Anticipation

"Did the mail come yet?"

"Did I get a rejection?"

Such have been my questions each day—whether spoken aloud or not, and in varied forms of expression—ever since October 28th, the day on which I could begin to expect an answer on the latest submission of my novel (and also, coincidentally, the feast of St. Simon and of St. Jude, who is the patron saint of the impossible, but I digress). I daresay I shall continue in such manner until December 28th, a significant date almost solely because it means I may then query concerning my novel; or resubmit, assuming my submission was not received. But hopefully by that time I shall not have waited six months in vain.

Four and a half months seems a long time indeed to wait and already I begin to grow impatient. A quick acceptance would of course be the best, but I have remarked before that a quick rejection is next best. When the time draws out, I begin to wonder: have they not had time to read my submission yet? Have they looked at it and are considering it? Or did they even receive it?

For the moment my future as an author hangs still in the balance.

Writing and Not Writing

I always thought it would be good to have a job in which I might exercise my writing skills, but it never occurred to me to consider the drawbacks: namely that I would have less time and energy for the writing I actually wanted to do. One can only spend so much time writing after all. At least this is true if one does not mean to seal himself off from the world as a recluse, never seeing any face other than his own and that only if he were by chance to possess a mirror.

It is writing such as this that suffers most: that which seems least rewarding, as I cast my words out into the vast void of the internet, never knowing whom they might touch.

Stories still creep and crawl in the background, waiting under the damp earth for the spring water to coax them forth into life. That moment draws near with the dawn of National Novel Writing Month, that gloriously crazy month of November. Already the seed bursts with the first touch of water, waiting for the first day of the month to begin its hard struggle upward.

The Creative Crisis

"Let me explain. I have reached what we in a world somewhat different from your own simple round of duties, describe as the creative crisis. It may be described as the crisis at which you want to create something and can't. In most distinguished artists it lasts for a lifetime. It is then called the artistic temperament." -the Poet, "The Surprise" by G. K. Chesterton

This artistic temperament has often manifested itself in the artist as a struggle with depression. I have often wondered why it is that great artists wrestle with such darkness, and in pondering this question, I have reached one thought that I believe sheds light upon the answer.

In creating a work of art—whether it be a painting of the meeting of dear friends, or a poem that speaks of love's pain, or a novel that traces an epic journey, or a play that explores the nature of surprise, or any other form of art—the artist pours forth more of himself than anyone can ever understand who is not an artist. In any other vocation where one is called to give of himself, he receives some return. For instance, a woman who enters a religious order and devotes her life to serving the poor as a sister sees that through her efforts they receive the care they need and the love for which they have longed, and that is fulfillment enough for her. But the artist sees no such reward. It is true that on occasion he may see the popularity of his works or hear some acclaim for his work, but the majority of his time is spent striving away in solitude to create something beautiful, not for himself, but for others, not knowing whether it will ever be cared for, or appreciated, or even whether he shall be able to communicate the brilliant vision at which he aims in his dark labors. This is a task too great for man. Is it any wonder then that the artist should battle so against despondency?

And yet, this task too great for man, is also our common vocation: to give and not to count the cost, even as did our Saviour who died upon the cross. As Christians we are called to deny ourselves, to take up our crosses, and follow Him. This is the path of the artist. So perhaps in a sense we are all called to be artists.

Those, however, who tread that self-giving path—the artist's road—must struggle more forcefully with that deep need to be heard, to be recognized, to be loved.

This is at odds with the way our modern society treats art. When art is regarded as a commercial venture and the artist is valued only insofar as he can produce revenue, it undermines the selfless nature of his vocation. I cannot help but wonder if in the days of old when the troubadours wandered about for the sake of their art, they were happier. I rather fancy that if artists did not need to be so concerned with earning money from their art but instead gave it freely, that they would be happier; and even perhaps that all would be happier then. Perhaps it is a vision too great for this world, but great vision must ever strive for the highest beauty.

What path is left then for the true artist who heeds not the wages of his trade, but creates for love alone?

Aware of his own brokenness, he must either throw himself upon the mercy of the world in all humility, willing to give until it hurts and embrace that pain out of love for his work and for those whose hearts he hopes to touch. Or else, faced with too great a sacrifice, he must withdraw in black bitterness as a recluse.

For the artist's path is the life of a servant. Thus, for the sake of his art, he must become as the least of all, not merely giving his life in service those around him, but pouring out all that he has and is to serve the whole world.

"We are actors, you and I."

To play a part and play it well is a task so inherently satisfying and fulfilling that the two hours of glory can make all the days of stress and rehearsals and the months of preparation worth it. I wonder sometimes how that can be. What is it that makes the dramatic arts so compelling that the actor will give up so much of himself, sacrificing so much time and effort—perhaps until his entire soul cries out in agony that this is too much—in order to produce a single performance? It is a strange thing: this way of the actor.

There are others who have put this far better than I and I daresay my thoughts have been much affected by what I have heard or read, even if I cannot credit all. At least I can say that my thoughts come partly from Kevin O'Brien of Theater of the Word, and partly perhaps from G.K. Chesterton, and partly too from J.R.R. Tolkien, and many others of which I may not even be aware.

It is in a sense an act of creation—or a participation in creation, what Tolkien called subcreation—or what one might call the incarnational aspect. For we actors embody what is beyond ourselves.

That I think is the thought—out of all the many thoughts surrounding this subject—that I would center upon. When an actor stands up to play his part, there may come a time when he realizes that what he is attempting to do is something so great that his ability may not match his vision, and he knows that he may well fail. That possibility of failure broods within, creating a vacuum of emptiness in which he might turn away or embrace its pain—like Christ in the garden—surrendering himself to a greater will than his own.

It is that risk that has often brought such great victories. One may speak of it as genius, or skill, but when cast in the brilliant light of faith, it is the witness of faith: an act of trust.

That risk brings a strange awareness: a feeling that at any moment we might fall. This feeling of discomfort is one from which every man in his right mind would wish to flee at once by instinct, and it is only the rational mind that restrains him. One might say that this is a necessary part of acting. I would have to add that it is a necessary part of life. For this is where humility comes in. It is pride that would have us do nothing except that which we knew we could do perfectly, relying only upon our own strength; humility is willing to take the risks, and to submit all to a greater good.

For we act not for ourselves only. If we did we should soon lose all desire for it. We cannot help it—whether we know it or not—that this embrasure of the life of an actor is for God inasmuch as whatever we do for the least of His brethren we do for Him. For an actor cannot escape that his life is one of service. No matter how much he may gain from it in fame or money or glory or pleasure, he cannot escape the fact that he acts for others to see, that he may communicate to them some beauty, some truth.

What we act may have profound influence upon us, as it did for Saint Genesius, bringing about his conversion to Christianity. And it is he whom I quoted as he spoke in the play "The Comedian" for the title of this post. Although I take this quote slightly out of context, I think it rings true: we are all actors, you and I. Even if we were never to set foot on a stage, everything we do is an act, and therefore because we act, we are actors.

Of Friendship

The topic of friends and the nature of friendship is one that has often occupied by mind, a fact exacerbated perhaps by facebook, which will call the faintest acquantaince a "friend". It is a subject that I think is much in many people's minds, though perhaps not in the same excruciating (pun intended) detail as in mine own, and because of that I would like to share some thoughts, though for a scanty readership.

What comes first to mind is a quote that a friend reminded me was from The Four Loves by C.S. Lewis:

In each of my friends there is something that only some other friend can fully bring out. By myself I am not large enough to call the whole man into activity; I want other lights than my own to show all his facets. Now that Charles is dead, I shall never again see Ronald's reaction to a specifically Caroline joke. Far from having more of Ronald, having him 'to myself' now that Charles is away, I have less of Ronald. Hence true Friendship is the least jealous of loves. Two friends delight to be joined by a third, and three by a fourth, if only the newcomer is qualified to become a real friend. They can then say, as the blessed souls say in Dante, 'Here comes one who will augment our loves.'

That is something that resonates very deeply with me. For I have been privileged to know a great many wonderful people and can only marvel at each and every one. Some I have known more deeply and for those I am most grateful. I cannot help but have a sort of regret for those I have not known so well, even though I know that as a finite being I cannot know everyone fully, and that this is natural. Some perhaps have wanted to know me better and I have been too busy to take the time to allow them to, or to let my walls be broken down enough that they may see who I truly am. There are others whom I would have liked to know better, but seemed to prefer the company of others. The web of friendships is truly a strange thing.

I remember as a child I used to be so frustrated with those who only wanted to sit around and talk, and was determined that when I became an adult I would never be that way—or, similarly, that I would never grow up, if that was what it meant to be grown up. Yet I have come now to appreciate conversation. For this is how we reach out to others: how we bridge that gap between us. And often, as a dear friend of mine once said, it is an act of rescue.

I tend to prefer one-on-one conversations because that is when I get to know people best: because that is when they are most willing to be themselves. That is where their beauty truly shines forth.

If people are willing to be themselves in a group of people, they must be willing to be seen without all their defences of pride built up, and few are that humble. I know I certainly am not. There is still a beauty to the interactions between friends illustrated by the quote I began by referencing, but there is another side as well, a side that applies to the complete opposite: the relations of one friend to another.

There is something so fascinating to me in the fact that on any important subject I may talk to countless people and the conversation will never turn out the same way, not only because of all the possible tangents, but because people are so different. Even those who hold the same belief look at it from wholly different angles. This is why we can learn so much from each other. It is also why suicide is such a tragedy. For if we lose anyone, we lose all we might have learned from him. So too why it hurts us so much to lose a friend, even if we should have countless others, for we know that no one can ever replace that one. Even so much as a lost conversation burns with the pain that only can the knowledge of a treasure forever lost.

Gem of a Thousand Facets

Sometimes I wonder at what I write here, casting out where any may read it, but it occurred to me that the reason I dare to write about almost anything is because what is most precious to me remains hidden in the depths of my heart even as I attempt to write about it. For, in truth, I can never write fully about any experience. Anything I have done I can look at in a thousand different ways and all of those ways are equally necessary in order to understand the reality of it. When I write of something it is merely to take one facet, revealing the barest glimpse of that gem.

Like with any item of art or beauty, though, the purpose of that gem is only made manifest in terms of the one who beholds it. Similarly, words cast into purposed form stand to draw forth thoughts, which cause one to probe ever deeper into things, and to look at life anew, with that wonder spoken of both by Chesterton and by Blessed Pope John Paul II.

To think, to speak, to question and to comment: these are the things that encourage the revealing of further facets. Yes, this is an appeal of sorts cast out into the void of unknowing where readers may or may not drift, for I have reached the point at which, when I am writing for others besides myself, I want to know that I am actually writing for others besides myself, in order to continue doing so, and perhaps to return to writing more often. The future of the gem may well be in your hands....

Jack-of-all-trades

I have said many times before that I wanted to be jack-of-all-trades if only because I did not want to take the time to master any particular trade to the exclusion of all others. However, of late I have actually earned that desired title to a certain extent, at least as regards the theatre business.

For I have been playwright, director, actor, costumer, set and lighting designer, producer, publicist, stage manager and whatever else it takes to produce a play. It has been an interesting task indeed trying to play all of the various parts, sometimes at the same time, and I have learned a great deal in the process, both about what I can and can't do.

I can for instance write a play that pleases, a fact to which the rehearsals and particularly the dress rehearsal performance attest.

I can't, however, get into the character of the villain and act as director at one and the same time.

Nor can I do everything to the perfect standard I would set myself.

Yet I can work words and lighting and costumes and a castle backdrop into a tale of loyalty that bears sharing, bringing my own small contribution to art and culture. Where that contribution shall lead has yet to be seen, but of that I need not be concerned. For it is not in my hands. I can but do my part—or parts.

The Nearly Almost Next Best Thing

There is one thing held high in the mind of a writer as an ideal long awaited and one day to be obtained, pursued with endless perseverance and a hope that will not be quenched. For this is necessary to the aim of the writer, which is to share his work with the world. That thing of which I speak is the word of acceptance: the contract.

The next best thing is to receive a request for revision and resubmission, giving the writer hope that his work was appreciated and might be considered publishable. He knows already that his work is not perfect, and if he has been given suggestions for improvement and invited to rewrite accordingly, he will delve in with renewed enthusiasm and discerning eye, ready to bring his work one step closer to perfection. He knows too that he has received a chance that comes to very few.

The almost next best thing is to receive a personal rejection—one written by hand and signed by the editor in charge of submissions—with suggestions for improvement and even other possible markets that might be interested in the work. This is the one that says that the work was read and well-received, and that the editor cared enough to take the time to comment, even if he was not able to accept it for publication. This is also rare in the modern day where the editor has a mountainous slush pile to wade through and insufficient time, especially in a big publishing house.

The nearly almost next best thing then is to receive a swift rejection, even if it is only a form letter signed by the editor. These form letters can even be encouraging to some extent, recognizing that just because it is a rejection, it does not mean the work lacks merit. It is well to note that it is difficult for a new writer to begin his career.

I could go on, of course, but since yesterday placed me firmly in the latter category, I may as well stop there.

I am ready now for the next step: the return to the research stage. I must consider once more the relative merits of the various publishing options, choosing again which risk to attempt, trying to guess which road holds the most likelihood for success.

If it were not for the sake of my distinct lack of funds, I would be tempted to go with the self-publishing route, for I am fairly certain that there are other readers besides myself who seek such a tale and hence I would find no difficulty in finding a readership base—after all, who does not like a good fantasy pirate tale? Also it would give me the opportunity to travel about in pirate garb and promote it.

Yet that is not possible with my current paltry resources, so unless I decide to commandeer a ship, pick up a crew, and then pillage, plunder, loot and otherwise gather a suitable treasure, I must hold for the moment to the traditional publishing route.

Then it will be time again to await what oft seems akin to a miracle...

The Manuscript

The other day I received at last my postcard returned with one word scrawled across the back—"Arrived"—and an initial. That one insignificant word spoke more than it contained, carrying with it one of the great joys of a writer: knowing that the precious manuscript has safely reached its intended destination, the hands of a publishing company.

This was no mere dashed-off work of a month as some novels ar

e, but the work of several years and several revisions. Begun with a dear writer friend of mine as a round story, it soon stalled. Enthralled by it, I continued the work on my own until it grew far beyond its paltry beginnings, although lacking still cohesive plot and substance. Years more I poured into it in ragged rhythm: a time of revisions and a time of critiques, a time of rest and a time of rewriting. Until at last the time came that it was ready to send off.

I sent it first to a small publisher—Twilight Times Books—with whom I had spoken through an online writers' conference. When I had the opportunity to pitch my manuscript the publisher, she asked me to submit the whole manuscript, and so I did, waiting for a response as I continued with other projects. At last—three months or so later—I received my rejection, for she had decided that it did not fit with her current line of books.

The work began all over again: first a further polishing, and then the work of researching publishers, and more polishing before at last I deemed it ready

to send off again. This time I decided I would aim high, sending it to one of the foremost publishers of fantasy. My decision meant also that I could not submit electronically as I had become accustomed to doing, but rather by mail, as did all writers of old.

There is such satisfaction in gazing upon a printed manuscript waiting to be sent off to the publisher, and in hefting its nearly eight-pound weight. It is the joy of accomplishment—of a work well done.

It means a great deal more to a writer's heart to send off such a weighty manuscript, understanding with a twinge that the pride and joy of his efforts is soon to face its test of worthiness. Only the writer who has poured so much time and so much of himself into his work can know the depth of meaning in that sending-off and the risk he takes—that leap of faith.

And yet I found that my heart was strangely unmoved. It rested solely in a peace that cared not whether the leap of faith had been in vain insofar as the world judges; it was enough to have done it, accomplishing thereby the duty of the moment.

There have been times when I was much discouraged by my lack of success in publishing and in the feedback I received from others, but now no longer. My worth as a writer stands unshaken—for it is built on the solid ground of my own hard work and perseverance, and a confidence in the skill given me. Let the tempests of the world blow as they will, the waves of discouragement wash against my rocky fastness, I will stand firm, letting my words shine like a beacon of light in this dark world, trusting that they will find their suited place and time where they will touch the hearts they are meant to touch.

St. Francis de Sales, patron of writers, pray for us!

Veritas Vos Liberabit

Of late I have begun to reflect more deeply upon where I am and the ways that have led me here, discerning my present and future path, and so it seems fitting to take up my writing here again after my long silence. I might write about all that happened within those two years and more, but my words about all those experiences would never satisfy me, and so perhaps it is better to speak of them only vaguely, as in poetry when few words conjure up deeper meanings and thoughts than can mere prose.

Those two years were so full—blessedly full.

The first autumn of those two years began with a journey to a foreign country, which some have called our fifty-first state: that land of Canucks and hockey and Tim Hortons and people who say "Eh?" and whose politeness stands in stark contrast to our own sometimes lack thereof. My destination was a remote town in the middle of Ontario, so small that it needed no stoplight, its greatest boast the lake on whose shore it lay, and yet not too small to have two Catholic Churches, one more modern and one more traditional, originally built by the Irish and the Polish respectively. Yet it was for none of these reasons that I came, but for a college scarcely eight years old, attracting students from as far away as England with her motto of Veritas Vos Liberabit: Our Lady Seat of Wisdom Academy, known to most affectionately as The Academy. It was good to find myself among like-minded people, making friends and winning a name for myself on account of my oddities and became the leader in many interesting escapades, the latter soon so common that one of the professors' comments upon seeing myself and my comrades said only: "I'm not even going to ask." There was work, too, of course, both chores and studies. These, however, I never allowed to impinge upon other things, always finding time for walks through the snow across the causeway to the island either by myself or with a friend, and reading some work of Chesterton when I needed a good laugh, and writing a novel during National Novel Writing Month, and playing pranks, and so many things.... So many epic memories remain entwined there. There was the time we were told to come to the Biblical Literature review class or be chiastic so I put a chiasm on myself and stood outside the window where the teacher could see me. And there was the time we dressed as savages, painting ourselves with charcoal, and captured a fellow student who we proceeded to threaten with roasting in our bonfire in savage language. And Easter spent at Madonna House. And the time we played ping-pong in Latin class. And the time I found my mattress in a tree, part of a prank war that escalated between me and another student, ending at last in a truce of friendship. And writing all of my notes in Tengwar. And the time I left a pickle jar by a door because of the sign that said "Please leave door a jar". And the pilgrimage on foot to the church in Wilno. And soccer games in the high school soccer fields. And the brawl on the docks of the lake in which all ended up in the lake in their clothes. And the April Fool's Day chiasm of pranks left for the teachers. I have so many stories I could go on and on, but I should only dull my audience and render myself more lonesome for the dear old Academy. Always, though, there was one bright thread around which everything else was woven: time spent before the altar in the church of St. Hedwig where the candles gleamed, gazing at the stained glass window of Christ's Agony in the Garden and below it a great painting of the Last Supper and below that the tabernacle. There, especially in Mass, I encountered daily the reality of the school's motto: Veritas Vos Liberabit.

One would think that as much as I had come to love the Academy, I would have returned the next year, but other adventures awaited. A friend and I had begun to talk about following in the footsteps of St. Francis, which resulted in our eventual decision to make a pilgrimage from my home in Oregon to St. Andrew's Cathedral in Victoria on Vancouver Island, my friend's native land. We walked about three hundred miles spread over two months, journeying from church to church, relying solely on God's providence. Looking back at it now, it is hard to see how we had so much faith—but it was like a child's faith, eagerly following in the paths of saints without knowing what he is doing. It was certainly a pilgrimage—a spiritual journey—as we began to learn what it means to have faith and to have others see that faith as far greater than it was. No few words could convey such an experience. Perhaps it was folly—but we had desired to be fools for Christ. No doubt heaven looked mercifully upon us for all that. We reached St. Andrew's Cathedral just before his feastday, and upon his feastday met a fellow pilgrim, who had journeyed back and forth across Canada many times, and only then did we feel that our pilgrimage was indeed complete, and that it had been blessed by God, even if more deeply than we could understand.

That pilgrimage had another result, too: the decline of my friend's health. This meant that we could not continue on pilgrimage again and so both returned to our homes, sharing Christmas with our families, not knowing whither we were to turn.

I fell back into my old writer's life, returning to work on a novel that was once more in need of revision, but always there was a feeling that this was only temporary while I waited for what came next. Yet little has yet presented itself clearly. I only continue my discernment, waiting upon the will of God. And in the meantime I ponder something I once read about vocation: how sometimes God speaks in the silence of one's heart.

In that silence I have begun to realize how much of a writer I am and to embrace once more the writer's life, writing no longer—as I once did—in hopes of changing the world, but only because I must write, not knowing what to do if I were not to write, weaving words together to express the ineffable. And so I take up my writing here again, sharing bits and pieces of that brilliant kaleidoscope that is life, hoping that even in the darkness all reflects the light of truth and the light of hope.