So, this time I promised to discuss conversion arcs. This one makes me a little nervous because it’s not so much that I think conversions are a problem as much as how they’re typically handled.  For starters, most people don’t actually mind conversion stories. Star Wars Episodes I-III are the account of a boy who  is offered the Light Side of the Force and ultimately rejects it for the Dark Side. Episodes IV-VI follow the conversion and maturation of Luke Skywalker to and in the Light Side of the Force and adds in the unexpected redemption of Darth Vader. The Last Samurai contains the conversion of the main character to the samurai way of life. The Matrix is the transformation of Neo from slave to redeemer. Beauty and the Beast: an arrogant prince to a humble king. I didn’t see Avatar, but you get the point.

Conversions are simply stepping into a new life and dying to the old one.

So on the whole, I don’t think anyone really minds these transformation stories. Really, we kinda like them. We’re wired for them.

So, of course, once again, I think cliché altar-calls are but a symptom of a bigger issue.

The original discussion with Stephen went as follows:

Stephen: And while I’m on it, can we also not have so many stories that endlessly fixate on non-Christian characters, and push them toward making a Leap of Faith? I’d love to see more storytellers showing, not telling, how mature Christians — struggles and all — “best” (if that is a “best”) handle their life crises.

Me: I haven’t read many of these lately, but (and this is going to sound funny, maybe) I sort of think of it the way I do kissing scenes in movies (chick-flick hater, btw): If its appropriate to the story, it’s fair game. If it’s appropriate to the situation, it’s fair game. But when the guy has amnesia and is being chased by the CIA and neither of you is sure if he’s a good guy or bad guy after 8 hrs in a car, maybe making out while making your disguise (because you’re running for your life) isn’t a good time. ::cough::Bourne::cough::

Now I’m ranting, so I’ll call it quits for the time being. 0=) Now that we’ve covered a list of personal peeves. Hehe. Apologies for that.

Just as those “romantic arcs” (that’s another discussion entirely) are only appropriate if time, situation, and setting allow for it, so those conversion experiences are only appropriate if time, situation, and setting allow for it. People don’t go from “I might kill you” to “I love you” that fast ::cough::Underworld & Luke & Mara Jade:: and, not that I’m an expert on the subject, but I have yet to hear of that many people who go from either “God doesn’t exist” or “I hate God” to “Okay, now I love him and I’m going to turn my life–heart, soul, mind, and strength–to him that fast.

Okay, so, provided Jesus didn’t knock you off your horse, blind you, and openly confront you for persecuting him. You know.

As I’ve said before, I really didn’t know any such ABA/CBA divide existed until my first writers’ conference as a high school senior. And as a result, I suppose I see most of the arguments as comparable to issues in the Bible Belt regardless.

More or less, I’m left with a few questions.

1. Who is the CBA audience?

I ask this one because I think on the whole Christians (especially when we’re dealing with church structures) tend to either lean toward two groups of people:

• Non-Christians and/or “infant” believers
• “Teenage” or more mature believers (I’m using the life cycle loosely, take it for what it is)

Occasionally you’ll see a church try to appeal to both parties: I tend to prefer these middle-roaders, but even they are going to lean slightly more one way than the other. It’s natural, I suppose. And there’s nothing truly wrong with it. As Christians we’re called to edify, exhort, and encourage the body of believers, and we’re spread the hope of the gospel and make disciples of all men. So, whatever we do, we are to present Christ in all things.

But here’s the thing: If the majority of CBA readers are Christians, I do not know why a conversion arc  is necessary. Yes, it’s affirmative. But this is milk for a grown man who needs meat (or, for our purposes, a hungry teenager, at the very least). You wind up creating an entire argument for people who already believe what you’re saying is true.   So what you’re winding up with is a book for someone unfamiliar with the gospel given to someone who already knows it.   The very audience you intend to reach is never going to see it, most likely. I just don’t know that many non-Christians who find reason to go into a Christian bookstore or visit the religious fiction (Re: Christian fiction) section.

2. What is the purpose of CBA?

There are two types of ministry: Outreach (geared toward non-believers) and “inreach” (geared toward believers).  One thing I tend to harp on in church circles is that it’s perfectly fine to have an event geared toward one or the other, however, you must be honest about it. Don’t advertise an event as a great way for the youth group to get “close to God” and then gear everything toward an altar call or tell the kids to bring all their non-Christian friends. It’s not that said friends can’t come. It’s that you’re playing this game where you’re pretending to do evangelism when you’re really doing  ::gasp:: discipleship.

If CBA’s purpose is to edify the body, then it needs to think in terms of the edification of the body, not in terms of evangelizing some hypothetical non-believer who may or may not be duped into  the religious fiction section of Barnes & Noble.

But if CBA’s purpose is to preach the gospel, I’m really wondering how it intends to do that, because I’m not sure the current M.O. is fruitful. Of course, I’m not exactly known for having the spiritual gift of evangelism, either, so it may not be my place to criticize the point.

Moreover, another picky point of mine in church is that there is a time and place for everything. It’s okay to have a weekend retreat of games and fun. Really. And it’s okay to have a weekend of worship and teaching, too. But just as it’s dishonest to call something “outreach” that’s really “inreach,” so it’s dishonest to say we’re going  on a retreat for the study of God’s word when the bulk of the events are games-oriented.

Similarly, I think we as writers need to decide what our primary goal is: Recreation or Theology? (And yes, I know it’s rare to have one to the sole exclusion of the other; I’m suggesting that there will always been an emphasis on one or the other, and that is the important part).

3. What is CBA?

Churches are ministries. Publishing houses are not. A friend and I had this discussion on the subject:

Friend: I think the typical “altar call” conversion is evidence that we have started to view conversion as a single event, and not a new life. And I think the purpose of CBA has become safe recreation. That’s what the publishers are focusing on. I don’t know if that’s actually the original intention. And I think that sticking an altar call in a Christian novel, when it serves no purpose but to meet a quota or to give a happy satisfied feeling, cheapens the grace we’re portraying.  So, you’re suggesting  that while some insist a conversion arc MUST be in a Christian novel,  it doesn’t give anything meaty to the reader?

Me: something like that.  I think if your writing is your outreach ministry, you shouldn’t be in CBA.

Friend: And like I’ve said, if publishers want to be entertainers, that’s fine. It’s their choice. It’s a business, not a ministry. But one of my pet peeves is that I think some people look at buying Christian books as a form of tithing. They’re giving money to a Christian ministry…except that it isn’t.

Me: But they’re not focused on business if they’re trying to evangelize. They’re trying to meld two models together and that won’t work.

Friend: So they shouldn’t pose as, or allow themselves to be labeled as an outreach ministry. And I like that: you can’t meld the two. Christians need to be discipled in a way that non-Christians aren’t ready to handle.

In other words, again: Be honest. It’s not a sin for a Christian businessman to make money. It is a sin for him to try to  pass his business off as something it’s not. Sure, he should be a godly  man of integrity and hopefully not pass up opportunity to speak up. But “do everything as unto the Lord” does not mean “If you tack an altar call at the end, it’s ‘ministry’ and if you don’t it’s ‘common.'” It means, rather, that the CBA writer or publicist must, in all his dealings, strive for excellence, for it is God whom he serves, not man.

Urban fantasy, science fantasy, magic realism, dark fantasy, classic fantasy, epic fantasy, fairy tales. It all gets a little mind boggling, to be honest, and a little nichifying.

[As an aside, I just created the word “nichifying”—in the same way that author Gregory Spencer creates words for a people group in his Welkening novels. Must be catching! 😉 ]

Yes, nichifying. And honestly, I don’t like being shoved into a niche, or a stereotype. I don’t like being pigeonholed, categorized, classified, marginalized, or any such narrowizing.

Being labeled as a fantasy writer seems like part of the marketing/selling necessities. Identifying myself as a Christian fantasy author reveals my worldview, and therefore seems important. But from then on? I don’t like the divisions and the subdivisions.

What exactly do these additional terms give us? I suggest they give us separation.

I most enjoy epic fantasy, also known as high fantasy or classic fantasy. Does that mean I shouldn’t read Kathryn Mackel’s Birthright Chronicles, a science fantasy series? Or Robin Parrish’s superheros stories? If I had stayed within the bounds of the epic fantasy genre, I would never have discovered Watership Down (Richard Adams), one of my favorite books of all time. Or another favorite,Till We Have Faces by C. S. Lewis.

I guess I feel strongly about this labeling issue because I don’t like the implied message genre distinctions—and now these sub-genre distinctions—give to readers: These books are only for the sci fi geeks or These books are only for readers who want to lose themselves in a made up world.

But don’t good stories draw readers regardless of genre?

This might seem like an odd thing for someone passionate about fantasy to be saying, but I bristle at being nichified. The only niche I want to be in is that of good author. I’m not there yet. I’m not even in the published author niche, but that’s where I’d prefer to be, rather than in some other division that chases away readers.

Here’s why I love to write fantasy:

Fantasy literature uses a good-versus-evil motif that naturally lends itself to a story about spiritual things.

When I write fantasy, I get to create in a way that is second to none, developing peoples, lands, languages, political organization, you name it.

That’s it. But what those two points add up to as I see it, is writing Big.

I’ve plotted a contemporary story and written several chapters. It happens to be a story I believe in and hope to finish some day. I think it’s a Big story, too, so I’m not saying fantasy is the only way an author can create Big stories.

However, it seems to me fantasy requires Bigness.

But to bring this back to the original point, I believe the slicing and dicing of a genre into all the different sub-genres reduces this Bigness. Nichifying belittles the books forced into ever-shrinking categories for ever-reducing markets.

By comparison we might say cats are only for cat lovers—you animal lovers need not apply to be cat owners. How silly.

An edited version of an article originally posted at A Christian Worldview of Fiction February 8, 2008.

Jonathan Rogers is the author of four middle grade fantasy novels – the Wilderking Trilogy and the newly released The Charlatan’s Boy. Besides all the traditional places, The Charlatan’s Boy may be purchased at The Rabbit Room where Jonathan hangs out with several other fantasy writers including Andrew Peterson, author of the Wingfeather Saga (On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness and North! Or Be Eaten).

Feechies and Cowboys: The Charlatan’s Boy and Frontier Fantasy

A couple of years ago I was part of a not-entirely successful experiment by five or six fantasy writers to co-write a story online. Wayne Thomas Batson would post a few pages, then Donita K. Paul would post a few pages, then L.B. Graham, then Eric Reinhold, then Christopher Hopper, then me. Each writer brought to bear his or her unique take on the fantasy genre. If I remember correctly, Wayne started things off in a dark, creepy forest. Donita, as you might expect, brought in a dragon or two. When it was my turn, I introduced a buckskin-clad cattle rustler who got it in his head to steal the dragon.

It will come as no surprise that the story quickly became a sprawling and completely unmanageable mess. But even the mess demonstrated one of the great things about the fantasy genre. It’s a huge, sprawling genre with room for a lot of different kinds of stories, from L.B. Graham’s epics to Donita Paul’s brightly lit dragon stories to Sharon Hinck’s soccer mom portal stories. And fantasy, more or less by definition, invites its practitioners to invent new subgenres.

To that end, I’ve been staking out a little claim in what I believe to be unexplored territory in fantasy’s vast country. I call it frontier fantasy. Fantasy is always about frontiers, I suppose. The hobbits’ movement away from the cozy comforts of Hobbiton and into terra incognita with all its dangers and rewards serves as a metaphor for how all fantasy stories work.

My stories—both the Wilderking books and The Charlatan’s Boy—play with that idea by turning those narrative frontiers into something that looks a whole lot like the American frontier.

I have always spoken of my books as “fantasy stories told in an American accent.” Still, in the Wilderking books there were vestiges of the British-European-medieval traditions that prevail in most fantasy stories. There was a king, a castle, a class of nobles who ruled in a semi-feudal system. In The Charlatan’s Boy I decided to lose even those vestiges and try out a story that is as American as possible without actually being set in America. There are hunters, hucksters, cowboys, trappers, swampers, cattle rustlers. The dangers are frontier dangers, and the humor tends to be the rough and ready humor of the American frontier tradition.

Grady, our narrator, is an unusually ugly orphan boy who travels with a huckster named Floyd perpetrating one scheme after another on the good villagers throughout Corenwald. Their most successful scheme has been a feechie act in which Grady dresses up as ‘The Wild Man of the Feechiefen Swamp.’ The fact that nobody believes in feechies anymore has complicated their lives considerably.

Hucksterism isn’t uniquely or exclusively American. Still, the con artist/snake oil salesman is an important trope in American literature and culture. So are the cowboy, the boaster, good-hearted but gullible villager. Versions of all these figures find their way into The Charlatan’s Boy. When people ask me what The Charlatan’s Boy is like, I tell them that it is, to my knowledge, the first book ever to have both feechiefolks and cowboys.

I get the feeling that American fantasy writers think of themselves as participating in the fantasy literary tradition much more than they think of themselves as participating in the American literary tradition. Americans have an incredible storytelling legacy, both verbal and literary. Consider Huck Finn, in which Twain harnessed the vitality and vigor of the vernacular storytelling tradition for literary purposes—and gave us the Great American Novel. As an American, I’m the inheritor of that legacy; it’s my native tongue. To me it made a lot of sense to speak that language in The Charlatan’s Boy.

Why do the new versions of the Left Behind books have covers looking like science fiction?

On Sunday while my wife was shopping, I wandered next door to a Christian bookstore (yes, it’s the kind of Christian bookstore that’s open Sunday afternoons). Inside, I found a few surprises.

First, many books in the nonfiction section made the doctrine-wonk side of me very happy.

Second, in the fiction section, I found more fantasy books than I might have expected. (Has anyone else noticed the same? Or would you need to actually visit such a bookstore to check?)

Third — they’ve redone the Left Behind series. For every three books in the 12-volume end-times franchise, Tyndale has released a compilation, each with shorter, likely less memorable titles like Evil’s Edge. So instead of 12 wide-margins-with-largeish-text books, you get four paperbacks.

And yes, they made them look like sci-fi-esque. Line up all four books and you see the cool glowing comet in outer space swoosh all the way across the covers from book 1 to 4.

Alas, ‘tis another case of the covers likely being cooler than the contents. Left Behind contained many supernatural and sci-fi elements, for sure, being set in a seven-year Tribulation during which technology advances, and God is revealing His wrath (but primarily mercy, the authors often hasten to explain) through horrific plagues. Yet often the authors seemed to rush through minor things such as meteor strikes and attacks from demonic locusts, to get to what seems to them to be the real action: planning a conference, or getting home before a woman has a baby.

Why skip the most interesting parts of the end times? Perhaps partly that was because of a sparse writing style: dialogue, not descriptions, seemed to be Jerry Jenkins’ forte. And still the series, for what it was, mostly worked. Other Christian end-times books — such as my frequent target The Third Millennium — make the Left Behind novels look like literary masterpieces.

But while TTM’s author chased after fantastic elements for their own sake, jumping genres and splashing unorganized fantasy glop all over, many of Left Behind’s fiction failures came from being so fearful of fantasy — even when Scripture is fantastic! — that the results became dull.

A boring ‘Kingdom’

In 2007 I wrote a three-part series for Spec-Faith, in which I guessed why Left Behind’s authors had shied away from the fantastic — even an especially awesome Biblical event:

Jenkins’ series dared not to speculate upon, at least to the extent that I would have, the weird and utterly incredible, seemingly indescribable, events that might occur upon Christ’s physical return to Earth. And why not? Probably because to do so — to picture the new things God might do at such a time that are not directly forecast in Scripture — would generate outrage among readers, who are convinced that the Left Behind series does, or should, only rarely speculate on future miracles that aren’t forecast in Scripture, and nothing further whatsoever.

But Kingdom Come, the very last book (really) of the Left Behind series disregarded even the previous novels’ sparse attempts to include fantastic, sci-fi and supernatural elements.

The storyline’s bulk is taken up with ripped-from-Scripture descriptions of the restored Temple […] and then a bunch of dialogue and goings-on within an absurdly acronymed children’s ministry, inordinate levels of attention given to the nation of Egypt’s bad attitude and the need for a name change, some romance here and there, and, perhaps worst of all, chapter-length accounts of Bible stories with no speculation at all beyond anything anyone could learn from the Bible itself.

Kingdom Come presented such a boring world, it may have even turned me to an opposite end-times view. (I hope it didn’t also turn some readers away from the real hope of the New Earth!)

In part 3 of that series, I suggested that a novel set on an Earthly kingdom under Christ’s rule …

calls for in-depth imagination and speculation — something Jenkins has not done. And it’s likely he could never do this anyway, given that, on the surface, such things seem insane and un-Biblical and many of the Left Behind series’ audience members would go mad. For certain people, perhaps, only a Cliffs-notes-style barebones summary of nearly exactly what the Bible says about the Millennium, no more, no less, will be accepted; and speculation beyond what Scripture has told us is forbidden. (This is partly why, in Kingdom Come, cameo appearances by saints such as Joshua and Noah result only in long, dull rehashes of anything you could have ever find out about them already in Sunday school.)

Biblical fidelity, while bending reality

So how to resolve either issue: chasing fantasy or miracles for their own sake, or being so skittish about them that even in descriptions of Christ’s return, one doesn’t dare to dream bigger?

Here’s what I would say to TTM’s author Maier — well, actually I’d start with this: “Doctor, first, I’m sorry, I can’t help saying this, but remind yourself” (in the voice of DeForest Kelley) “Self, I’m a doctor, not a fantasy writer!” Then, assuming we’d covered that truth, I’d suggest: “Jesus Himself did miracles with a point. If He wasn’t flagrant with His supernatural displays for His public then, why would He start in the end-times? Shouldn’t our stories’ fantasy have a point?”

And to Jenkins I would suggest: “It’s okay to write fantasy. Read some Lord of the Rings or even Harry Potter to appreciate how other authors handle the fantastic. Blending real fantasy with the Christian concepts of a millennial Kingdom, especially with an epic war against Satan at the end, you could have done so much better. You may have kept it ‘safe,’ sticking to only what you believe the Bible says about the kingdom, but haven’t you missed the spirit? And maybe even not glorified God as much as you could, and not helped others long for the After-world?”

(Next week: bad Christian books get worse when they break real-world rules — Biblical truth.)

“Owe no man any thing, but to love one another; for he that loveth another hath fulfilled the law,” Paul wrote in Romans 13:8.

As a writer, I grapple with the idea of loving my readers. I don’t write merely for myself. I don’t even write for God alone. He has placed me here, in this world, so I write for readers–to love them in obedience to God.

Excellence has to be a part of that. Love and excellence go hand in hand. Where we don’t love, we can’t be bothered. When we care passionately, on the other hand, our best hardly seems good enough. If we love our readers, we’ll work at the story, at the sentences, at the themes. If we love our readers, we’ll revise. If we love our readers, we’ll apply ourselves with dogged commitment.

Maybe ironically, that means listening as well as writing. I can’t write in real love to people if I don’t know who they are, what they care about, what hurts them, what makes them catch their breath in wonder.  The more I go into the world and get to know people, the more I’m fueled to keep writing. It’s a two-way street.

Nor does writing in love, with excellence, always mean preaching a sermon (yup, I know, this is getting to be a recurring theme around here). Sometimes it means crafting a really worthwhile escape, because you know something? People are tired. They’re weary and hurting, and sometimes they need to get out of here for a while and go somewhere they can rejuvenate, re-envision, refresh. Escapism is a bad way of life, but Sabbath is beautiful and needed. We can help.

We write with love, too, when we let our imaginations go and burst forth and make places and characters that inspire, that enervate. Lord of the Rings is a work of imagination, through and through, but it’s imparted real courage to me. Thank you, Master Tolkien, for your love.

I know this has all been said before. But for me, love helps put it into new perspective. This profession may be one of the most isolated on earth, but it’s not all about the writer. Far from it.

Thoughts?

One of the first things I think many Christian spec-fic authors do when beginning a new story is deciding how they will be portraying our relationship with God in their new world. Will their tale stick to showcasing principles and morality consistent with God’s character, or will they showcase our relationship to him in a more up-front manner?

Neither of these paths are wrong, nor are the many various shades in between. But we do have to decide which fits the story and what we want to accomplish through the tale best.

Think back on the stories you have read? How have your favorite speculative stories portrayed God and His Truth in their worlds?

Some time ago, I followed a link to an anti-fantasy article, in particular railing against C.S. Lewis. In truth, I’ve heard others talk about encountering such people as the author of that post, but I haven’t come up against them often, and I’ve certainly not read a full-blown article reasoning against the genre at such a thoughtful level.

By saying “thoughtful,” I don’t mean to convey any agreement. I believe it is not unusual for people to think something over, to reason it out, and to come to the wrong conclusion. Fantasy, however, doesn’t generally seem to be one of those “think-it-over” topics. Instead, opponents seem to react emotionally. In reality, they are reacting to code words such as witch, magic, dragon, wizard, and such.

Not more than a day or so after I read the article, an author in an email group pointed to a discussion about theology and fiction in which another anti-fantasy writer condemned the genre as evil. YIKES! 😮 These anti-fantasy crusaders DO exist. The do still exist! And are growing more vocal, it would seem, possibly because Christian fantasy is finally taking hold.

Ironically, this discussion-board writer taking the anti-fantasy stand described the evils of “Christian” fantasy with apparently no knowledge of the genre. She repeatedly condemned it for using “evil”:

I will reiterate again – if life’s experiences lead you to share a story about how God has impacted your life, cool. But to make up stories using characters and images that have already been used for evil and then try to twist them into something godly – is to taint and corrupt any perceived “good”. You are giving satan the glory, not God.

I immediately thought about the books of Christian fantasy I’ve read: George Bryan Polivka‘s – no, no witches, goblins; Sharon Hinck – none in her books either; Jeffrey Overstreet – don’t remember any; Andrew Peterson – no. Karen Hancock – not those either. Sure, each of these books have creatures representing evil, but they don’t fall into the category of “images that have already been used for evil.”

Granted, both Donita Paul and Bryan Davis have books about dragons and they make those dragons good. Davis actually gives a story explanation that credits God for the transformation. Donita Paul seems to take a more traditional approach, letting the reader conclude on his own that wizards in the DragonKeeper Chronicles can be good or bad, that dragons are good but can be captured and/or corrupted.

Which brings up the issue. If some other writer uses a dragon as a symbol of evil, are all writers thereafter obligated to make the dragon a symbol of evil? I would loudly proclaim, NO! To take such a stand is to deny God’s power of redemption.

Ah, one might say, Satan is beyond redemption, and the Dragon is a symbol of Satan in Scripture. One writer in the discussion pointed out that we should not confuse the Dragon with dragons. The latter, of course, don’t actually exist! They once might have. Some people think possibly dragons were dinosaurs. Nevertheless, in literature today, they can take on the value the writer gives them.

To think otherwise is a kind of prejudice, akin to saying Germans were evil in the 1930’s and 40’s and therefore they must be considered evil in all writing from that point on. Odd to think that people can be prejudiced against creatures that don’t actually exist, but there it is.

Re-posted with some editing from A Christian Worldview of Fiction, “In Defense of Fantasy,” May 22, 2008.

You know the afternoon TV blurbs that try to drum up interest and ratings for the local evening news? Things like: “Man Caught Selling Palmolive as ‘Spicy Jalapeño Sauce’ at Local Taco Hut. Film at 11:00!” There’s a typical arc to announcing news, be it good or bad. Maybe a teaser line, then bring the meat. So here’s the teaser: “Short-Lived, Well-Loved, Largely Unknown Fantasy Series Gets a Second Chance After Dying Early Death.”

And here’s the meat, which I’m delighted to share with the readers of Speculative Faith: The Legends of Karac Tor is back! Of course, given my enthusiasm, you might have three questions at this point: 1) Huh? 2) Who are you? and 3) Back from where? Let me explain. In 2008, I began a YA fantasy series called The Legends of Karac Tor. It’s a throwback to epic, world-traveling fantasy in the grand tradition of Lewis, Feist, Donaldson and Kay, a Narnia-esque adventure for older teens that is written to appeal to their adult parents as well. With the release of book one, The Book of Names, the quest of the four Barlow brothers, transported into the perilous world of Karac Tor, garnered universally good reviews. Since you may not have heard of me or my series, allow me to share a quick sampling:

* “A dazzling journey that leaps off the pages…the perfect first installment to what is sure to be a groundbreaking new series” — Fiction Addict

* “The Book of Names is fast-paced and compelling, and readers will be clamoring for Briggs’s next installment in this exciting new series” — Teenreads.com

* “Magic and folklore at its very best” — GP Taylor, New York Times best-selling author

* “Weaves a tale that is both thrilling and wrought with hope. D. Barkley Briggs is a new and welcome voice in fantasy fiction.” — Wayne Thomas Batson

Unfortunately, almost as quickly as you can say “Recession Bites!” my original publisher (Navpress) cancelled all fiction projects during the brutal downturn of 2008-09. Though I had been signed to a three book deal, the entire series ground to a halt a few short months after the first book’s release. The readers I had managed to find loved the series, but we were all left wondering, “What’s next?” I had no answers. That part of the story was beyond my control.

Here the discussion shifts from books to life in general, where much is beyond our control, and all must endure. We know and thrill to the come-from-behind, photo-finish moments. We cheer the underdog. Our lips tremble and we hold back the tears when hope or victory comes in the most unlikely of places, the darkest of times. Persevering heroes inspire us all. But if I grow serious and reflective for a moment, I must ask, what about dead heroes? Jesus on the Cross, in the tomb? Feel for a moment the disciples despair, the collective, confused “Huh?” of that dreadful moment.

Yes, in three days we get our answer. Ultimately, we bask in the glorious triumph. (Cue the roaring crowd). But redemption, as a plotline, is triumphant in precise relationship to its tragedy—the ultimate, unexpected reversal of fortune. But you can’t cheat the process. If you just skip ahead to the resurrection, you actually have nothing to cheer about. It would mean nothing to roll a stone away from an unused tomb. From a pure, storytelling perspective, irrespective of the matter of sin and atonement which the Cross addressed, I am mostly moved by the resurrection because, in fact, Jesus died.

The narrative of redemption thus serves not only as the central truth of Christian doctrine, but as the blueprint for understanding the strange ways of life on planet earth. We are all at various times caught somewhere in the double dichotomy, either in the tearful, perplexing, agony of a cherished person or dream passing away, or on the other end, celebratory and joyful, as the winter graves of our soul yield to some new Springtime wonder.

Scenarios come in all shapes and sizes, measured on a sliding scale, but the maxim goes thus: “If you’re willing to lose, you win. If you want to live, you must die.” The wisdom of the Cross turns the expectations of the world on its ear. Deaths come in a thousand flavors. Literal deaths are the most brutal. But loss of vision, relationships, jobs, or more subtly, loss of reputation, respect, understanding—all are part of the process woven into the sin-stained genetics of our existence. Though infinitely smaller than the Cross, when my series “expired,” I felt a real sense of loss. When something we love and cherish unexpectedly fails, we feel the pain. We rant and rave, point the finger. We accuse. We feel despair. We don’t know what else to do. But there is another way.

I’m almost forty-two years into my journey on this planet. By the grace of God, having failed this process many times in the past, I think I turned a corner this go-round, when my series was cancelled. It wasn’t perfect. I certainly had my low points, mainly because the stories that frame The Legends of Karac Tor are deeply personal, rooted in some very real world challenges my own sons have had to face. I did not relish the thought of losing my work to the void after pouring my heart into every page. I wanted the chance to tell the whole story, not just Book 1. But what could I do? How should I respond? For me, the maxim became, “to gain a series, lose a series.” So I released it, rather than trying to “push it.” I gave it up, rather than trying to make it happen. Emotionally and mentally, I turned off the lights, let it die. Eighteen months passed…

And then, in a single moment, when the time was right, God did what He does. A small sliver of the death and resurrection mystery entered my life, as something new came out of the old. It should come as no surprise that the new deal is even better than the old. AMG’s Living Ink has committed to deliver the entire Legends of Karac Tor series. That means five books total, not three. While the original release with Navpress included three books, I had always planned the series in five parts. AMG wants all of it. They’ve also committed to a bold release strategy. The first three books will all release next year. The Book of Names (re-release) and Corus the Champion will hit the shelves simultaneously in Spring, 2011 (think April-ish), followed by The Song of Unmaking a few months later in the fall. Also, I’ve landed with a great publisher. AMG seems uniquely committed to cultivating a vivid, focused brand and author cache every bit as strong as the heyday of notable secular imprints Del Rey, Tor, and Ace. With regard to fantasy fiction for young adults, they “get it.” I’m honored to be included in their plans to make quality fantasy accessible to the CBA crowd.

In short, I’m thankful and pleased, joyful and content. It wasn’t easy, but it was good. And so it goes. If you choose to take a look at my series (and I hope you do!) maybe this background will add a little something extra to your reading. Maybe not. Either way, I’m glad to say, The Legends of Karac Tor is back. And, thanks to a retrospective bit of writerly spit-and-polish editing, I believe it is better than ever.

“The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you,’” the Apostle Paul famously remarked in his comparison of diverse-gifted Christians with body parts. But two weeks ago I asked: what happens if the eye says to the hand, “Hey, I want your job?”

Writers of many novels, bad or otherwise good, fall into that trap. And that’s not only because such authors may have had other callings and likely should not attempt novels, but because a real novelist who writes in a certain genre would best avoid a genre he doesn’t know about.

Worst-case scenario, the writer seems unaware of his ignorance. Yet even in the best cases, I wonder if the writer may actually seem to fear the very genre to which his story is headed.

Beware jumping genres

Fantasy as a genre almost scares me.

I don’t mean that reading it is intimidating, for religious reasons, or that I fail to see the real-world relevance of fantasy. Rather, because I’m started a new project this year, actually trying an Epic Trilogy with a Created Imaginary World, the thought of writing fantasy gives me pause.

This is a good thing. It means I might not take lightly this genre’s conventions (either to obey or deviate from) and may not ignore how other writers have done well. My wife and I have begun reading The Silmarillion together. Even if I’m not aiming for high fantasy, why not re-learn from a master of this craft and this genre? (And no, by the way, I’m not hoping to imitate Tolkien, yet I might remind others that trying too hard to be “original” so often fails.) Maybe along with my existing enjoyment of the genre, and humility to learn from its crafters, fantasy won’t scare me.

It should have scared author(s) of the 1990s Millennium end-times books I’ve been picking on. Even if he/they did admit to themselves, Okay, this is fantasy, so let’s not shy away from it, it doesn’t seem they were at all aware of how to handle fantastic events or creatures.

Next week, I hope to consider a book that apparently did fear fantasy. But summarizing a few of these may help readers and writers determine why some Christians’ over-exuberant fantasy attempts at fantasy just fail.

Shut down the splash. Fantastic events should have a point. On the front cover of The Third Millennium is an illustration of two white-glowing figures dropping out of the clouds. This is supposed to be Moses and Elijah, a literal return of the two prophets as witnesses (based on a particular reading of Revelation 11). In the book, when these two appear, it’s obvious to bad guys and good guys alike (not much subtlety in TTM) that this is supernatural — but the description of the two men “materializing” with all these special effects does nothing to further the story.

Watch the believability. Even in nonfiction Christians screw this up, presenting rather weak reasons to have faith in Jesus (there are secret codes in the Bible!) rather than focusing on the more-vital truths (Christ rose from the dead). What would an Old-Testament prophet who’s just materialized out of the clouds say if asked for a sign? How about: Hel-lo, I just materialized out of the clouds? Moses of TTM doesn’t do that. Instead he gives some spiel about how the name Elohim and the word Torah are encoded in the Old-Testament Scriptures, and they can check that out with some of those modern computer devices you have. Yeah. That just isn’t believable.

Quotation marks aren’t magic. Fantastic elements don’t seem more real if they’re described by characters. This is especially true if an already-vellum-thin and unbelievable character is saying it. Figure A: “The smoky atmosphere is making the sun appear to be black. But look at the moon that’s coming up! It’s blood red!”

Fantastic elements set on the real Earth should match some reality. I’ll have more to say about this in coming weeks. But in summary: if you write a novel trying to be about the real world, and especially about the real God, don’t violate reality. I can believe that someone could jump to another world where God works differently. But if a writer hopes to keep me in the real world and accept wrong ideas about God here — such as “He could be a she” — I’m gone.

Perhaps you can think of other fantasy-fiction fails, common to Christian authors who jump genres without understanding better how speculative fiction works. I’m definitely still learning this myself (along with, say, being reminded of the deeper reasons a character may seem shallow as Becky pointed out so well last week!). And what might you have learned from such books?

(Next week: some Christian authors mangle fantasy elements, but others seem to fear them …)