Re-posted with permission by Eric Wilson.

IS IT TIME FOR CHRISTIAN FICTION TO DIE?

A Challenge to Readers, Writers, and Publishers

By Eric Wilson

As a child, I was taught not to complain about a problem unless I was willing to be part of the solution. I was also introduced to the literature of J. R. R. Tolkien, John Bunyan, C. S. Lewis, Daniel Defoe, Flannery O’Connor, and Nathaniel Hawthorne. Not one of these world-class Christian writers worked within the parameters of a “religious fiction” market.

By the time I was 19, my own faith had faced more obstacles than I found in most “inspirational” novels. I hunted for stories that dealt with real issues from a Biblical perspective, but found offerings that were mostly trite and poorly written–with Bodie Thoene’s books being an exception. Did it have to be this way? Even those who love Jesus struggle with doubts, depression, sexual and financial issues, addiction, and disease.

If the Bible truly offered the Answer, I wondered, then why did these stories seem so afraid to ask the questions?

Hoping to be part of the solution, I read, read, read, and wrote, wrote, wrote. I studied the craft of fiction. I earned a Bachelor’s degree with honors from an accredited Bible college, got married (faithful for 20 years now), and published my first novel in my mid-thirties. I have since written nine more novels, with over a million words in print. One of those books spent four months on the New York Times bestseller list.

Trying to be part of the solution, I have also reviewed and endorsed hundreds of novels—the majority of them by Christian brothers and sisters. I’ve done my best to open doors for up-and-coming authors. I’ve invested the past decade in broadening the reach and readership of this market, and in reclaiming genres that had been hijacked by immoral and/or humanistic worldviews. Despite my efforts, and many incredible yet relatively unknown writers who have bettered them (W. Dale Cramer, Lisa Samson, Randy Singer, Tosca Lee, Robin Parrish, Claudia Mair Burney, Mike Dellosso, Steven James, and Sibella Giorella, to name a few), this market’s recent influence and parameters seem to have narrowed.

The late 1960s and early ’70s saw the rise of young Christian musicians who helped spearhead the Jesus Movement. As the number of listeners grew, a few entrepreneurial sorts saw an opportunity to spread the Word even further; yet with success came the need—initially uncorrupted—to keep “churning out the hits” to keep this baby rollin’. The moneychangers stepped in, the Spirit moved out, and for a long time Christian music became a cloistered, “safe” alternative instead of a vibrant, world-changing entity. I believe the same has happened in today’s Christian fiction.

Why, as Christian novelists, have we removed ourselves from a place of influence in the “marketplace” of the everyday reader? Do atheistic authors put their books in the “Atheist Fiction” section? Does Stephanie Meyer label her books “Mormon Fiction”? Aren’t we actually “selling out” if we write what will sell to a certain church demographic instead of writing what God puts in our hearts?

In years past, the works of Tolkien, Lewis, and O’Connor glistened in the unrestricted air of “real life.” That is not to say Middle-earth is real or Puddleglum still survives in some swamp—though I would be the first to pay him a visit if he did. I am saying the weight of Frodo’s ring (a powerful symbol of sin) and the cynicism of a pessimistic swamp-dweller were presented poignantly, without polish or affectation. They felt real. They captured emotions and experiences with which we can all relate.

In the same way, an ultra-gritty (and beautifully poetic) book such as James Lee Burke’s Jolie Blon’s Bounce still lingers in my thoughts, due to its spiritual and redemptive arc. John Dalton’s Heaven Lake and David Maine’s The Preservationist won awards in the mainstream market, while tackling Biblical themes with remarkable skill.

If our own writings fail to also wrestle honestly with life’s difficulties, it seems to me that we gloss over the bloody, earth-shaking war that Jesus fought on the cross—and we undermine the triumph of His resurrection.

True, the publishing number-crunchers feel the need to meet profit margins. Yes, we writers of the faith are called to honor God in our storytelling. Does this mean, though, that we should censor all the raw elements? Isn’t the Bible itself filled with depictions of violence, sexual misconduct, deceit, and bigotry? Some of its stories have happy endings. Some are dark cautionary tales. Few, if presented as modern fiction, would make it past the industry’s “gatekeepers.”

It seems to me that most “religious” storytelling has taken the place of relational, incarnational works of literature. I know there are authors who desire to write more than scrubbed-clean, rose-scented fiction. Must all Christian novels be “inspirational,” or can’t some be challenging, daring, even ironic and unresolved?

In my own novels, I don’t want to regurgitate platitudes. I want to allow Christ to enter the muddy, messy settings of my own life and those depicted in my stories. He is a redeemer. He has a way of calling the dead from their graves, the sinners from their prisons, and the pharisaical busybodies into glorious freedom.

Yes, God is the Creator. We are created in His image. When we write fiction, when we create, we have the opportunity to reflect a sinful world in such a way that the glory of the risen Lord is that much more astounding. No, not all writers are called to this, and maybe this market will never make way for those who are. Nevertheless, Jesus gave us an example to follow, stepping into the muck of humanity instead of calling to the street dwellers from lofty mountaintops.

I believe fiction has the ability to change minds, shock us from complacency, and soften hearts. (Paradoxically, those Christians who question the validity of Christian fiction are often those who rant about the evil power of fictitious Harry Potter.) I believe at least some faith-based novels should serve as more than “moral” alternatives. But are there publishers still willing to offer that chance?

Consider these words from one of Russia’s greatest novelists. Over four decades later, they still rattle the bars on artistic cages.

Outstanding manuscripts by young authors, as yet entirely unknown, are nowadays rejected by editors solely on the ground that they “will not pass.”

Literature cannot develop between the categories “permitted”—“not permitted”—“this you can and this you can’t.” Literature that is not the air of its contemporary society, that dares not pass on to society its pains and fears, that does not warn in time against threatening moral and social dangers, such literature does not deserve the name literature; it is only a façade . . .

Our literature has lost the leading role it played . . . [and] now appears as something infinitely poorer, flatter and lower than it actually is . . . If the world had access to all the uninhibited fruits of our literature, if it were enriched by our own spiritual experience, the whole artistic evolution of the world would move along in a different way, acquiring a new stability and attaining a new artistic threshold . . .

–Alexander Solzhenitsyn,

Letter to the 4th National Congress of Soviet Writers, May 16, 1967

The Christian-fiction market, if it remains myopic, could very well die. I hope it does not. It has done many good things and produced some quality novelists, both commercial and literary in nature. Before we settle into mediocrity, I pray we’ll see godly writers of all genres, all ages, all races, ready to raise the bar even higher and impact the world around them. Some are already published but struggling. Others are waiting for their opportunity. The question isn’t whether the market will die, so much as whether it will push aside fear and allow its authors to live.

If not, Christians who are writers should be publishing well-crafted, honest, and thought-provoking novels in the general fiction market. When Jerusalem’s Christians lingered too long in first-century AD, the Diaspora and hardship pushed them from their comfort zones. They spread far and wide, sharing the Good News.

Maybe today is the beginning of an artists’ Diaspora. Maybe literary life will yet rise from these ashes.

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Summers used to be so easy – creamy satisfying as a root beer float and lazy as an all-day sucker. Now the summers slip by with my shoulders curled over a keyboard, a phone stuffed in the crook of my neck and a pencil tucked behind my ear.  My Daytimer marks the passing of the season in a succession of appointments, circled paydays and payments due.

The summers of my childhood were fully given over to reading, lying prostrate in the shade with the scent of an ‘old library book’ rising with the turn of each grass-stained and Kool-Aid-ringed page with bugs in the creases. The humidity leaving the pages tacky to the touch.  Hot, hazy mornings tempered only by an oscillating fan, filled with the mournful call of doves and relentless cicadas.  Moving to a musty-cool corner of the basement to hide from neighbor kids who wanted me to play.  The setting sun drawing out the mosquito’s and fireflies, and chasing me inside for a bath before jumping into baby-doll pajamas to read on the screened porch.  Vacations spent lolling in the backseat of the car with a pillow smelling of strawberry shampoo reading on the way to Grandma’s, or gripping sand in my toes through a beach towel with my Coppertone-fingers leaving sandy fingerprints on the dog-eared pages while my father cast his fishing line into the surf.  The whistle of wind through the tall grass of the dunes.

The total freedom, the languid days, the acrid scent of Queen Anne’s Lace and summer lightning set the stories in sharp relief.  The adventures were more immediate, the danger more real, the heroines more tragic because all my senses were quickened. The stories saturated me, tattooing me with indelible ink. The characters waited for me to get up in the morning, tossed pebbles at my window, whispered from the pages.  I was the girl captured by Indians, the silversmith’s apprentice, the hopeful child of migrant workers, the orphaned girl raised by a reclusive uncle.  Yes, and even the dog in the Yukon Gold Rush and the black horse that led a difficult life. As I grew, they grew with me.  I was the girl wrongly accused of witchcraft in a Massachusetts colony, the poor governess with the deeply troubled Master, the sister pushing the social boundaries during the Civil War.  I was the young woman living at the mysterious inn with a dangerous uncle and the young bride overshadowed by the memory of her husband’s dead wife.

At the turning of the last page, I sometimes began again.  Unwilling to release the characters, I created more adventures with satisfying endings and intimate conversations. They became the stuff of my dreams.

At the end of each summer, I looked up surprised to find it over and a change in the air.  I’m not sure it’s possible or even advisable to give a summer over to the abandon with which I devoured books as a child.  But I would do well to recapture some of the wonder of that time by not leaving the business of reading to chance and happenstance, or to a book-sized opening in my busy schedule.  The benefits of full immersion into another place and time cannot be overstated.  For me, it is necessary nourishment, and I have been starving a bit lately.  Now to make my to-be-read list and see how much progress I can make before Labor Day.

In case you are wondering, these were some of my favorite books that made summers magical:

Calico Captive, Johnny Tremain, Blue Willow, The Secret Garden, The Call of the Wild, Black Beauty, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, Jane Eyre, Little Women, Jamaica Inn, Rebecca

Which books made an impact on you growing up and fed your desire for story?

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Tom Davis, this month’s featured author, made a series of behind the scenes videos on a recent trip to Russia. He shares another one with us today. Our hope is that this will help bring the novel to life. Enjoy!

Priceless – St Basil’s & Red Square from Tom Davis on Vimeo.

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Reposted by permission, By Tom Davis, our featured She Reads author for July. This post was originally written after Tom and a number of friends took a trip to Moldova to better understand how Christians can help stop the sex traffic industry. His novel, Priceless, is our book club selection for this month.

Sex Traffickers and the Craziest Day… Ever

Today, we meet a psychologist to girls who have been rescued from the sex-trade.

As we walk down the street, she tells us she has a “surprise” waiting at our destination. I’m up for surprises. In fact, I kind of flow with them. The day is clear, a slight breeze is blowing, and for the first time I don’t even need my Northface jacket. We sit down in an outdoor cafe with green umbrellas and Ahmad tea signs all around. Reminds me of Kiev and the sun feels good

“Do you want to know why I brought you here?” Nothing to fear, no need to worry. Of course we do. The black stuff in my cup isn’t real good so it’s not the best espresso in the city. “Why are we here?”

“One of the girls you will meet was trafficked from this restaurant.”

What…did…you…say? At that moment, my world changed. The crowded city street was a different place. A man from the Middle East appeared over Anne Jackson’s right shoulder. Something about him, it wasn’t right.

“In fact, they’re here right now. And so are the girls who are being trafficked. They lure girls here for a job. Then they are sent to Turkey, Israel, and Russia.”

I saw them. Teenagers draped with blond and brunette curls. You’ve got to be kidding me. And I’ve brought Anne here? I mean Simon and Brad are one thing, but a girl? Someone I’m responsible for, and I’ve brought her into the midst of a den filled with sex-traffickers? I looked to the right and saw two more men emerge out of the restaurant. They weren’t Moldovan. Simon’s camera didn’t help things. He was shooting pictures and video faster than Usain Bolt runs the hundred yard dash.

Now we’re the center of attention. We tried to play it cool, acting like we belonged there and were just shooting a plain ‘ol video about life in the big city. My chest got a little bigger, my sixth sense a little stronger. If there was ever a time I longed to be a CIA agent.

An overweight, middle aged man sits down with a young girl at a table ten feet from us. She might be seventeen. We captured the photo. She bats her eyes and tries to impress her. He hands her a wad of cash for last nights exploits.

I’m sickened beyond explanation. And then I realize, this happens every single day. What am I suppose to do? Turn a blind eye? Pretend this evil doesn’t exist? Go back to my comfortable life and wish that young girls aren’t trafficked like this right in front of my eyes?

Something inside tells me I can’t. I’ve been exposed and I’ll never be the same.

At least ten traffickers sniff us out. They’re behind us, in front, to the right and left. We’re absolutely surrounded. But were not in prison like the young girls who fill the chairs. We have a choice. Their choice had already been made for them.

This place has the heavy-weight title of the highest rate of trafficked women in the world. Tens of thousands simply disappear. Our psychologist friend pulls out a local newspaper.

“This is how they trap them. Local ads promising well paying jobs abroad. Everyone wants to leave so all young girls are potential victims.”

I look to the left and to my utter shock, see two girls reading the same kind of newspaper. Once your eyes are opened, it’s everywhere in this place.

“I brought you here so you can see the realities in our country. It doesn’t do you any good if I only show you what most people want to see. This is the reality.“

Tomorrow, we will be with five of the girls who have been rescued from this nightmare. I want to be a real presence in their live and fight back the evil that had control over their life. Thank God there are people here who go to the front lines every day.

I have to do something, I can’t sit on the sidelines and hope this goes away.

We’re in Moldova. Who would like to join us?  We stood up from our table and walked out of that hell hole. The beautiful blonde girl didn’t have that choice.

CLICK HERE TO LEARN WHAT YOU CAN DO TO HELP STOP THE SEX TRAFFIC INDUSTRY.

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