When I was a teen growing up in rural Oklahoma where my father pastored a small church, one of my favorite songs was a tune called “How Many Times (Seventy Time Seven)” by the band White Heart. The song, of course, is built around that great conversation in Matthew 18 when Peter asked Jesus a simple question. “Lord,” he said, and I paraphrase here, “when one of your crew—you know, my ‘brothers’—royally ticks me off, how many times do I have to forgive him?” Not only does Peter ask the question, but he also makes a suggestion…as if he was afraid Jesus might say something ridiculous which, of course, He does. “Seven times?” Peter offered. And the One who knew no sin said, “No, Pete. Not seven. Multiply that by seventy or so all you’ll just be getting warmed up.”

            The point, of course, was not that Peter or any of his brothers should grab an abacus and get busy on the multiplication, but that Peter should continue to forgive long past the point of his own willingness. Forgiveness—real forgiveness—comes from an eternal well. It’s the forgiveness that Christ reminded His father about from the cross. “They know not what they do,” He said, and they didn’t know. Just like we don’t know all the times we’ve nailed Him up there ourselves. There is forgiveness because there is grace. And grace, so freely given to us in our own weakness and depravity, is freely given to everyone else that will accept it.

            I came back, to both the song and the verse, after a recent “falling out” with a very dear friend of mine. For over twenty years, this man has been as close a friend as any I have had the pleasure to know, a brother born not of blood but of sacrifice, compassion and loyalty. Like most “brothers,” he and I were privy to details of each other’s lives…and we, time and time again, stood up and supported each other through hardship and sorrow. When I lost my parents and, then, my younger brother, he came running and (along with my beautiful family and other dear friends) provided strength in a time I didn’t possess any. If that is not being an instrument of God’s grace, I don’t know what is.

            Not long ago, after many years of watching a pattern of behavior develop consequences that, if left unchecked, might eventually cost him respect or even relationships that mean a great deal to him, I felt the burden to share with him what I was seeing. Knowing the matter would be difficult to discuss, I spent several weeks praying about the matter and seeking a way to ensure my words would be as gracious as they could be. But, in the end, no amount of grace—no amount of humility regarding my own failures, no amount of assuring him that the issue I brought before him in no way tarnished my view of him as an amazing man and terrific friend, no amount of explaining that this was not a “sin” issue but merely a series of choices that I worried might ultimately rob him of joy—nothing deadened the blow for him. He felt sucker punched, I guess, and no one enjoys that feeling. All attempts to the contrary, I wounded him.

            I’ve been wounded. We all have. And sometimes, sadly, it’s the people who love us most that, albeit unintentionally, wound us the worst. Though my intention was nothing but grace, my friend imagined our conversation was born of something else. Spite? Jealousy? Superiority? I can’t really say what he thinks. Why not? Because twenty years of friendship—of laughter and tears, of having each other’s backs when the storms rolled in—apparently doesn’t mean much in the chaos of his anger and hurt. The pain in his heart seems to add more weight to the scales than nearly a quarter of a century of the truest friendship. Why? Because he’s human. It’s that simple. No human story is without villains because—guess what?—WE’RE ALL VILLAINS! We are all fallen. We are all broken. On our very best days, our own righteousness is nothing but filthy rags in contrast to the righteousness of Christ. I can easily imagine a situation where I, too, might have been wounded in spite of someone else’s best efforts to graciously bring an issue before me…because we don’t always want to change. Seeing weakness in ourselves can be disheartening. I find my own weaknesses nearly unbearable and, though I’m all too aware of them, they still get the better of me more than I would care to admit.

            I guess that particular verse in Matthew came back to me because my old friend, though a good man who loves God, doesn’t seem to be very quick to forgive me. And if eventually he does forgive me, it seems far from certain that he will welcome me back into his life. And, I have trouble seeing that as forgiveness. Perhaps it’s because I’ve experienced so much grace from others, but true forgiveness and grace isn’t about walking away. It’s walking toward the ones that hurt us. It’s opening our arms to the worst offenders in our lives the way Christ would. It’s knowing that, whatever hurt or frustration that individual caused you in the past, or may continue to cause you in the future, it is nothing compared to your own transgressions against Christ. Knowing that, at your very worst, Christ loved you, walked with you and offered you his limitless grace, you forgive and give grace to your brothers and sisters in the same way.

            The world, of course, would disagree. Our flesh doesn’t really acknowledge unconditional love or the grace we are offered through Christ’s sacrifice on the cross. Instead, it offers us self-help suggestions about “weeding out” all the people in our lives that don’t contribute to our happiness. See, ultimately, the message of the world is “I get what I want, or I’m out of here.” It’s “I’ll love you and respect you as long as I get something out of it.” It’s “I’ll be a great friend so long as you never disappoint me.”

            As Christians, we are called to a higher law, because we know that, without unmerited favor…without a love as unconditional as it is deep…without being shown grace we could never deserve, we’d still be lost. “Everyone to whom much was given, of him much will be required, and from him to whom they entrusted much, they will demand the more.” (Luke 12:48) If the Christ-like response to transgression or even betrayal was to walk away from that person, Judas and Peter would never have made the cut. If the Christ-like response to someone saying or doing something stupid or offensive was to shut them out of your life, Martha would never have been able to see Jesus raise her brother from the dead and most of the disciples wouldn’t have lasted a week in ministry.

            So, in Christ, even if I had willfully committed a sin against one of my dearest friends…if, out of anger and not concern, I had lashed out to wound him instead of seeking to serve him as a brother…even if I didn’t have over twenty years of loving and serving him as a brother in faith to weigh against that one moment that wounded him…the call of God is to forgive and embrace. The call of God is to extend grace after grace from a supply that will never run out. To offer the mercy made new every day.

            I don’t think I’ve needed forgiveness from my brother seven times in the past twenty years. Maybe I have. Maybe I’ve needed it seventy times that. Whatever the case, Jesus is clear. The forgiveness needs to continue. Love and grace must always win out over our need to be “right” or our need to “win” an argument. We must forgive as we have been forgiven. How many times? You know the answer.

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

I've always loved to watch children create. Whether they are building a castle out of Duplos to fend off an impending dragon attack or fingerpainting a work of abstract wonder, their imaginations don't often know the limitations that years on this hard earth can shackle us with. Kids give themselves freely and unabashedly to whatever they do and there is a great joy about them…in both their thinking and their doing. It's a wonder to behold.

I often think that Creation must've been such a moment for God – that with child-like wonder and joy He spoke things into being. "Bunnies!" perhaps He said, and then He chuckled at them as they appeared and began hopping about. But those are thoughts for another time.

Last night, I received a private message on Facebook from some very dear friends of mine. Their daughter, a lovely girl just seven years of age, had come across one of the promotional cards I had printed up to help spread the word about "I Am A Broken House." The card (as you'll see below) bears the image of the same house that appears on the book's front cover with the simple tagline: Broken can be beautiful.

This is the card that inspired such a lovely poem.

If you've not read the work, you might not see the connection between that slogan and the poetry, but the overall work points to the fact that we are (every one of us) broken – by loss, by sin, by shame, by cowardice and more – and yet, by grace, we remain…and there's something beautiful about that. So the tagline, a last minute addition, seemed appropriate. Every time someone orders a signed copy, I try to stick a few of those cards in the book so they can pass them on to friends. At any rate, this wondrous little girl came across the card while driving somewhere with her parents, and…well, I'll just let her mother tell the rest of that story.

Yesterday we were driving around and (our daughter) found your "A Broken House" business card. She read it aloud and asked what it was. We told her that it was from your book of poetry and she began her own poem..here it is:

A Broken House

Broken can be beautiful
Broken can be dark
Broken can be like the stars on a late Sunday night

Broken can be warm
Broken can be a rainbow
Broken can be a nice little park

And Broken can be beautiful 
 

Folks, I confess that I was not only amazed by the girl's talent and insight (so unsullied and unfettered by this world) but utterly humbled that a silly little slogan I used as a promotional tool could inspire within her such a work of beauty. What surprised me the most, though, was the great welling up of hope I felt. As cruel and as broken as this world can be – and as we can be – we see the hope and joy and wonder in our children and remember that God, too, takes joy in His creation and finds wonder in each poem of a person. No story is so bad it cannot be rewritten. No structure so complex the mind of a child cannot build it out of Lego blocks and imagination. No song so difficult that a child cannot make up a new version and sing it with all his might. The Hope of Glory is alive and pulsing in the creativity of our children. May they remind us all of the childlike wonder of our great Creator and the delight He takes in His creation. We may be broken, but "broken can be a rainbow."

J

2012 will also be a big year for personal appearances. I'm working on finalizing a few book signings, which will be fun, but even more exciting is the prospect of doing a few poetry workshops and home shows. What's a home show? Well, a home show is when a reader, like yourself, invites me over for a little get-together where your friends can hear me do a few readings from the book followed by a short Q&A or mini poetry workshop (your preference!) and where they will have the opportunity to get to know me a bit better and, if they like, purchase a book and have it signed. If you'd care to book me for a home show, just email my people (read: my wife and I) at bookings@jpatricklemarr.com.

The coming year will also be a banner year for a few eBook only titles made available through Write Crowd Publishing for your Kindle, Nook or iPad. First out will be Underneath, a dark tale of horror and human depravity. Then, later in the year, Rough Trade, a collection of my short fiction will be made available. I struck a deal that if I can sell enough eBooks to cover the costs, the publishers will also release Rough Trade as a paperback – and you know I love a challenge.

That's about it for now, but I want to take just a moment to thank you all for making 2011 a year to remember. Your kindness in supporting my work and spreading the word about I Am A Broken House has been such a blessing. I wish you all the best in the coming year!

J

That man’s name is Samuel Adam and you can find the entry I read here. I suggest you give it a quick read before continuing.

My instant connection to the material did not stem from his love of Frederick Buechner, though Buechner is a favorite of mine and is as underappreciated in Christian circles as he is brilliant. Nor was my agreement founded on his admiration for the Lost Dogs, another favorite of mine. No, my appreciation for Adam’s post was born of the strong feeling that we’re—if not all the time, at least most of the time—getting it all (and by “it” I mean our walk with God and by “all” I mean all) wrong. This feeling I’ve had since my teenage years that, somehow, all the trappings we’ve come to recognize as (Western Evangelical) Christianity isn’t really trapping anyone but us.

I’m a coward. You need to know that up front. I don’t like to talk about my own failures because I’ve come to know how harsh my fellow church-goers can be. That’s another thing you should know. Church-goers is a term I’ll be using throughout this post because there is a difference between a church-goer and a Christian and that difference is often wide enough to drive a fleet of gas tankers through. Sure, Christians can be and often are church-goers, but I’m going to define them clearly so, as we proceed, you’ll understand exactly what I mean.

Christian: A disciple of Christ, who though flawed and prone to sin, has a desire to know God because everything they thought they knew was obliterated by His presence. That desire to know Him overshadows all other desires and is fulfilled only by the ineffable grace of God. A Christian is constantly aware of his or her fallen and unworthy state and that they are sanctified ONLY by the act of Christ on the cross. Furthermore, His resurrection means that the life they live is no longer their own and, even as the chief of sinners, they have been shown much grace and mercy and, therefore, owe much grace and mercy to those within and without the church. Their relationship to God inspires and informs their relationships with others. They believe the world will only be changed through the grace, mercy and love Christ offers to all.

Church-goer: A man, woman or child whose relationship with God is informed by their other relationships. Church is a society in which they find like-minded people. It is a safe, fun place for their families to engage in moral and life-affirming activities that separate them from the rest of their community. A church-goer wears the term Christian like a war medal though they’ve never tasted battle. It’s a letterman jacket for a sport they’ve only watched from the sidelines. They believe the world will only be changed through the legislation of Christian ideology and ridiculing those who do not conform to their own image of God.

Understand, these are generalizations, of course, and people cannot often be forced into a mold. Many Christians devolve into church-goers over periods of their lives and sometimes church-goers catch a spark and become consumed with the need to draw closer to Him. The truth is, if we’re brutally honest with ourselves, those of us who have been in the church most of our lives have probably been at both ends of the spectrum at one time or another. This isn’t me pointing my finger and damning the hypocrites. We’ve all been hypocrites. We all ARE hypocrites about some things.

There are enough people pointing fingers and wagging their tongues about what’s wrong. Let’s talk about how we can start getting it right. I said that I was a coward when it comes to talking about my failures. That’s true…but I’m starting to get over it. You see, I’ve begun to realize that it is my failures…and my brokenness over them…that gives God access into the areas of my life that I tend to hide from other Christians. It is in allowing myself the grace to be human (which is, after all, what God created me to be!) that I become accessible to others in need of His grace.

Our tendency, whether just a natural inclination to cover up our struggle with sin or a learned behavior from having seen how so many fallen brothers and sisters have been treated, is to put on “the smile.” You know the one—the one that, when all hell is breaking loose, says “Nope. No problems here. I don’t need any help. I got this.” We don’t like REAL life. That’s hard and makes us look flawed. We like “safe and fun for the whole family” world that has been sanitized for our own comfort. We prefer a Christian bubble with its Christian music and Christian books and Christian mints on our Christian pillows so we can dream Christian dreams before waking up to our Christian breakfast.

The problem with all that “safe and fun” illusion is that, inevitably, the cracks will start to show. They’ll be little at first, nothing anyone would notice, but eventually you’ll avoid the very people who should be standing in the gap and bringing you grace and mercy simply because you’re afraid of judgment. And the truth is that there ARE many believers that WILL judge you.

Let’s be real. We all suck. Bottom line. The Bible tells us that all our righteousness—the very best that we can muster—is worthless compared to the perfection and righteousness Christ is calling us to. If we were to graph righteousness on a sheet of paper, Christ’s righteousness would take up a page too big for the earth to hold… and yours would be represented by a pile of horse dung on another graph completely. That’s how the Bible puts it. Your righteousness is waste. It’s garbage. It’s a steaming pile of…well, you know.

So, if His righteousness is more than enough and ours is as worthless as stock in EuroDisney, why don’t we just get out of the way? Why can’t we just shut up and let Him be God? Because, acting like you’re God isn’t getting you anywhere. No one is buying it. Everyone’s too busy trying to sell themselves as perfect and happy…keep those blasted cracks from showing. Why can’t we just say, “Yes, I’ve been a lousy husband.” or “You know, what? The truth is I’ve got a lust problem.” Why has it become more acceptable to church-goers to wallow in hypocrisy rather than being a obviously flawed person in need of the Savior?

I slept with my first wife before we were married. I got her pregnant, too. There you go. Honesty.  In a panic, I made all the wrong decisions. Instead of taking any counsel from the great people God had placed in my life, I hid from them. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I wasn’t just some kid in the youth group. You see, I was an associate youth pastor. And my girlfriend was an administrative assistant for the church. My downfall was that I forgot I was human. I never considered the fact that, in the heat of the moment, I would make the wrong choice. I wasn’t just an associate youth pastor, after all. I was a cool guy. I could sing, act, write and help bring big name Christian acts to perform at our church. I was at the pinnacle of everything I had dreamed of when I tumbled. I was so confident in MY OWN ability to keep me on the straight and narrow that I never saw it coming. That’s what the “safe and fun” environment of the modern church got me. But I can’t lay the blame for my sin at the foot of the church, no matter how the environment added to the trouble. The problem was me. It’s always me. I’m a sinner. Relying on myself has never led anywhere pleasant. What I want you to see is…the problem is you, too.

The modern culture of Western Christianity is built on a lot of talk. We SAY we’re sinners. We SAY, “There but for the grace of God go I,” but most of us don’t really mean it. Usually, we mean, “I’m up here and you’re down there and I’m trying to show you where the steps are so you can get your life right and be up here with me.”

Wrong.

They can’t get their life right—and, HELLO!—you didn’t either. They can’t change their lives anymore than you changed your own. (And your life STILL isn’t right. And won’t be fully until we leave this world behind.) That’s a supernatural and continuing work being done by the Holy Spirit. Even the faith that got you out of your seat and down the aisle to say the sinner’s prayer didn’t come from you. God gave you that. That’s why trying to legislate morality using bully groups like the Christian Right will NEVER WORK. You can’t change people by changing what they can and can’t do. The Old Testament proved that. No one is capable of living a holy enough life to satisfy the law. It’s why Christ had to come and do it for us.

You say, “But I AM in a different position than they are. I’ve received Christ.” Sure you did. But being set free of the PENALTY of sin isn’t the same as being set free of the POWER of sin. The power of sin continues to influence every Christian and church-goer. Being set free of that power is a continuing work as God perfects us and molds us into the image of His Son. And being freed from the penalty of sin is not something for us to boast about—It is meant to glorify God. You had nothing to do with it.

So, here’s what I’m suggesting. Give up the façade. Stop acting like you’ve got your house in order and everything is sunshine and roses. Christ said that those that follow after Him will be on a hard road to sacrifice. There’s nothing rosy about carrying your cross. Be real. Be flawed. Stop working so hard to act like a Christian and just be one. Stop trying to correct behavior and legislate morality and let people know about the grace YOU have received. You might find they want some, too. It’s the Holy Spirit’s job to mold them and dig out all the rot…but only AFTER they come to know Him. And, guess what? Not every Christian wears khakis, carries a Bible and teaches Sunday School. Some of them ride Harleys, enjoy a cold beer and smoke cigarettes. But they love Him. And, over time, He’ll work out whatever kinks He needs to. Not whatever issues YOU think need dealing with, mind you, but the ones He cares about. Sometimes it’s our imperfections that remind us to have grace for the rest of the imperfect. Sometimes our frailty and honesty is what draws people to us…and then, we can point them to Him.

I wear my “rags of light” with great pride, now. I see all the pretty people with their pretty lives and their crisply pressed robes of white and I realize that it’s just the white-washing of a tomb. The rags I “clutch about me like a man in a storm” are a badge of honor I have never deserved and never will deserve. They are a reminder that, even seeing what a mess I would make of my walk with Him from time to time, He that knew no sin became sin and died in my place…not that I could boast about it or use it as a billy club with which to beat back the unbelievers…but as a testament to His love and grace.

God, as always, save us from ourselves.

J

I bring this up because I realized as I was putting together the material that would one day become I Am A Broken House that some of the people who share my Christian faith may take exception to some of my word usage. Poetry can be difficult enough for some people to wrap their brains around, but throw them a word they’re personally uncomfortable with and you might as well not bother.

I know all the usual arguments, of course, and for the most part I agree that coarse language should be avoided. In fact, I seldom use coarse language unless quoting someone. But when it comes to my writing, it isn’t likely that every character in my fiction or each subject of my poetry will be as straight-laced as I am.

For instance, in the poem “The Liar” I create a specific image of the Whore of Babylon as mentioned in the book of Revelations. Now, I could’ve used the word “whore” in the piece—even in the title—and some folks would’ve been fine with the word usage because it was Biblical. But being that obvious is no fun. I want people to think. So I use each line and stanza to build the idea of the whore and the danger of her. The phrase “her god’s a phallic idol that she worships on her knees” is meant to denote the behavior one would expect from a whore, yet I imagine it sticks in the craw of some readers.

The word “phallic” reappears in “Damaged Goods” along with another word that makes some uncomfortable. The term “cock” appears because it is a term the subject of the poem would likely use without hesitation. In order to paint her picture—a picture of sinful obsession…of free will gone awry…of brokenness that doesn’t know it needs repair—I use harsh words to help the reader visualize a harsh reality.

So why write about the Whore of Babylon in the first place? Why write about a person as desperate and lost in her own vices as the woman in “Damaged Goods?” Because we’re all that woman. We’re all—each one of us—that whore. We’re all damaged and broken and hopeless—thus, our need for a Savior. If we could put ourselves together and make something good out of the mess of our lives, we wouldn’t need His intervention. But we do. So, every now and again, I may use a coarse word in a poem for the express purpose of making you uncomfortable. I want you to shift a bit in your seat. I want for your collar to seem a bit too tight. I want you to be reminded of your own sorry state. Why? Because you’re either still in that state and need to see past the whitewashing so many wear like medals of war…or you’ve already been sanctified from that state and need to recall the grace and mercy you’ve already received  that you might give thanks for it.

Fiction is a bit different. A work of fiction is, by its very nature, a made up story. As I said previously, however, care must be taken to make its underpinnings very real. There must be a layer of truth in the tale no matter how unreal the other elements of the story may be. If I were to write about a killer for hire, I have to be true to the character. One who murders other people for money is not likely shy about using all the words that might make you and I cringe a bit. I will certainly write about characters of sound morality. I will likely write about some characters that share my faith and how that faith affects their lives. But I’ll also write about darker things. Why? Because we know what light is from having experienced darkness. We know more about darkness from having experienced the marvelous light.

Why not just write stories about good people, Jeff? Why write stories about people who are morally questionable? Well, dear reader, my answer is a simple one. I write about imperfect people because I live in a world filled with them. To write only about characters who share my faith and my morality would be like an artist painting only with blues or only reds. You may end up with a portrait, but not one that truly represents the way the subject looks in real life.

So, I’ll continue to write as honestly as I know how… and not just with honesty about the subject matter or the types of characters I write…but also a personal honesty about my own shortcomings and potential failures. Poems like “Bury Me In Familiar Things,” “Her Satin Lips On Which I Rest,” and “Beautiful Stranger” are examples of this author exposing his own weaknesses and temptations…laying bare all the traps I fear falling into. We are all, as I said, that whore. Not one of us is without scars and fractures.

Ultimately, it’s what we make of our broken houses that matters most and I know of a great Carpenter who can do wonders with even the shoddiest of homes. You’ll find that He takes His own sweet time, but He does the job to unparalleled perfection. And when, at last, He has finished His work in us, our broken houses will have been made mansions so fine all the Trumps of the world will be jealous.

In the present, though, my floors are still bare. There’s a hole or two in the walls where He’s ripped out some plumbing and dry rot in more places than I care to count. The water heater doesn’t always work and the light bulbs flicker every time there’s a strong wind. It’s still a mess, but He’s working on it. So, when you visit my work, dear readers, please excuse the mess. Pardon me for the uncomfortable words or thoughts that might be lying about. They’ll be swept up and done away with long before the Open House. The Carpenter has given His word.

J

I like to think my poetry is different. (I'll wait for the laughter to die down.) Ahem. I don't think of myself as an artist or part of some elite group of craftsman. I'm just a dude that happens to enjoy poetry. The way I see it, you aren't really a poet unless other people call you one…though, when you write books of poetry, saying "author" sounds a bit disingenuous. I've no desire to be known as a poet, truth be told. Fiction is my real passion. So, back to the question: Why put out a book of poetry?

The initial plan was to put out a collection similar to Fallen, a book I self-published back in 2005. That book, a rushed effort due to my father's increasingly poor health, was a mixed bag of poetry, fiction and even an editorial or two. (I honestly don't recall everything that was in it. I gave away my only copy long ago.) So, at it's inception, I Am A Broken House was going to be a similar hodge podge. But as I began to edit, I realized that there existed a disconnect between the fiction and poetry. They needed to be separated in order to shine. So, the poetry collection kept the working title and the collection of short stories (which will eventually see the light of day) became a book called Rough Trade.

Working Cover Art for Rough Trade

At that point, I could have tossed the poetry idea altogether. Believe me, I thought about it. What stopped me from giving up on it was the idea that my pain and struggle through grief might benefit someone else. My lack of faith, my failures might serve to prevent someone else from believing they're alone in those feelings. My grasp of hope–anchored so deep that I cannot see the bottom–might bring a thread or two of grace to someone else. So, I Am A Broken House could not be aborted or back-burnered. I think part of it was also that I needed it to be out there in the world. I needed to take that struggle and strife and let the Author of my story turn it into something better and brighter…something I could set free as I had been freed. Sorrow can be a prison, you see. Doubt can be a disease that eats away at the core of you like a spiritual cancer. I had come through all that to the other side where only grace remained. I felt an obligation to put up a guidepost or two for those who would struggle after me.

So, while I know that I'll be blessed if I sell a hundred copies of I Am A Broken House, I think that's okay. Not everything in life is about financial success. As a writer, I have stories to tell that may never be read by anyone but family and friends. Others, with the grace of my Author, may find a home with thousands of readers. Either way, I have to be true to my gifts. In the future, I'll tell a lot of different stories about a lot of different characters, and I look forward to that. I Am A Broken House, though, is MY story. And YOUR story, dear friend. We are all broken. We have all known the violent fracture of death, divorce and the like. We have all been beaten down by the ravages of time and the hardness of the earth. We have all felt our paint peeling away and heard the creak in our floorboards. But here we are- broken but standing. We are weathered, but wonderfully full of stories…the echoes of laughter and children running. We are all perfectly broken houses. And that's "why poetry."

J

“It’s wise to plan early on where you’d like to go, do serious self-analysis to determine what you want from a writing career. … When I began, I thought I’d be comfortable as a straight genre writer. I just kept switching genres as my interests grew. I’ve since been fortunate that—with a great deal of effort—I’ve been able to break the chains of genre labeling, and do larger and more complex books. But it’s difficult, and few people who develop straight genre reputations ever escape them.”
—Dean Koontz

“I have never felt like I was creating anything. For me, writing is like walking through a desert and all at once, poking up through the hardpan, I see the top of a chimney. I know there’s a house under there, and I’m pretty sure that I can dig it up if I want. That’s how I feel. It’s like the stories are already there. What they pay me for is the leap of faith that says: ‘If I sit down and do this, everything will come out OK.’”
—Stephen King

                I don’t make a habit of dissecting my poetry or fiction for anyone, but as I gathered the material that would eventually become the book, I realized that folks were bound to have some questions. The mistake that a lot of readers make, especially with poetry, is believing that every piece is personal in nature. That’s not always true. The fiction writer side of my brain often employs the poet side to work out a snippet of a story within the framework of a poem. So a poem like “The Liar” (Her mouth’s a trap for foolish rats, her tongue its rancid cheese…) is not personal in nature, but the writer in me trying to tackle a subject—in this case, the Biblical Whore of Babylon—through poetry. Other pieces like “The Quiet Room” are extremely personal in nature. That particular poem is a sort of stream-of-conscious recollection of my mother’s death and the thoughts and emotions that bombarded me during that time.

                So, that leaves the question: How does the reader know which ones are personal and which are not? The truth is…you don’t. And that’s okay. You see, for the poet, the goal is to fill his work with universal truth so that everyone can find a bit of themselves or their own experiences within it. If it becomes too much about the poet, the reader will lose the ability to relate. If the poetry is too impersonal, you end up with the same problem. So, to have the most impact, the poet must aim for the proper mix of personal and universal. That’s not always an easy task, I have to tell you.

                Do I mind questions about the work? No, not so much. Does that mean I’ll answer them? Sometimes I will and other times I won’t. It’s not an attempt at being coy, I assure you. It’s just a writer trying to preserve a bit of the mystery that makes the work so rewarding.

J

During the two years that passed between inception and reality, I thought more than once about giving up. The truth is, I never really have the sort of confidence in myself that others seem to assume I have. I guess it's sort of a given that writers must be egomaniacs or they wouldn't work so hard to get attention for their books, but that's not really true. You, see, your book is your baby. Sometimes ugly parents are blessed with a gorgeous kid and sometimes the beautiful artists in the writing community produce children that would make the Pope consider retroactive birth control. Regardless of how that baby's going to look, though, the parents love it. They lavish it with affection and discipline, coaxing the child to rise to its fullest potential. But not all babies win beauty pageants and you have to understand that as you pay your entrance fee.

I usually like my work as I'm writing it, which makes that first draft a lot of fun. It's also why I've developed the habit of walking away from my work for months (if not years) after that original draft is complete. Usually, when I return to the work, I start getting that knot in the pit of my stomach. "That dialogue is terrible," I'll mumble. Or, "The meter is all over the place in this stanza." And so my nemesis, the Edit Monster, rises from the murky depths of my creativity and devours any precious little darling I am reluctant to part ways with. Some changes are easy and obvious, while others require days or weeks of trial and error to clean up the dialogue, tighten up the pace or just work up the courage to scrap the whole scene. When the edit is finished, I say a silent prayer that it is, in fact, complete and ready for the market. Not true. Almost never true, in fact, so I sit on it a while longer and then come back with fresh eyes.

By the 3rd or 4th draft, I am so sick of my own word usage–the smug sense of humor I used in that one scene or the clumsy way the argument on page 114 comes across–I realize the truth of it. I'm a failure. I'm a wannabe. I start to doubt not just my ability to finish what I started, but everything I've ever put on paper. The very thought that someone else might read it, or worse–pay for it!–makes my lunch from three Saturdays ago want to come up for a return engagement in my throat. If I wasn't so determined to be a professional, I'd quit at that point. But I persevere. I press on. And, eventually, if I'm one of those blessed "parents," I look at the finished product and think, "Sure, he's got his share of flaws, but I believe in that kid."

At that point, the only thing I can do is let go. My "baby" could swim or sink. Or, worse, it could languish in the inbetween–not exactly a waste of paper, but a rather long way away from that great country called Masterpiece.

I AM A BROKEN HOUSE was a labor of love and friendship. It brought me from a place of deep sorrow to a state of overwhelming grace, and I shared that journey with several dear friends who were kind enough to become collaborators. The thought of failing–of not doing justice to that child or the loved ones who helped me give it birth–haunts me. I watch my email daily for orders to come in. I worry that they aren't coming fast enough. Maybe people don't like it. Maybe it was a waste of my time…of their money.

It's not just the book I fear failing, either. My family, as supportive as any man could ask for, has been cheerleading this book for two years. They've told their friends. They've made much of me and I am, in no way, worthy of it. So I worry I'll leave them with egg on their faces,,,that people will ask, "How's that book selling?" and they'll be forced to look for an exit. I don't want that.

So, I'm afraid. I fear I'll let the book down, the reader down, my family down. But I've come to realize something important.

I'm just a character in someone else's story. I don't know what you believe, dear reader, but I believe God to be the author of my story. The highs and lows, the ebbs and flows all come from His pen, written out upon the parchment of time. And the story isn't really about me. It's about Him. I'm just a character in a much greater tale. So, in the end, what I write is nothing but a story within a story…and incidental. And that's okay. It takes the pressure off. It affords me the grace to just write–because it's who I am, because it's a passion that was written into my heart, and because every character in the tale enriches the story just by being in it.

So, I can relax and let the Author write out my life. I can be the writer I am written to be. I can give it my all in service to a greater story. And, then…there's nothing to fear at all.

J.