Appreciating Your Betters
As a reader of books who also writes, I often feel a distinct, conflicting emotion when I read great books written by great writers. There is the delight, of course. Here is a person made by God doing something beautiful.
Then there is the (often very slight) tinge of despair as I recognize I could never do this. This is less pointed when the genre and style are out of my own vein of writing (such as Patrick O’Brian’s books, which are, for me, an unmixed joy I hardly experience in any other fiction).
I have written before on, and firmly believe in, the well-worn wisdom that it’s no use in copying others, or feeling bad about how you compare. It’s best to find your own voice and write what only you can.
But still that feeling comes. “Am I kidding myself? I can’t write like this. This is art. This is compelling.”
I guess part of it is simple envy, ordinary coveting. This of course, like all sin, must be rejected.
I want, rather, to be the kind of man who says in his heart, like Robin Hood to Little John in the Errol Flynn film, “I love a man who can better me.”
This runs quite counter to the self-important manure which passes for a philosophy of life in our envy-based culture.
May it not be so in us. God be merciful to us.
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Walt Wangerin, Jr. strikes again.
Janner Igiby lives in Glipwood, a nothing little village in the land of Skree, on the edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Manhood is on the horizon, but Janner finds it hard to feel much hope for the future. Skree is ruled by foreign oppressors, snake men called the Fangs of Dang, servants of a shadowy emperor named Gnag the Nameless. The Skreeans are weak and weaponless. They’re even tool-less. Any Skreean who needs to use a hoe has to borrow one from the Fangs (and fill out the requisite paperwork). And from time to time, the Black Carriage arrives in Glipwood to carry young Skreeans toward an unknown fate across the Dark Sea.
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
Great thoughts S.D. Both as a musician and a writer I have had the very same mix of feelings: an awe for the gift of another and an accompanying sort of despair of ever wanting to pick up your own tools again in sheer disgust. But you are right: we have each been called to do what we have been called to do, and certainly improve upon it as we are able. It reminds me of Paul talking about the “manifold” or “multifaceted” wisdom of God in Ephesians. Each of us is a different facet of the jewel–we’ve got to shine in the way God made us to shine!
Definitely a familiar combination of feelings. A good reminder. Oh, and! I, too, love reading Patrick O’Brian’s work!
But still that feeling comes. “Am I kidding myself? I can’t write like this. This is art. This is compelling.
I feel this way most days.
If a man were to begin reading Patrick O’Brian, where should he start?
Great post, Sam!
And those feelings are oh-so-normal for all of us. But whether it is writing, playing music, making soup, or changing diapers, God is pleased with our efforts to glorify him.
And God will use what we do to bless those around us, and that is what really matters. And your writing is a blessing, Sam! Keep at it!
-Robert
Great post, Sam. Especially on the heels of Matt Conner’s thought-provoking post from a few days ago.
Also, I’ve been tempted to read O’Brian’s stuff, too. Is there an obvious place to start?
Thanks, kind humans, for your words.
As far as O’Brian goes, book one of the Aubrey/Maturin series is “Master and Commander.” And that gives me a chance to point out that it’s not for the young, and the principal character is at his worst, as regards his moral character, in the first book. As the series goes on (I am only at book 6 out 21) it only improves in every way.
I am sure many ladies enjoy the series (as I enjoy Jane Austen), but it is the evident masculinity, usually so foreign to modern fiction, which is a significant part of the enjoyment for me.
You have to kind of get used to/immerse yourself in the naval terminology. It is also deliciously antiquated in that regard. Huzzah for the “outdated.”
I suppose there is an almost infinite attraction for me in un-(or anti-)modern stories (Tolkien, Lewis, come to mind) where we are not drowned in p.c., media-savvy boundaries of dogmatic, faddish folly.
The Bible is, likewise, so delightfully counter-cultural along these lines, and I find great stories like The Lord of the Rings prepare me for the (at first) shock of it. Then there is the slow recognition, and growing fondness. God is a glorious artist.
This probably deserves it’s own post. Sorry. Turning into Ron Block here (and I’m no Ron Block…I could never do what he does –sigh).
As someone who wrote a book heavily featuring Age of Sail naval warfare, I have to say that Patrick O’Brian terrifies me. I tried reading Letter of Marque as ‘research’ but had to quit because I was close to being scared off writing my own book.
Sam,
this post was helpful to me (as Andrew pointed out above, particularly tied to Matt’s words the other day). It’s so easy to want to throw in the towel in the light of my own (perceived or actual) lack of greatness. Art is not done in a void… some portion of greatness is acquired through experience (a healthy dose of “born with it” is mabeline… no, wait… helpful).
Thanks for this post. And hurrah for the Errol Flynn Robin Hood! I had the good fortune to see it on the big screen recently in a classic film series. It’s quite delightful.
Well said.
Here’s a list of Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin books in order: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patrick_o%27brian#The_Aubrey.E2.80.93Maturin_series
And, S.D.: I’m one of those women you mention who enjoys the series.
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Beautifully said, and exactly something I needed to hear today. Thank you for letting your facet shine!
Thanks, Chris, for the great word picture: “It reminds me of Paul talking about the “manifold” or “multifaceted” wisdom of God in Ephesians. Each of us is a different facet of the jewel–we’ve got to shine in the way God made us to shine!”
“I am sure many ladies enjoy the series (as I enjoy Jane Austen), but it is the evident masculinity, usually so foreign to modern fiction, which is a significant part of the enjoyment for me.” — If you were reading G.A. Henty Samwell, you would be saying the same thing…just being that annoying pest that you know me to be.
Also applicable to Henty: “It is also deliciously antiquated in that regard. Huzzah for the “outdated.”
Each of us is to use our gifts according to the grace given to us–not the grace given to someone else. I don’t have to be “the best”, just the best that I can be.