Not body parts. Frequently noted on writing blogs of all kinds are the intimate parts of writing novels. Comments range from comparing fiction to the “art of lying”, somehow equating writing fiction with creating accomplished and praiseworthy lies, to a “sacred art”, an application which might just give words a bit too much esteem in the overall consensus of novels. Fiction does not equate to lying in my world. And only rarely can authors elevate a story to the pedestal of sacred art.
Under the much-aligned label of Christian Fiction authors have an opportunity to elevate their fiction to a higher level because of the innate inspiration often associated with writing this kind of novel. The ability to infuse story with gut-level, heartfelt truth presents a divine chance to remedy commonality. No matter the specific genre, the story is eligible to capture something of the supernatural character/existence/power of God. Whether or not this possibility is overt or organically weaves its way into the tale, the ability to make a story profound in its telling remains a factor for authors who profess a Christian worldview.
Inserting a worldview appears in all kinds of novels, again either subtly or pronounced. Of course when that worldview is considered “religious”—and tell me again why secular humanism is not a religion?—whether or not it is written in a “preachy” style, it will undoubtedly be accused of such. Christianity knows no favor in the world of the anti-God crowd, but it’s usually only the militant minority who criticize “religious” fiction the loudest and most profanely. No one forces them to read it. Rarely does anyone intentionally try to trick them into experiencing it. As with all people, reaching them is truly God’s work and whatever He chooses to use to do it isn’t really up to writers. Trying to “please” that bunch with stories geared to their emotional, intellectual, or vacuumed spirituality could easily fall into a category of vain pursuits.
So am I suggesting the “non-choir” readers be ignored by authors who profess and practice Christianity? Not at all. I am suggesting that if this is the mantle chosen for oneself without the direction of the One who gives such appointments—and anointments—it might be wasted effort.
The same “rule”—and you know how I feel about rules—applies to both or either scenarios, and that is the baring of your soul. Pour yourself out on the page. If you can’t draw from your reservoir of truth and transmit it to the page, what have you got to offer any reader? Whether or not your initial definition of “truth” was corrupted and then enlightened by the real Truth, stories take readers on journeys through all kinds of darkness. The difference allowed by a Christian worldview is the element of presenting Truth. Inside that Truth is hope. The rawness of Truth comes in many forms and can be told multiple ways. It needn’t be pretty and easy or soft and fluffy. It’s rarely any of those things when one finds himself at the Cross.
Those hidden parts? The places full of fear and doubt, of faithlessness and sorrow, of depression and cynicism, of lust and pride, of prejudice and self-righteousness. Those ugly secret parts crawling around in our brain and bloodstreams. Expose them in stories. Writers can do this because fiction demands it of us. Truth prevails whether we decide to pen it or not. Someone will surely write brave stories. Their venue—be it drama, humor, or horror—will explore the hidden parts and admit they exist. Readers will be the beneficiaries of such naked revelation. Confront their humanity along with the author.
Don’t be afraid to admit the fallibility of your soul. Everyone needs redemption. It’s a profound experience to decide to reveal that most basic desperation of the human spirit.
Bare your soul in the written words and expose those hidden parts because God knows we all have them. Offer Truth in fiction.
God, you see all those horrid parts. And yet you love. Me. Amazing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.