My Editor is a jewel. She truly is. She is one of the most kind hearted, wise and honest women I know. She's also fierce and thorough with editing.
Needless to say I've had my initial response back from her regarding Ridley's story, which I really should call by it's name, 'Keepsake'. Though she genuinely loved it there are still two areas which need work (which in my mind branches out to several other smaller branches, thus creating a monstrous tree of work).
When I got her feedback back my first thought was, 'Okay not too bad.' This was promptly followed by, 'I actually have no idea how to do these suggested things (part of this thought still remains). Followed next by an extended period of wailing mentally at what a crap book I must have written not to have knocked her off her seat first time. This period was so extended that I took to feverishly trying to plan a new first story for my characters even though I have already been plotting the second book.
And finally and quietly as it always does after my brain fever outbursts of inadequacy, I realised something. I realised an old, and solid truth that I had buried away in my supposed self-sufficiency. "Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me." - Jesus. John 15:4.
It seems even writing a children's fictional tale can not and will not be a stand alone project. Of course I had always known this and in the beginning I knew the ideas and initial flurry came from God alone and then somewhere in the latter middle part and end, I simply ploughed on myself.
So God has brought me back to where He is, or perhaps brought me forward. Now I wait in stillness and try to be silent. I try to clear my head from possible character conversations and explorations and hear what the Spirit is saying. It's still very hard and I have no idea how this will pan out, but God knows this story, beginning from end, so I'm sure He knows how.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Magical people
I had this thought, the other day at work (clearly induced from re-reading, 'Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince) that we, Christians, are perhaps a magical people.
Now of course I realise this statement will either make some giggle, roll their eyes or foam at the mouth in fury. Still, I think it's a thought worth mulling over.
In HP or Hogwarts land as I call it the magical people, with their aid of their trusty (though not always if you've read all 7 books) wands can perform all kinds of spells, charms and hexes. Their inexplicable abilities in the impossible make them, magical.
In our world, the unmerited favour of a brilliant, ingenious, Creator made man, who died on a cross and then confounded death by rising again left us a gift so we wouldn't be orphans - The Holy Spirit. It is through the Holy Spirit and the clever, inexplicable gifts He gives us that we are able to do and see impossible things in our very finite and fragile human lives.
Now we can't point at something and say, 'accio' and it will come hurtling towards us. But we can lay our hands on our siblings and (perhaps without all the touching for strangers) pray for them. Pray them through the valley they may be in or pray that the Holy Spirit's healing touch would bind up the sickness (or in my case, pulled back muscles). We can dream dreams and see visions, even speak things out before they come to be. We can speak in foreign and unwritten tongues and have the secrets interpreted. We can bless and curse with our tongues (see James 2 for further information) We can read Holy Scripture and get a glimpse into the heart and mind of the most Ancient of Days. In all simplicity, we can stand in the magical even whilst we live in all the mundane of normality.
When I think of the magic in Hogwarts land, I see there is and at the same time, nothing new there. It carries in it all the wish-fulfillment ability we all wish we had. But perhaps it speaks of a deeper, elder truth; that there was and already is, a great magic that we lost at the Fall, which with Christ now restoring us back into places of sons and daughters, we can now pick up where we left off.
But don't get me wrong, I don't think we've been empowered by and through the Holy Spirit solely to play show and tell with our gifts; but rather, to engage with all around us, to better the world we inhabit.
Whichever way we look at it; magic is very much so, still around.
Now of course I realise this statement will either make some giggle, roll their eyes or foam at the mouth in fury. Still, I think it's a thought worth mulling over.
In HP or Hogwarts land as I call it the magical people, with their aid of their trusty (though not always if you've read all 7 books) wands can perform all kinds of spells, charms and hexes. Their inexplicable abilities in the impossible make them, magical.
In our world, the unmerited favour of a brilliant, ingenious, Creator made man, who died on a cross and then confounded death by rising again left us a gift so we wouldn't be orphans - The Holy Spirit. It is through the Holy Spirit and the clever, inexplicable gifts He gives us that we are able to do and see impossible things in our very finite and fragile human lives.
Now we can't point at something and say, 'accio' and it will come hurtling towards us. But we can lay our hands on our siblings and (perhaps without all the touching for strangers) pray for them. Pray them through the valley they may be in or pray that the Holy Spirit's healing touch would bind up the sickness (or in my case, pulled back muscles). We can dream dreams and see visions, even speak things out before they come to be. We can speak in foreign and unwritten tongues and have the secrets interpreted. We can bless and curse with our tongues (see James 2 for further information) We can read Holy Scripture and get a glimpse into the heart and mind of the most Ancient of Days. In all simplicity, we can stand in the magical even whilst we live in all the mundane of normality.
When I think of the magic in Hogwarts land, I see there is and at the same time, nothing new there. It carries in it all the wish-fulfillment ability we all wish we had. But perhaps it speaks of a deeper, elder truth; that there was and already is, a great magic that we lost at the Fall, which with Christ now restoring us back into places of sons and daughters, we can now pick up where we left off.
But don't get me wrong, I don't think we've been empowered by and through the Holy Spirit solely to play show and tell with our gifts; but rather, to engage with all around us, to better the world we inhabit.
Whichever way we look at it; magic is very much so, still around.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Red
Yesterday I read the second half of my, 'finished' children's story and then emailed it to my Editor friend.
And there it is. The book is finally out of my hands and in anothers. I have begun the process and now I'm free to think of Red and Imogen's next adventures.
It's strange reading back on what you already wrote in a flurry of creative contentment, particularly when what you read makes you smile, tear up or laugh out loud.
I've said it before but my characters really do feel like my little ones. I know them and what they look like, what they'll say and sometimes what they'll think. Finishing this first story made me realise I absolutely do not want to let go of them quite yet, even if they are starting to grow up as it heads into summer time in Eyrely.
Fiction, it's where my heart rests. Without a book to read I feel bereft and when telling stories I feel a happy contentment that sits merrily in this little soul.
And there it is. The book is finally out of my hands and in anothers. I have begun the process and now I'm free to think of Red and Imogen's next adventures.
It's strange reading back on what you already wrote in a flurry of creative contentment, particularly when what you read makes you smile, tear up or laugh out loud.
I've said it before but my characters really do feel like my little ones. I know them and what they look like, what they'll say and sometimes what they'll think. Finishing this first story made me realise I absolutely do not want to let go of them quite yet, even if they are starting to grow up as it heads into summer time in Eyrely.
Fiction, it's where my heart rests. Without a book to read I feel bereft and when telling stories I feel a happy contentment that sits merrily in this little soul.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Oddity
This is my third attempt to be honest with this virtual page. Honesty, alike truth gives the body and mind a jolt in a way that little else can.
Maybe it's because I've been debating how open I want to be on a blog and whether in all that's good in heaven, I should be blabbing my insecurities. Yes, it's therapeutic and cleansing in a way, but it also has a tendency to leave you feeling that bit more bare than before.
And what is this honesty or truth that has left me wrestling when I should be working, you may be wondering? It is the fear that secretly crept up on me that I am perhaps too awkward and odd to get that sweet gift that comes in a mutual love with another.
Not sure whether this is just normal insecurity we all feel at times or a horribly deeper symptom of something horrible and deeper.
Perhaps it is merely the age old question we humans have carried in our souls since forever ago; 'am I enough? Am I good enough?'
Funny how, even though I've heard the answer to this a million times I still find myself asking it.
Maybe it's because I've been debating how open I want to be on a blog and whether in all that's good in heaven, I should be blabbing my insecurities. Yes, it's therapeutic and cleansing in a way, but it also has a tendency to leave you feeling that bit more bare than before.
And what is this honesty or truth that has left me wrestling when I should be working, you may be wondering? It is the fear that secretly crept up on me that I am perhaps too awkward and odd to get that sweet gift that comes in a mutual love with another.
Not sure whether this is just normal insecurity we all feel at times or a horribly deeper symptom of something horrible and deeper.
Perhaps it is merely the age old question we humans have carried in our souls since forever ago; 'am I enough? Am I good enough?'
Funny how, even though I've heard the answer to this a million times I still find myself asking it.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
A beautiful world
Sometimes a song and the woven notes of its melody do something strange, something unruly and simply inexplicable. Sounds and words seep into cracks in my skin and the pores in my soul, and make their home there. They create a world of thoughts and feelings that shift like seasons. Sometimes it's sunny and delightful; other times the dark of lightening storms hit hard. I have no idea how waves of sound can do that to me. Take me to a place without leaving the spot. Tell me a story with so few words. Show me something with my eyes closed.
'Don't Panic' by Coldplay is one of their older songs alike, 'Writing to reach you' by Travis but somehow, in some odd unknown way, these songs take flight and paint a brightness that few other songs do, for me.
Perhaps it's the refrain of, 'We live in a beautiful world, yeah we do, yeah we do.' Simple but a refreshing take on this mass of iron ore and water. Maybe I spend too much time seeing the desperate hopelessness of our world and so to hear the opposite makes my little heart sing in chorus.
Just perhaps.
'Don't Panic' by Coldplay is one of their older songs alike, 'Writing to reach you' by Travis but somehow, in some odd unknown way, these songs take flight and paint a brightness that few other songs do, for me.
Perhaps it's the refrain of, 'We live in a beautiful world, yeah we do, yeah we do.' Simple but a refreshing take on this mass of iron ore and water. Maybe I spend too much time seeing the desperate hopelessness of our world and so to hear the opposite makes my little heart sing in chorus.
Just perhaps.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Pocket watch
I have a pocket watch. It' s a kind of burnt bronze with an antiquated lid that pops up at the slight press of the button. The same button that when pulled up moves the clock's hands.
There's also a small chain attached so I can dangle it from my pocket, like the Fat controller in 'Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends'. But there's a small hitch. The battery is dead so the hands remain at the last time I put them on. And that's the odd thing, instead of getting a new battery, I've taken to simply moving the hands to the correct time every now and again.
The pocket watch goes everywhere with me. In my jean pockets or in my brown leather satchel. In my jacket pocket or in between my fingers. On anything I can hook it on or under my pillow when I sleep.
The attachment crept up so stealthily I didn't know it had happened. My fierce loyalty to this little round bit of metal is clearly more than a mental hiccup; I think perhaps it's my way of having Anna close. Maybe that's why I like nothing more than to slip it out of my bag's side pocket and pop open the lid just to look at it and all it's detail. There's history with it, there's the story of how she acquired it, how she gave it to me and more of, the long lost age that pocket watches speak of.
I feel a bit like an old man when I take it out. No one has commented on my mild malaise yet, but that doesn't really bother me because I have secret stories and pictures all dangling off a very small chain.
There's also a small chain attached so I can dangle it from my pocket, like the Fat controller in 'Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends'. But there's a small hitch. The battery is dead so the hands remain at the last time I put them on. And that's the odd thing, instead of getting a new battery, I've taken to simply moving the hands to the correct time every now and again.
The pocket watch goes everywhere with me. In my jean pockets or in my brown leather satchel. In my jacket pocket or in between my fingers. On anything I can hook it on or under my pillow when I sleep.
The attachment crept up so stealthily I didn't know it had happened. My fierce loyalty to this little round bit of metal is clearly more than a mental hiccup; I think perhaps it's my way of having Anna close. Maybe that's why I like nothing more than to slip it out of my bag's side pocket and pop open the lid just to look at it and all it's detail. There's history with it, there's the story of how she acquired it, how she gave it to me and more of, the long lost age that pocket watches speak of.
I feel a bit like an old man when I take it out. No one has commented on my mild malaise yet, but that doesn't really bother me because I have secret stories and pictures all dangling off a very small chain.
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