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The Little Leaf

Now that Christmas has come and gone, and I am no longer holding this information hostage in order to surprise family members, my first children's book was published on December 6, 2012! Yay.

I think Turbo did a great job with the art, and I still love the little story. A big thanks to Steve Porter for the lecture that inspired this story and to Calee for all the work to get it out and get it out early!

Right now it's only available on Amazon, but stay tuned for more updates in the coming months.

Now go, Little Leaf, and make your mark upon the world!

And His Kingdom Shall Have No End

He came to me at night, as He often does—my mind unguarded and dreaming—with a message for my king. A vision he brought me. A vision of such staggering majesty all I could do was weep.

I saw a light, bright as the moon, enthroned in the darkness above. It gleamed, majestic and regal, for all the world to see. Until it went out. Another light followed it, dimmer than the first yet brighter by far than the darkness all around. It too went out and the darkness thickened.

But two more lights dawned, one after the other. Like a reflection of the moon to the moon itself were these lights beside the first, dimmer and hazy, yet reflections of that true, pure light nonetheless.

Darkness returned, then light, then darkness—crowned and seated one and all on that first light’s throne. On and on it went through centuries: light to illumine followed by darkness again.

Until it stopped.

The pattern broken.

Darkness reigning. Darkness so thick and deep it seemed no light had ever pierced it. Darkness stretching on and on.

But in that darkness, seeming utter and endless, rose the sun. Brighter than bright. Light of lights it shone.

And the darkness raged against it.

Raged and cursed and flailed, but failed to unseat it, to diminish its shine even when it died only to rise and dawn once more, grown somehow brighter still.

Enthroned it sat, breaking forever the cycle its ancestors could not escape.

Enthroned. Forever.

“Do you understand?” the Lord God asked me.

“Yes,” I said. “His kingdom shall have no end.”

“No end,” the Lord God said.

“My Lord, who am I that such a message should come through me?”

“My voice and my mouthpiece, you bear good news of great joy for all people. You are not the first and neither will you be the last. Now go. Tell David all that you have seen and heard from Me this night.”

And so I went and told it all as the Lord God commanded me.

My king fell to his knees before his King, overcome.

A mumbled, “Who am I?” was all I heard before leaving him to his prayers. I wasn’t there to hear what he said, but I know my king and I know his heart. Faithful and true, he worshipped at the news. From the depths of his soul, he worshipped.

For though neither he nor I will live to see it happen, we know. The Lord is God and his words are true, this day and everyday. In all the darkness and light to come.

Transpositions

Hey folks, just wanted to give you a heads up that a brief article I wrote will be up on St. Andrews' University's Institute for Theology, Imagination, and the Arts' blog (Transpositions) tomorrow. Please head on over and check it out. I'll be discussing the article via the comments throughout the day and beyond, so if you have any thoughts, questions, or want to participate in the dialogue at all feel free!

A Fun Little Thing

So I entered a short story competition that involved using Lulu to self-publish a story of 600 words or less. Lulu will post your work for sale (or for free) on the iBookstore and for Barnes & Noble's Nook. Here's a link to my story on the iBookstore :-) Kind of fun . . .

Jabberwocky redux

Now it's on its way for real :-)

And here's the new website featuring . . . my poem!

Were you so inclined, you could also order it here.

Coming in February

After much delay, Jabberwocky 5, featuring a poem by yours truly, will be printed and available. My contributor copy will then fly across the pond to me. Woo hoo! I've included a shot of the cover for your enjoyment.

And another one . . .

Just a quick post to say that another of my short stories will be popping up in the wild this January. It's in an Australian publication (ooooh, how exotic) called This Mutant Life. And yes, it is a super-hero story.

Jabberwocky

Hey everyone. Follow this link and check out the list of contributors to the upcoming edition of Jabberwocky.

Notice any names you recognize? Aside from Oscar Wilde of course.

And while I'm at it, I know this is a little old and most of you have already checked it out, but here's a link to a short story I had published earlier this year with Residential Aliens.

A Bruised Reed He Will Not Break

I see him descending the mountain with a crowd. Does he know I’m here, on the edges and removed? Outside. Always outside. Does he have words for one such as me or are his words for them alone? I must know, for only he can help.

“Unclean!” I shout. “Unclean!”

With the babble of voices surrounding him, no one hears. I cry louder.

“Unclean! Unclean!”

Those closest to me hear my words and scatter. Those beside them turn and see me: torn clothes, hair uncovered, hands covering my mouth while I shout. They understand even if they can’t hear. A path opens.

Not like the parting made for princes or priests. No. More like the Sea’s parting—violent and eager to return to its resting place.

But the Teacher stands silently, eyes fixed on me. I can’t hold back. I run to the man and fall at his feet. I dare not touch those sacred feet or even brush his sandals. Words bubble within me, but for a time I can say nothing, just kneel with my forehead in the dust at his feet.

The crowd grows impatient, its unease palpable, so at last I speak.

“If you’re willing, you can make me well.”

It’s all I can think to say. I look at my scabbed hands and flaky skin. My body breaking into pieces, the stuff that binds it dissolving before my eyes. It is too much to ask, even of him. This is my lot, my fate, the will of Him who made me. I’m prepared for a rebuke, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, a hand settles on my shoulder. I gasp.

“I am willing,” he says.

There is no flash of light, no thunderclap. But skin that was dead is now alive. My hands stretch out—whole and unmarred—to cradle those blessed feet. His hand rests on my shoulder still, holding me together as I weep in the dust and dirt.

I’ve been healed.

I am whole.

I belong.

Matthew 5-7

I stand on a hillside with many others. I don't know how long we've been here, nor do I care. The Teacher is speaking. Already my heart and mind are full. I doubt I can take in any more. Each word he speaks seems pointed at me; each word challenging my long-held beliefs.

The eyes of some around me are turned inward now, examining a heart touched by words on love, holiness, trust--there are countless possibilities. What words will cause my eyes to do the same? At what point will I hear no more, unable to focus on anything but the last words I heard him speak, the words that expose my sin?

While I don't know what those words will be, I know they will come and my life will never be the same. They will be a crossroads, those words. One path will follow the Teacher and the other . . . well I'm fairly certain I'm already on that path. And the more I hear, the less I like where that path leads.

And there they are.

"In the way you judge, you will be judged; and by your standard of measure, it will be measured to you."

Matthew 19:13-15

"Go ahead son," my mother says to me. "He's just over there."

I take tentative steps toward the crowd of milling children and adults. The noise is deafening. Loud voices rise above the clamor rebuking and driving people away. My feet stop moving and seem to take root in the ground below them. The yelling men sound angry and angry men are scary for one as young and small as me. I can go no closer to those men, but neither can I go back.

The crowd parts and I see him. He raises a hand and with just that simple gesture silences the crowd and the scary men. He looks at me then, his eyes bright and warm and rich. Holding my gaze he says, "Let the children alone, and do not hinder them from coming to me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."

As he finishes he reaches out a hand toward me and I find my feet unfettered and free, the ground streaking past beneath my running feet. I launch myself at him and he catches me in strong arms, swinging me around and laughing. His laughter is warm and fresh, still young like newly grown grass. It is not at all like the laughter I normally hear from adults. Like my feet, it is unfettered and free.

We finish our spin and I rest my head on his shoulder. His head tilts toward mine and his beard tickles my chin. I turn a little and rub my face against his garments.

With his left hand still holding me tight, he rests his right hand upon my head and speaks simple words over me. Words of blessing sink into my heart where they begin to take root--speaking the truth of my heart and calling me to surrender to perfect love.

He squats down until my feet rest once more on the dry and dusty earth. I pull back enough to see his face, eyes squinting with the breadth of his smile. Strong hands hold the sides of my face and he plants a bushy-bearded kiss on my forehead.

Eyes and face still smiling he lets go and points back through the crowd to where my mother waits. I give him one last hug and softly whisper, "Thank you," before I make room for the next child waiting to receive his love and blessing.

As I rejoin my mother I smile because I feel his blessing taking hold. More so, I still feel his bushy kiss upon my brow, and hope somehow I always will.

John 15:12

Last week I was reading John 15, one of my favorite chapters anywhere in the Bible, and read a verse I've read countless times before, but the Spirit used it to confront an area of sin. In this verse Jesus says, "If the world hates you, you know that it has hated Me before it hated you."

The Spirit prompted me to ask myself a very simple question: "Do I want the world to hate me?" To which I could only answer with a resounding "No!" I don't want the world to hate me, especially where writing is concerned. I want the world to read my stories and love them. I want them to be commercially successful so that I can write full-time. And I realized that I was allowing this drive to be loved by the world to color what I was willing to include in my stories.

A long while ago I decided that I didn't want to be reticent about including content in my stories that might push the edges of what many Christians would feel comfortable reading, but I didn't follow that up with a decision not to be reticent about including content that might do the same for non-Christians. How imbalanced is that? The Lord helped me to see that this was going on in my heart and to begin letting it go. Hopefully the stories I write from here on out will tell the tales that are in my head and heart, regardless of how they will be received by the religious or general markets . . . even if they find no market at all.

Why I gave up tea for Lent

Renee and I spent some time last night praying about what the Lord would have us do for this Lenten season, largely at the recommendation of Dr. Peters, priest and professor extraordinaire. It sounds silly to me to say it, but I've never asked this of the Lord at Lent before. I've just picked something and gone with it. It occurred to me as we prayed that every Lenten sacrifice I've ever made involved giving up something that wasn't good for me anyway. Lent has always served as an excuse to make a positive life change and that's about it. But yesterday as I prayed and thought about the purpose of the season, it seemed like the Lord might be calling me to something different this year.

"Why don't I give up tea?" The thought seemed silly. It's not bad for me. In fact it's good for me, so what's the point? If the point of Lent is to make a sacrifice to remind us of Christ's sacrifice, why does my mind always go to things that are bad for me? The apostle Paul writes that everything is lawful, but not everything is beneficial. Why must I give up only those things that are lawful but not beneficial? Why not something that is both lawful and beneficial?

Is it more of a sacrifice to freely give up something that is good for me and that I enjoy in order to suffer in some small way with Christ? I don't know. But I think the real question is: does Christ matter enough to me to make a change in my life, temporary though it certainly is, that there's no other reason for me to make? He is. And, believe it or not, one day without tea has provided plenty of opportunities to pause and reflect on Christ's suffering.

If I could encourage you to do one thing this Lent, it would be to pause and ask the Lord what He might have you do this season, even if it's out of the ordinary or perhaps even strange. If I could encourage you to do two things the second would be to do what the Lord is calling you to do.

May the peace of Christ be with you.

Another one

What's up with these dreams of having dinner with authors? Last night I dreamed George R.R. Martin and I shared a pizza at what must have been a country club. There were fountains, big stretches of lawn, and, of all things, tetherball, though I didn't challenge him to a match. I wonder who would have won if we'd played . . .

Why not?

I started reading Richard Foster's Prayer today and in the intro to part one he shares this little story:

"A disciple once came to Abba Joseph, saying, 'Father, according as I am able, I keep my little rule, my little fast, and my little prayer. And according as I am able, I strive to cleanse my mind of all evil thougths and my heart of all evil intents. Now, what more should I do?' Abba Joseph rose up and stretched out his hands to heaven, and his fingers became ten lamps of flame. He answered, 'Why not be totally changed into fire?'"

Why not indeed?

Thank you Kate Elliott

For anyone curious to know a little more about the process of writing a novel and what it has been like for me personally, one of my favorite authors, Kate Elliott, writes here on the subject of how writers talk about writing. I've shared a little bit through e-mail and on this blog about the doubts that creep in about my writing abilities and the worries over the quality of what I've created. Elliott's post resonated for me as I have certainly experienced what she writes about, particularly this bit:

"What was I thinking? Why do I even bother to write? Nothing I write is any good and I am a failure and a hack.

[This means] I have plunged into the soul-sucking abyss of self doubt. This happens occasionally (okay, okay, too often, but there you are). However, these episodes of self doubt, which spur me to stare at my text with despair and loathing, probably also are one of the reasons that and ways in which I improve as a writer (assuming I do improve, and I do think I have improved)."

Yup, that sounds about right.

A conversation with Patrick Rothfuss

First of all, let me apologize to all of you who have been waiting over 3 weeks to hear how my conversation with Patrick Rothfuss went. I can’t believe it was that long ago. There has been a lot for me to think about and I wanted to listen to the whole conversation again in case I missed something. Thank you for your patience.

The morning of our conversation I had a strong sense that it would be an eye opening experience, and it was exactly that. We talked for nearly three hours about the craft of writing and about my book, but mostly about the craft. And this should come as no surprise, but that is exactly what I needed. I do have some very specific story elements to work on in this book and in my future writing, but Pat really helped me to take a step back and look at the bigger picture, to see elements of my writing that can be improved. It was daunting, but good, as the picture above suggests (it's from a column Pat once wrote).

Whether that means cutting internal monologue in favor of dialogue and action that reveal character thoughts and motivations, or withholding information from the reader in a natural way to pique their curiosity; building tension through real conflicts and their resolutions or avoiding the infamous speculative fiction “info dump.” We discussed each of these things and many others. I am especially grateful because each of these issues were things I couldn’t have seen on my own. I’ve read and revised this book 5 or 6 times, but I had never noticed any of the things he talked about. Even most of my early readers didn’t comment on these issues, though I want to give a hearty shout out to Mike and Ann for addressing some of the very issues Pat touched on. You guys rock!

Clearly there is a lot for me to work on, but I’m excited to do it.

But how should I do it? That is a question Pat brought up toward the end of our conversation. Should I allot a few hundred hours to fixing these big picture issues and rewriting at least half of the book, or should I allot those same hours to writing on a clean slate? Even now, three weeks later, I don’t know the answer to that question. But I do know my next step. I’m going to work on short stories for a little while, practicing the things we talked about in a shorter form, one that won’t require such a huge commitment of time right out of the gate. Hopefully this time will produce some great stories and equip me to tell better stories later. And whether the next project turns out to be rewriting the story I’ve already written or something completely different will just have to be determined when I get there.

At the end of the day it comes down to this: I have been praying for a long time that what I write will be truly excellent, and this conversation will help me toward that. Pat did say that I’ve created a cool cosmology, done some solid world-building, created some solid dialogue (though there isn’t enough of it), and created a cast of characters (though they don’t shine as well as they could). So I did some things well this time around. But it can be better. And isn’t that what I should strive toward: using the gifts God has given me to their fullest in his service?

So thank you once again to all of you who are reading this and have played a part in the process. Thank you for your prayers, your encouragement, and your support. I would also like to send a special thank you to those who read early drafts of my book and to those who contributed financially to make this opportunity possible.

This was a big step on the path the Lord is stretching out before me, and I earnestly desire your continued partnership. Last semester the Lord gave me three words in answer to the question, “Lord, what is it that you want me to become and do if I am to do your will.” And those words were: Bold, Courageous, and Diligent. Pray that I would grow into those as I continue to journey down this road.

Blessings,
Adam

A couple nights ago I dreamed I had dinner with Neil Gaiman . He was witty, charming, and quite funny. I wish I'd asked him some questions . . .

Drinking from a Dry Well

In Drinking from a Dry Well, Thomas H. Green writes:

“The Lord has known our darkness all along, from the first moment he called us. God is not surprised or shocked by our sinfulness—we are! If we are to grow in love, we have to accept the reality of our own sinful condition—even come to peace about it. Not because we like it, but because the Lord accepts and loves us as we are. He does wish to purify and transform us. But that is his work. We do not make ourselves worthy of his love by bewailing our sinfulness. Rather, he makes us worthy by loving us.”

How true, on all counts! We do not make ourselves worthy of his love; he makes us worthy by loving us. This dual knowledge can be so distasteful to us, but it is what we need. Oh, to know ourselves as we are that we might see him as he is—to see him as he is that we might know ourselves as we are.

Gentle truths brush the soul like waves kiss the shore,

softly drawing it into the Light

as the ocean draws all upon the beach into itself.