The Resurrection by Mike Duran

So, along with several other bloggers, I've been reading The Resurrection, a new novel by Mike Duran.

Not really sure which slot to put this one in (does it need one?), though some folks have likened this story to the work of Frank Peretti, whose novels hit me at a young age with their topics of angels and demons at war, New Age teaching, abortion, the true nature of sin, lost faith restored.

Some of those themes underpin the plot of The Resurrection, too, as well as the influence of paganism and dark powers over not only people but places. Possession, obsession, totems, and even ghosts are part of the story. But I'm not going to dive into deep theological or philosophical discussion; Duran does that quite well in the book.

While attending a funeral for a teenage boy named Armando ("Mondo"), Ruby Case -- housewife, mom, devoted believer in Christ -- leans over the casket and prays. Nothing fancy. Nothing loud or showy. Just between her and God:

Thank you for the Amayas and sweet, simple Armando. Have mercy on them, O God.

No pleading. Not a word about a miracle.

But when she steps away from the casket, she unknowingly turns her back on a miracle.

Mondo sits up in his casket and looks around.

The rest of the novel reveals how Ruby's life -- and the lives of her friends, her family, her community, and her wandering soul of a pastor -- is changed and challenged as a result of the resurrection. The city's evil past is revealed, and the evil still present fights to keep the territory that may be lost if the faithless return to the fold. And what's with the ghost that haunts the pastor's office?

With an intriguing premise like that, I expected to be engrossed in the novel right away. However, it took me a while to get through the first three or four chapters. I can't point to any particular flaw in the storytelling, and I could have just been distracted with work and other obligations; but, eventually, the story did grab my attention, and then I quickly sailed through the rest of it.

One question that I kept waiting for one of the characters to talk about was never asked. Although various explanations for the resurrection were offered, no one stated what to me was obvious: What about embalming? If people just thought there was a medical error, that Mondo wasn't really dead in the first place, then what about the embalming process?

No mention is made in the story that the Amaya family or their faith prohibited it. And when the skeptics raised their doubts, no one pointed out the awesome power of a God who could raise not just the dead, but the dead whose bodies had been so chemically altered that there was no hope of reviving them.

But Duran could have purposely avoided that topic, since it might have significantly derailed the story. As a writer, sometimes you have to make the hard decisions about what adds to the core story, and what's going to distract from it.

Overall, The Resurrection is a good read. There's mystery, danger, challenges to faith and relationships, and even moments of humor, one of my favorites being this, when the no-longer-wandering minister faces an unexpected antagonist at an old grave:

The smell of fresh green grass filled his nostrils, but Clark had no time to enjoy it. He scrambled to his feet, eyes darting from the hooded dwarf to Jack, who was lying stunned, still sucking air. So much for Jack's physical prowess. Suddenly Clark's confidence in his own physical fitness withered. 

The woman watched Jack writhing and tipped her head toward the man. "This is Breyven, the local warlock. He guards the gate, and right now, you better man up."

He'd never confronted a genuine warlock, and with one standing in front of him, Clark felt rather intrigued, as if discussing the man's religious history and upbringing might shed light on this problematic lifestyle choice. But seeing Jack writhing in the mud prevented any sort of meaningful dialogue with the hooded imp.

See? Fun and philosophy.
 
I'm late joining the March blog tour, haven't yet had a chance to read what others are saying, and am only posting a review one day rather than three. However, there are a lot more people out there talking about this book. Check out what they have to say:
Noah Arsenault
Brandon Barr
Red Bissell
Book Reviews By Molly
Kathy Brasby
Grace Bridges
Beckie Burnham
Melissa Carswell
Jeff Chapman
Christian Fiction Book Reviews
Carol Bruce Collett
Valerie Comer
Karri Compton
Wanda Costinak
Amy Cruson
CSFF Blog Tour
Janey DeMeo
Cynthia Dyer
Tori Greene
Nikole Hahn
Katie Hart
Joleen Howell
Bruce Hennigan
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Jason Joyner
Carol Keen
Emily LaVigne
Shannon McNear
Matt Mikalatos
Rebecca LuElla Miller
Mirtika
Joan Nienhuis
Nissa
John W. Otte
Gavin Patchett
Sarah Sawyer
Andrea Schultz
Tammy Shelnut
Kathleen Smith
Donna Swanson
Jessica Thomas
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Dona Watson
Phyllis Wheeler
  Nicole White
Dave Wilson

A Burden of Books

What if what you love is not what you need? Yeah, addicts face this dilemma, but I can't really call an addiction a love, can I?

What about obsession? That's not really love, either.

Since before I ever learned to read, I've loved stories. As soon as I discovered the joy of reading for myself, books became my drug of choice. Although I did acquire discriminating tastes as I grew older, in my earlier years I pretty much read whatever came my way; I was a literary sponge.

Now, I'm clearing my shelves, and there are many. It's an unthinkable thing to do for a bibliophile -- to let books go -- but since I'm getting rid of ballast in other areas of my life, this is a logical act.

There are books that will remain, of course, but I would like to contain them all on only half the bookcases currently overflowing their capacity. And, Saturday afternoon, it was freeing and kinda fun to help my mother go along the shelves and choose from among the treasures that I once would never have loaned, let alone given.

The same will occur with my movie collection, already shrunken since the winnowing of last summer, yet still in need of a good thinning.

I never considered myself a collector until recently. After all, I didn't have a slew of Matchbox cars or Hot Wheels in shadow boxes on the walls, nor did I plunk down money on memorabilia or things that had to be hermetically sealed or constantly dusted. I was a curator of sorts, amassing a library of fiction and history and resources.

No, in recent months I had to admit that, in truth, I have become a collector, obtaining for the mere sake of having, not necessarily using or enjoying.

So, here I go, setting myself free.

The God Hater

"Remember the Reverse Engineering lab we talked about?" Travis said. "How I used R.E. to add the more detailed traits to our program?...Well, that's old school. The team now has things refined to where we can download an entire personality—thoughts, emotions, memories—the whole enchilada. So we record all that information, download it into a new dude, and there you have him, live and in person."

"Whose personality?" Nicholas asked Travis. "Yours?"...

"...We're working off your blueprint, bro."...

Dixon nodded in understanding. "I've been briefed on your fear of technology, Doctor. Let me assure you there is absolutely no danger. It is merely a matter of recording your brain functions. Nothing more."


"But if I refuse?"


Dixon's response was slow and deliberate. "Then, as I said, the board will have to seriously evaluate whether or not to continue the program."


"And the characters?" Nicholas turned to Travis. "The ones you've invested so much time creating?"

Travis shrugged, then looked away.


Dixon answered. "All the elements of the program would have to be destroyed. Their world, their community, and all of the characters with it."

And that's a problem, because Dr. Nicholas Mackenzie, curmudgeonly old professor and staunch atheist, has come to care about the computer-generated characters he's watching up on the screen. And now he's about to become one of them.

Bill Myers' new novel, The God Hater, is an excellent read, intelligent, intriguing, well-written, and timely, a powerful story.

Themes include the Law versus Love, rebellion and forgiveness, the sovereignty and compassion of God, free will, self-sacrifice, and how following the rules is never enough to truly live.

In the real world, Nicholas is a professor at the University of California, Santa Barbara. He relies on his intelligence, debating skills, and knack for discomfiting his opponents. He doesn't need God or any other crutch. He has his philosophies and counterarguments. Yet he has befriended a young single mom, also a professor, and her son. Their one flaw? Their faith in God.

In the AI (artificial intelligence) world, created by his brother for polling and market research, "lives" a man called Alpha, whose face and personality Nicholas has cause to know well. They belong to someone dead for many years.

Speaking into this world to end the bloody results of "survival of the fittest", which is negating the original purpose of the program since all the characters keep getting killed off, Nicholas is, at first, only a voice to Alpha—Programmer's voice that speaks Programmer's Law: You are a steward of this world. You are sacred because you were programmed to be like us. Do what I say and take authority. You are the stewards. You are what is sacred. Treat one another as though you are sacred. Treat one another as you would treat me.

Sounds good, right? Just what the AIs need to hear to guide them away from slaughter, away from "every man for himself", and set them on a path toward progress and enlightenment.

But soon not even the Law can save the world. Enter the computer-generated version of Nicholas, who goes to be the presence of Programmer to the people. He becomes the Law—the Word—made digital flesh.


What happens next changes not only the AIs, but Nicholas—real and digital—until the real-world Nicholas can no longer control his computer self, who begins to literally take on the ills of others in an effort to heal them.

When I read that portion of the story, I couldn't help but be reminded of this passage: He made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him (2 Corinthians 5:21, NASB).

And yet, despite the deep spiritual themes in this novel, it is never preachy or heavy-handed, and non-Christians will enjoy this story. If there's a weakness, it's in the corporate espionage plot thread, that always seemed a little thin to me. However, if it were expanded, it would detract from the main story, and probably drag the pace.

I'm only writing a single review, but the CSFF Blog Tour covers three days, so check out the other stops on the tour (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday), and read what others are writing about The God Hater:
Noah Arsenault
Red Bissell
Thomas Clayton Booher
Kathy Brasby
Rachel Briard
Beckie Burnham
Morgan L. Busse
Carol Bruce Collett
Valerie Comer
Karri Compton
CSFF Blog Tour
April Erwin
Amber French
Andrea Graham
Tori Greene
Katie Hart
Ryan Heart
Joleen Howell
Bruce Hennigan
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Becca Johnson
Jason Joyner
Carol Keen
Emily LaVigne
Shannon McDermott
Matt Mikalatos
Rebecca LuElla Miller
Mirtika
MollyBuuklvr81
John W. Otte
Sarah Sawyer
Chawna Schroeder
Andrea Schultz
Tammy Shelnut
Kathleen Smith
James Somers
Donna Swanson
Jessica Thomas
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Dona Watson
  Nicole White
Dave Wilson

What I'm Learning from Korean Television

It all started several weeks ago when I mis-read a link on the Hulu homepage: "If you are not Keanan, click here."

I did a double-take, thinking it said, "If you are not Korean."

Realizing my mistake, I laughed aloud, but not having anyone to share the amusement with me, I posted the goof on Facebook, hoping others would get at least a small smile from it.

Then, a few days later, while searching for something interesting to watch, I happened upon a recommendation for a Korean historical fiction series, "The Great Queen SeonDeok". It's a long'un, and I gave up around Episode 50, wearied by the political machinations, fears, false friends, and such that were part of the battle the title character faced on her way to the throne.

Still, despite my loss of interest in continuing to the final episode, I was drawn to the core story and to a small group of characters who seemed, even in their broadest and most caricatured portrayals, to be appealing and real. One of my favorites is portrayed by an actor that is written of in reviews as "wooden" or "a terrible actor", but I don't think those viewers understand the character, who wouldn't be going about showing all his emotions and talking about his feelings. His thoughts are his own, until he deems it necessary to reveal them. For my part, I think he says a lot by a simple look. No words required.

Besides, it keeps the mystery alive.

That's something more writers need to learn, a new take on an old saying: sometimes, characters need to be seen and not heard.

One effective storytelling device used often in the series is one that is anathema to some in publishing (if one pays any attention to the often useless "advice" doled out at writing conferences and seminars): the flashback.

A flashback can consist of a character's memory of an event, told in brief, or it can be an extended scene, chapter, or many chapters, in which the past is revealed to the reader. Some writers "bookend" stories by beginning and ending them in the novels' "present time", but unfolding the bulk of the plot via the stories' past. This can be done through letters, diary entries, newspaper articles, or simply the memories of a character or characters. In "The Great Queen", this device was used to good effect when viewers needed to finally be let in on a secret (aka plot twist).

From that show, I went on to IRIS, which is kinda like "Alias". Again, I stopped short of watching every episode (in this case, the last two of the first season). However, the characters are intriguing, the story is twisty, and this action-y spy show doesn't shy away from letting its characters -- men included -- show emotion, even cry.

I'm still kinda iffy on that. I might put in an emotional scene, but then I'll delete it, or cut it down so much that ends up being matter-of-fact rather than squishy. One emotion that's not difficult for me to write is anger. But love? Grief? That's tough, tough, tough to get right. At least for me. But emotions are a part of life. And cold logic doesn't always play a part in emotional responses. Make characters real by giving them real emotions.

Then I fell into the time-sucking addiction of "Chuno", an excellent historical drama laced with humor and emotion, and packed with action; I'm a few episodes away from the end, and I plan on watching every one. There are minor characters that exist for comedic effect, local color, and connective tissue for the main characters and/or events of the story, but even the minorest of minor characters feels real. The main cast are interesting, not a cardboard cutout in the bunch, and -- love 'em or hate 'em -- they're neither predictable or boring.

Ever read several stories by the same author, and realize that all he or she has done is tell the same story over and over and over?

Dagnabbit! Sometimes I think I write stories with the same basic cast of characters: just change names and ages, put one set in outer space and the other set in medieval Europe, and presto! I move from science fiction to high fantasy. I can't get too comfortable. I can't avoid "meeting" new characters. Even ones I don't like so much.

And, in a totally different vibe, there's the 2010 modern comedy series, "Pasta", in which a somewhat whiny but steel-spined young kitchen assistant becomes a junior chef learning from and falling in love with a loud, strict, talented new chef who grates on just about everyone who meets him.

Again, I think some of the reviewers miss the point. They complain about the junior chef being such a baby, but they overlook her resolve, her persistence, her drive to excel. They ask why she wants the love and approval of a chef who constantly tells her to make a dish over or that she's doing something wrong, but they overlook the fact that she doesn't want flattery, or the emptiness of "nice" words. She sees the chef's demands for what they are: a desire on the chef's part to see her succeed, perhaps a desire even greater than her own.

From my perspective, it's not a case of a girl overlooking the nice guy because the bad boy is more interesting. It's a case of "Don't tell me what you think I want to hear. Tell me what I need to know so I can be better. And not just better, but the best." She respects that more than the nice guy's flattery, as sincere as he may be.

I know that desire: Don't tell me it's a good story. Tell me why it does or doesn't work. Show me the flaws. Help me be better than I am now.

It's a desire I wish more rookie writers had. Editing or critiquing the work of a writer who thinks he's already arrived, who thinks her words are perfect in the first draft -- that's an exercise in futility. Such a writer cannot and will not improve because he or she will not learn.

So, looks like I'll be reading a lot more subtitles in the future, gleaning all I can to hopefully improve my own storytelling skills while admiring--and learning from--the skills of others.

Yeah, it's too late for Christmas poems, and this one's kinda sappy, but I don't write poetry often, composing this when family visited back in December. It doesn't have a title, though a couple have been suggested (my sister-in-law offered "Three Nieces" as a possibility).  Your suggestions are welcome.

Confession: Although I work with kids, and have done so for years, I still feel awkward around them, and the dancing mentioned in the poem below does not come from any place of talent on my part, but because it's just one way I know of to entertain the youngest ones still small enough to be carried and who like to crazy dizzy sense of flying that whirling and dipping can bring. Hey, I used to love it when a grownup would lift me up and let me "play airplane" by swinging me in a wide circle.

So, here goes.

Jennifer is taller now

than the artificial Christmas tree

I sold at a yard sale in July,

and Rachel has a sweet voice

she uses in long conversations

that only she can understand.

As for Sarah, she is small,

barely begun, a life unexplored,

with wide eyes and a serious stare.

This is her first Christmas here

on Earth, but the only gifts I have

for her are love and hugs and laughs

and maybe dancing around

the kitchen, holding her in my arms,

making up the music as we

twirl and step and bump into

the fridge then swing 'round and start again

in a family tradition

begun when Jennifer first

was small and loved to dance to silly

tunes and giggle and call for more.

Rachel, too, still likes to dance,

but she hops on her own sturdy feet

and runs in circles through the house

or down the hall, chattering,

screaming in false fright then in laughter,

a merry whirlwind that rarely

pauses, but sometimes snuggles

close, blanket-wrapped like a babushka.

Jenn, taller than the Christmas tree,

reads books, writes poems, her words

dancing though her feet so rarely do.

Yet we dance however we may--

it's Christmas-time with family,

the warmest time, the coldest day.

c. December 2010, KB

Oooh, Exciting

My characters tend to do dangerous things, but I live a very ordinary and quiet life.

Lately, however, I've been spoiling for excitement. So I decided to do something really dangerous: take photos while driving.

I know, I know. But it's the adrenaline rush, y'see.

Some of those photos can be seen in my Facebook album entitled "The View from My Truck", and a few snow-less December shots can be seen below.

As you can see, there's a touch of Norman Rockwell around my town, and that suits me right down to the ground, as the old saying goes. After all, American flags line Main Street -- yes, Main Street -- and even adorn the front of the funeral home. Small-town America is my kinda place.

Modern Mentoring and Where I Find Story Ideas

When I was a kid and discovered writing -- not as an exercise in penmanship, but as the art of storytelling -- mentors were few but encouraging. Despite my peers' lack of interest, mockery, or strange awe, I persevered, due in large part to the adults who pushed and applauded and guided my first tottering efforts.

Back then, hanging out alone with a grownup who was a stranger to my parents didn't seem like a danger. After all, that grownup was a writer who was interested in my manuscript. The help I received is remembered today.

Now, I get to be that mentor to younger writers, most of them members of the youth organization where I work. It's a public environment, and nervous parents can check in at any time. E-mail contact is kept to a minimum, and is on-target. Not a lot of chitchat. After all, the innocence of my growing-up years has been replaced by fear and predators. I need to protect myself as much as I need to protect the children.

A teen writer recently contacted me because of a book review she'd read on this blog, and that prompted an intermittent e-mail conversation. If her messages are any indication, she's enthusiastic and eager to learn her craft. It's a tightrope for me, encouraging her efforts without saying anything that might be misconstrued.

She asked a question about where story ideas come from, and thinking that something in my reply might be helpful to other writers, I've included the excerpt below (edited to protect her identity):

This time of year has been absorbed with family for Christmas, end-of-year projects at work, and so forth. Not as much writing as I would like, but I've made a little progress. Some writers schedule time every day to write, and I've tried that -- in fact, I do it when I participate in National Novel-Writing Month in November -- but it's not something I can keep up forever. Rigid schedules are not for me; unfortunately, perhaps, because following a schedule would very likely make me more productive.

I'm also easily distracted by the stories that others tell: movies, books, TV series ... I love stories! But I need to write my own.

In your previous message, you wrote: How do you go about discovering new ways of writing other than through reading?

Ever write down your nightmares? Your good dreams? Your crazy dreams? I generally keep a notebook and pen beside the bed for just that reason, or to record the fantastic ideas that often come just as I'm drifting off or waking up. There's a scientific reason why our brains do that -- make connections or operate creatively at those moments -- but I can't recall the precise details. Suffice to say, be prepared to record whatever your subconscious mind decides to bring to forefront. Some stuff may be totally wacked out, some of it may be brilliant -- write it all down.

I  can get story ideas from just about anywhere:

1) visiting historic sites, museums, galleries (ruins, exhibits, paintings -- all good story material);
2) walking around town or in the countryside while taking photographs;
3) catching sight of something while I'm driving down the road:
4) listening to an old song, an interview, a news story, etc., on the radio;
5) looking at book covers in the store or at the library;
6) observing people in the park, the mall, an event (listening to their conversations or watching their expressions and interactions can help with character creation and/or conflicts);
7) hearing or remembering old family stories, with their mix of fact and fiction, and shaping them into something new (I did that with an award-winning short story once);
8) using Bible stories as the framework or inspiration for a modern-day version (you might check out some of the historical fiction by Liz Curtis Higgs -- I know she's done that);
9) using my own life -- but sometimes years have had to pass before I could write about troubling events;
10) talking to my brother, his wife, my dad or mom, friends, people who are experts or know about certain topics (bouncing ideas off trusted people or gleaning ideas from people who are pros in their fields can lead to good stories).

There are probably many more ways stories have come to me over the years. You'll have your ways, too.

I recall visiting a nearby Civil War battlefield on a Sunday afternoon with my family. A friend had come with us, and we we'd eaten dinner after church then went to the battlefield. There are some cabins on the grounds, and they house museum exhibits, etc. I was fascinated. My friend was bored. This person thought I was morbid and weird because I kept staring at a blood-stained, bullet-hole-riddled uniform while imagining the terror, the pain, the soldier must have experienced. And then there's the vast silence of the battlefield -- just looking at it, listening to the wind through the wooden fence, seeing the tall brown grass bend, can bring tears to the eyes. How many dead are still buried there? What carnage did this land, that forest, see? I stood, overwhelmed, on the edge of the battlefield. Behind me, my friend complained.

I don't think that person ever hung out with me again!

But that experience, more than all the historic books I've read or war movies I've seen, brought home the bigness of war.

I've never been in the military, but my father is a Vietnam veteran, so I'd heard his stories and seen the effects of war on his life. That has helped when I write about men involved in war.

So, whaddya think? Encouraging and informative?

One of my writerly resolutions for the new year is to improve my approach to editing and critiquing the work of other writers. If you follow television, you'll understand when I say I'm more House than Wilson, which is not exactly encouraging to old hands let alone new writers. But I'm trying.

Just as one becomes a writer by writing, I hope to become a better mentor by simply mentoring.

(lifting my favorite pen) Here's to a new year of words, stories, and crazy imagination.