and only swapped two words from his line around, so I could keep the same first word of the novel. What happens if someday he wants to change it back? I suppose I would have to fight that little mini-battle again.

Faithful are the wounds of a friend;
profuse are the kisses of an enemy.

Proverbs 27:6

‘Dear brother, your story stinks’

This is like sanctification. It’s painful. And I wonder if comparing novel-editing to growing in holiness isn’t just an analogy. The two are related. Through listening to others’ criticisms of my work, being willing to make changes or even defend with grace a story as-is, God helps me grow.

Because I’m often a style and substance nitpicker (whether for right or wrong reasons), I’m also trying harder to keep that in mind as I’m reading others’ novels. Despite my inner sin-shrapnel, I can’t just mock others’ works and fail to apply the lessons I’d wish on them to my own self. Knowing I’ll fail so many times, even if I’m published, will aid in a humble perspective.

“Pro-fe-ssor Ma-lu-brich, I’m not at all surprised or angry about getting thrown out of school. Don’t think you’ve dealt a blow against me or hurt my feelings in any way, because you haven’t; you’ve only strengthened me through persecution. I’ll find another nice place to get my education, and someday, I guarantee that you and all of your—” Jeremy tried to keep his temper in check, but he listed the terms off anyway, his anger only intensifying—“left-wing, humanist, leftover-Nazi socialist closed-minded evolutionist Fascists will be feeling the sting from my faith in God!”

Oh no. Please stop. How much more Christian-conservative-cliché can you get? Who wrote that?

You’ve likely guessed.

I’m left to wonder about others’ cheese factories, moments of battling against inward pride — and, those tense times when others handed back your work and said hesitantly, “I liked it, but …”, and then, years later, you thanked them for their honesty. I’d love to hear about them.

In Ephesians 4:29 the Apostle Paul wrote, “Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers.”

As a writer I’ll apply this to my pen (or keyboard) as well: whatever I write, be it fiction or nonfiction, I want it to be useful for edification, I want it to minister grace.

A while back Kaci Hill wrote this fantastic post on “Recurring Things That Shouldn’t Be,” pointing out patterns in Christian fiction that, instead of edifying, tear down. Sometimes they do it just by building into our readers an idea of something dysfunctional as normal, as acceptable. Ideas, themes, are powerful. Fiction is powerful because it embodies ideas; the best fiction helps us experience its themes, emotions, beliefs. So as fiction writers, we ought to be careful about what goes into our stories.

“Edify” literally means to “build up.” We are to love each other enough to want to build something strong in one another’s lives. As artists and storytellers, ours is a unique role in the architecture of the soul. I don’t ever want to take that for granted.

(A voracious childhood reader, I speak from experience: my own foundations, in emotions and worldview and mind, were strongly influenced by books and their authors. I’m not overstating our potential impact.)

We as Christians can get just as hot under the collar about censorship as anybody else; we want the right to say what we want to say. And we should have it. But for us the main issue shouldn’t be whether we’re allowed to write, say, sex scenes or graphic violence or occultic dalliance or even Amish romance.

We should consider our readers; we should ask, are we loving them? What are we building into their lives? Or, conversely, what are we undermining, tearing down?

This really goes beyond the sex-and-violence issues too. Are we loving our readers in how we depict men and women? In how we depict God, struggles, doubt, faith (or elves, dragons, wizards)? Light and darkness? The question should not be, “Can I write this?” The question should be, “Does this edify? Does it minister grace?”

The answers to those questions won’t always be easy or obvious. You’ve heard of tough love–sometimes the most loving thing to write is also the most scalding. But if we can answer the questions with “Yes,” I think we are one step closer to facing God and hearing Him say, “Gold, silver, precious stones. Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

Thoughts?

One of the joys of writing for me is being able to tell stories like I want to. One of the downsides is that it can throw readers for a loop sometimes. It is often a struggle for me to get the ideas I’m trying to convey down in a way that lets readers slip into the concept easily.

Here’s a scene from an unfinished story of mine that tries to introduce the concept of an easily-forgettable character:

——————————————

The soft gurgle of the stream as it swept past his hand soothed Dayle’s troubled thoughts. “We’re solid for a time at least. None of the townsfolk will follow us here, and those soldiers won’t either, without some higher officer nippin’ at their heels.”

He set the canteens on the bank next to him and splashed some water on his face. He shook away the droplets and froze, his eyes glued on the far side.

A rabbit-like creature stood there on two legs. The tips of its long furry ears barely broke three feet, and two small pronghorns sprouted between them. Its pink nose twitched as it smoothed its long, forest-green vest over a pair of brown leather breeks. Coal black eyes stared back from a furry tan face.

“It is about time you came to Felwald, Dayle Stott,” the creature said. “I had almost forgotten why I was waiting for you.”

Kri-click.

The sound of Stephen cocking a gun drew Dayle’s attention away from the rabbit-like being.

“No,” the creature cried. “Don’t look away!”

Stephen crouched on the bank of the stream, aiming his custom pistol at something on the far side. Dayle frowned. The lad wasn’t usually this jumpy. An odd buzzing filled his head, like a half-heard sound. He shook his head and wiggled a pinky in his ear. Then motioned to Stephen.

“Put that boomstick away before it goes off an lets the world know where we be. Besides, my head’s already buzzin’.”

“But what about…” Stephen’s eyes flicked to Dayle. A quizzical expression passed over his face. He looked at the pistol and slid his thumb over the blade that ran from trigger to tip beneath the six-inch barrel. “That’s odd. I remember drawing, but I don’t remember why.”

Stephen shrugged, uncocked the hammer and holstered the pistol.

Something thumped Dayle’s shoulder, then fell into the stream with a plop. He turned toward the direction and started when he saw a strange rabbit-like creature staring at him, perhaps glowering, though he couldn’t be sure on such a fuzzy face.

“Do not take your eyes off me again, Dayle Stott,” it said. “This will take long enough to explain without having to start over every time you forget about me.”

In a sudden leap the being crossed the stream and landed between Dayle and Stephen. “This should help, I would think.”

Bloodshanks reared, kicking at the air with his hooves.  Lady shied away, tossing her head and neighing in agitation. Stephen rushed to Lady and soothed her with whispers as Dayle grabbed the stallion’s reins.

Stephen whipped his pistol up and scanned their back-trail. “Any idea what spooked them?”

Dayle shook his head, and stroked Bloodshank’s neck. The large horse snorted and stamped his forlegs. “Whatever it is, we’d best be moving on.”

A rock smacked Dayle in the back of the head. He turned with a bellow that died in his throat. A strange rabbit-like creature stood in vest and breeks. It juggled a small stone in one hand and its long ears twitched. It quickly hopped forward between Dayle and Stephen.

“I told you not to look away, Dayle Stott!” It said, frustration ripe in its tenor voice. “Don’t make me tie you down and sit on your chest.”

————————————-

Playing around with concepts like these is what makes writing science fiction and fantasy so much fun.  Have you ever had a concept that you’ve tried to convey in a story that your readers just can’t seem to grasp?  As a reader have you ever had trouble figuring out just what the author seems to be trying to tell you?

Finally, I’d love some ideas on any future topics you’d like to see me cover on Tuesdays.  I’m having the hardest time coming up with anything that seems all that interesting to me, so I’d love to take your suggestions and see what happens.

I read a particularly interesting post at Sci Fi & Fantasy Lovin’ Blog discussing Christ figures in science fiction. Note this paragraph in particular:

So I guess I’m just wondering why. Why is it that science fiction, that is often supposed to be more about the rational mind, falls back on our religious superstitions? Is it simply that the creators of our favorite fiction find themselves going back to their childhood traditions? Even unconsciously? Or is science simply not enough to fill our need to know why we are here?

Well, I’m glad you asked! 😉

Blaise Pascal, the 17th Century French mathematician, philosopher and physicist, suggested that there is a need in Man’s heart for God:

What else does this craving, and this helplessness, proclaim but that there was once in man a true happiness, of which all that now remains is the empty print and trace? This he tries in vain to fill with everything around him, seeking in things that are not there the help he cannot find in those that are, though none can help, since this infinite abyss can be filled only with an infinite and immutable object; in other words by God himself. [Pascal, Pensees #425]

The Bible makes it clear that God shows Himself through what He has made.

That which is known about God is evident within them; for God made it evident to them. For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made …
-Romans 1:19, 20

I’ve always understood the “through what has been made” part as mountains and stars and photosynthesis—the natural world, in other words. But He also made Man, and something in us also shows God. More than the other stuff, actually, because Genesis says we are made in His image.

What does any of this have to do with Christ figures in science fiction and fantasy? I suggest the presence of Messiah figures is indicative of this part of Mankind made to reflect God. We long for a True Hero, someone so self-sacrificing, so good, so fair, so accepting that we feel completely safe—and so empowered—because we were made for relationship with the Ultimate Hero.

Putting him in our fiction shows what we want in our lives. Some authors do so because they long for what they haven’t experienced and some do so to demonstrate what they already enjoy.

Another blogger, John Brownlee, commented over at SciFi Scanner on this tendency to include a Christ figure in speculative fiction, attributing it to Christianity’s influence on the culture. However, he doesn’t view the inclusion of Messianic characters in a positive light:

These characters are all united in a positively maudlin over-usage of ham-handed Christian symbolism. Their comings were usually foretold in ponderous, badly written “prophesies.” They all have supernatural powers that allow them to perform miracles. And so on.

In other words, he is saying there is nothing “fresh” about stories containing Christ figures (though he later postulates that Christ in outer space fighting against an alien might be interesting).

This statement raises a question—does a story with a Christ figure of necessity have to seem derivative?

If you read J. K. Rowling’s comments about her faith, you’ll find that she purposefully downplayed her Christianity because she thought her worldview would give away the culminating plot points of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and spoil the surprise.

How does a Christian writer avoid “maudlin over-usage of ham-handed Christian symbolism”? (And what IS “ham-handed” symbolism? 😮 )

Your thoughts?
This article is a reworking of two posts that appeared at A Christian Worldview of Fiction in November, 2007

Greetings, Earthlings and other denizens of the internet-enabled universe. My name is Cathi-Lyn Dyck, and I am a highly unorthodox individual.

I’m a freelance editor. I also write a huge variety of things. But in terms of storytelling, my keyboard and I find ourselves constantly returning to the world of speculative fiction.

It’s not so much that I’m weird. (I swear it isn’t.) Ever since picking up Dr. Zhivago a few years ago (totally not weird, right?), I have this theory that truly powerful, classic fiction functions as a thought lab to test out deep principles of serious consequence. We can write every theological, social or political treatise possible, but those sterile ideas are forced to fight for survival by the combined forces of the storyworld’s mess and its rulebook. It’s for this reason that the crafting of storyworld can be so much more than a passing instance of interior decor. Escape to another world we do, but we come back as changed as a Pevensie child.

Living In Another World

There are various functions for storyworld. In formulated genres, such as mystery or romance, elements of setting often function as a reward to the reader for picking up a book even though they know how it’s going to end. The balance of rewards-per-page and reliable conclusion is key to successful commercial work.

In a mystery, it’s the weird clues, the unusual paths of deduction created by the setting’s quirks, the subtle hints embedded in character. In a romance, it’s the chance to encounter idealized places, times or lifestyle elements which enhance the escapism and the known payoff of the inevitable wedding on the last page.

Used in this way, storyworld is not so much the main carrier of the idea. And it’s not always in SF either. Larry Niven is a master at creating rules of play that don’t necessarily reveal their mind-bending function until the story’s conclusion tumbles from the equation. It’s a puzzle-solving adventure like a mystery, only without a defined ending. Christian author Kirk Outerbridge will probably (we can hope) remain perennially popular for his ability to design a fresh and invigorating take on wildly popular tropes. It’s the way he sets an indispensable spiritual element within those tropes that makes him so unique.

Seeking the Timeless

But the other use of storyworld is to test out or exposit a philosophy. It’s the analysis performed by Bill Myers’s Eli. It’s the driving force behind P.A. Baines’s Alpha Redemption. It’s the mystery enclosed in Ted Dekker’s Circle Trilogy, in that strange volume where, when the page is turned, it simply says “Ha!”

By encountering an idea in a new setting, with different rules and messes, we’re able to test out its transcendence. If it’s truly transcendent, our world and the storyworld blend to one. A literary Golden Section is attained, the purest moment of truth possible. Reality and imagination achieve the correspondence so utterly lacking between them in day to day life, and we are never the same after. Something of the divine consonance has touched us.

Must a book have some overt spiritual element to achieve this? Not at all. For me personally, Stuart Stockton’s work stays in the mind long after, because it contrasts the power of friendship with the pain of war. Anything overridingly true—love, hate, mortality, grief, laughter, and the profound ways in which they combine—carries with it that marker of the First Cause, shaking us awake to the simple, stark fact that truth exists.

But while we might examine these things in radical ways, we don’t fundamentally adulterate the nature of love, hate, selfishness and their cohorts in the pursuit of entertainment. It’s not as entertaining. And so I think it’s vital to maintain the purity of the spiritual idea.

Coming Home Changed

Any doctrine should indeed be shown, not preached. But still, we as Christian writers are tasked with maintaining an unending pursuit of Scripture’s great ideas in their purest form. When we dilute the Great Idea on the excuse of entertainment, it’s no longer the Great Idea.

The moment we place our ideas in another world, our cultural trappings are stripped away. You know, those incidents and interactions which tend to lend a limited concept some familiarity, and therefore a false measure of strength. Without those, there is no padding of excuses left. We are faced with the challenge of bettering our own thoughts of God. The story drags it from us.

Which is great. Because it means the adventure is on, and it’s not just in some other world. It’s here and now. And if we succeed in our quest, others will go home changed too.

Till next time,

Cat