Letter To An Aspiring Writer

 

Someone reached out to me today via LinkedIn seeking advice and constructive feedback on getting started as a writer, specifically as a Catholic writer. I imagine they came across one of my published articles on-line and were wondering where to get published, where to connect with other writers, and how to obtain feedback on their own work. This is not the first time someone has reached out in this way. 

I haven't responded, though I thought it would be a good opportunity to kill a few birds with one stone with a blog post on the topic in the form of a letter to said inquirer.

Dear _______,

Thank you for reaching out. No need for academic salutations; I am not a Professor, and am not an instructor. To be honest, I don't even consider myself a proper writer. I've never learned the discipline in a formal sense, aside from high school English and a couple of Creative Writing classes in college. As I find myself saying often, I'm just a guy who writes some things every now and then. 

I may or may not be of any help to you when it comes to your inquiry. Though I have a few published articles, essays, and poetry floating out there on-line, it is for the most part incidental that they exist. I have been writing for as long as I can remember, try as I might to hang it up for good. Every attempt to do so invokes the deep, resigned sighs of Jeremiah the Prophet, "But if I say, “I will not mention his word or speak anymore in his name,” his word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot" (Jer 20:9)

For novice writers (as you describe yourself), having your work published (whether in periodicals, books, or other mediums) seems at first to be the pen-ultimate validation. No one says, "I want to wander in the desert for forty years." They say, "I want to reach the Promised Land."

But wandering in the desert in search of something for years, decades on end, even, is more in line with the vocation of a writer. There is no Promised Land, no resting ground where one can say "I've made it." There is only the mirage of oasis after pit-stop oasis.

The Israelites would frequently erect altars of remembrance  to remember what Yahweh had done for them as a people (see Genesis 28, 33, 35; Exodus 17, 24; Joshua 4). Writing is not unlike this. Because my short and long-term memory is so poor, writing is a way for me (and anyone really) to remember. It is also a way to find out who we were, who we are, and who we are to become. People often journal for this reason.

But journaling is not what you are seeking advice on, if I can speculate. A person who journals writes for themselves and themselves alone; a writer is, alas, burdened with the compulsive need to have his words read by someone other than himself. Whereas a journaler would be aghast were someone sneak into their room and read their diary, a writer would not put it past himself to leave such written accounts out in the plain sight of day in the hopes that someone, somewhere, will discover it.

It's curious, isn't it. Is this vain-glory, exhibitionism? I have wrestled with this over the years, the need to be acknowledged. I have even prayed novenas to Our Lady petitioning for the grace to be untethered from "the praise and adulation of men." My blog is a diary of sorts, but if I were the only one able to view it, I would have shut it down years ago. It's an outlet of sorts, yes. But the burning need for it to be given over to someone (anyone) somewhere (anywhere!) accompanies it. 

I gave up coffee for Lent. In a sense, being published is like that first sip of coffee after a month and a half of tea. You'd been anticipating the day when you can have it. And then you do. And then it's done. You are still yourself; it's now just a little harder to hide.

I joke with my wife (half joking, quarter joking, not really joking) that our kids can be whatever they want when they grow up. They just can't be writers. In thirty years of writing, I could probably pay for a month's worth of groceries from Aldi with what I've been paid for my "labor." And that's ok; I'm not a writer anyway. But if I were, as I say to my wife, "it's a cruel fate indeed." 

I like to garden; but I wouldn't want to be a landscaper. I like to monkey on bikes in my garage, but I would never want to be a professional mechanic. I love my Catholic faith, but the day I pay my mortgage with YouTube apologetic videos or podcast musings would be the death knell of zeal. 

Writing is like this. My father, pragmatic as he was and is, was right: hobbies are good, and writing for me really is a hobby, and maybe a little more. It's a way to live--to make sense of life--but it's no way to make a living. I'm not sure if that is/was your intention in reaching out (I'm speculating), to see about how to make a living or side-income from writing and/or publishing. Forgive me for assumptions. But I can think of no other endeavor that bleeds so much out of you for so little given in restitution. 

Which brings me to my next point. In meditating on Christ writhing in agony on the Cross, it can sometimes cross one's mind to ask, "Why would anyone endure such a thing?" Why would anyone literally bleed out, crushed by the weight of unrequited love, poured out as an unbibed drink offering, abandoned and alone in his final hour with the echoes of "Hosanna!" ringing in his ear? Only a fool would give himself over to such a fate. Only a fool would die for love. 

And yet we are fools following Christ, the God of redeemed folly. "God was pleased through the foolishness of what was preached to save those who believe" (1 Cor 1:21)."

Think of publishing as your Palm Sunday, while remitting your true opus as a writer to the cross. Because if you want to be a Catholic writer with anything to offer the world, this is where you nail up your work. Naked and uncovered, on full frontal display, with only your mother and a close friend as your final faithful audience. Those palm-laying masses? They are retiring in their home. Your disciples and friends? Denying they even knew you. You're not even sure your own Father is there to acknowledge your offering.

But here's the difference: when you give freely of what you've been given, the gift multiplies. When charity has been perfected, it is no longer self-seeking (1 Cor 13:5). It gives, and it gives. If I can say anything truthfully, this is what I have always tried to do as a "writer." Sure it starts out like a freshman nursing student who enters into the profession because she wants to "help people." Over time, that naivite becomes calloused over with the scars of rejection after rejection, the seeming pointlessness of tapping away on a keyboard at 3am ("for what?"), the slight-of-hand critical remarks on your syntax that you take to heart and die over. But it becomes a burning ember, not a flickering flame. If you can retain the heat of pure intention--to write in order that you might give--you can continue in your vocation. 

Speaking of vocation, I have tried not to curse what God has given me, though not always successfully. "Do not call unclean what God has called clean" (Acts 11:9). It's not easy. Writers are minor prophets--warning, admonishing, lamenting, praising. To be good you have to know your place and your calling, where it is you fill in the cracks with the mortar of your spilled ink. 

Do you want to write for yourself? Buy a diary. Do you want to be recognized? Start a TikTok channel. Do you want to coax depressives off a ledge, inspire the young, give fortitude to the weak, console the heartbroken, speak the Truth, fill the hopeless with hope, the faithless with faith? Then do that, with the tools God has entrusted you with--the pen (or keyboard, as it were). You may never get paid for it and may never be recognized on the street.  But consider those the upsides rather than drawbacks. If God has given you a gift, He expects it to be used, not buried (Mt 25:14-30). The safest place for your talents is with the banker, not in the ground.      

Do I have any closing advice for you with regards to writing? I'll give you the advice that was given to me: just write. And I'll add my own: make yourself and your words a gift to the world, given freely and without charge. If you do that, I suspect you'll never be disappointed. Because in the end, you may die a fool...but you'll die hanging on a tree with the best of them.

A Tale Of Two Parties

Twice a year we try to host a big outdoor gathering of Catholic families in our area. We travel in some different Catholic circles, so it's a good opportunity for other Catholics to eat, connect, and enjoy some fellowship for those whose paths might not cross otherwise. We figured God blessed us with this house and a bit of land, so it's up to us to give some of it back in offering. 

I have always loved to party, ever since high school (before I became a Christian). As an extroverted-introvert (an introvert with extroverted tendencies), it makes for an interesting dynamic, though. I do need my alone time, but too much of it and I start to get itchy to engage socially. Even after deciding to follow Christ, though, I didn't hang up my beer-pong cups. From college through my time living in Philly and beyond, I would try to throw the biggest parties, inviting anybody and everybody I knew, to fill the house to capacity. But it took a while to straighten out and do it soberly, enjoying the fruits of friendship and fellowship while avoiding sin and it's occasion.

As we were cleaning up after this Spring's event (we call it the bi-annual Catholic Family Fellowship) this afternoon, I was reflecting on how it is a marked difference when people of faith get together versus non-believers, even when 100+ people gather to, well, eat drink and be merry.

In "I Don't Belong Here Anymore," I recounted a bachelor party I attended about six years ago years ago:

"It was the summer of 2016, and I was in Colorado for a bachelor party. Now, ever since high school I have loved to party, and even as a new Catholic I never stopped. I went to parties, threw parties, and would party into the morning with friends. I never had a drinking problem, but temperance was a virtue I had trouble developing. I prayed, went to Mass every Sunday, read spiritual books, but was 'friends with the world" (John 15:19), trying to have my cake and eat it too.

This particular bachelor party I was not really looking forward to attending, but I had to, for various reasons. The guys were younger, and I knew they partied hard; I was getting older, but still susceptible to influence. The first day I tried to not partake in any of the revelry, but concupiscence and appetites are a funny thing, and by day 2 I was crushing the opposition in drinking games. I found myself mirroring Paul's words, "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do" (Rom 7:15)

At one point near the end of the weekend I went in my room in the mountain house the crew had rented, and sat on the bed. I wasn't in full on praying mode, but I was really hoping God could get me out of being there. No body else there seemed to have any pangs of conscience or problem with going full tilt since they weren't believers, and yet here I was, feeling the tension of having one foot in the world and one foot in the Church, not living as a good example as a Christian, and not be able to go in with full abandon either.

I always carried a small Gideon bible with me whenever I traveled. I took it out and sat on the bed and prayed a quick prayer for help. I remember to this day, I opened it and the first thing I read was

"Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed, which is idolatry. Because of these, the wrath of God is coming. You used to walk in these ways, in the life you once lived. But now you must rid yourself of all such things as these: anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language from your lips. Do not lie to each other, since you have taken off your old self with its practices and you have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge in the image of its Creator." (Col 3:5-10)

I was struck dumb. I recalled the story of St. Augustine in the garden, picking up the scriptures at the words he heard from a child, "Take up and read, take up and read." What he read was this:

"Not in carousing and drunkenness, not in sexual excess and lust, not in quarreling and jealousy. Rather, put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the desires of the flesh." (Rom 13: 13-14)

I called a Christian friend back home, a man of integrity, and told him what had happened when I opened the scripture, what I landed upon, and how it cut to the heart and left me exposed to my inconsistency. He was encouraging, but in that room I felt alone in a crowd. I didn't belong there anymore."

What I enjoy about spending time with people of faith is we are all on the same page, and the temptation to drink to excess, engage in idle gossip, or frivolous conversation is greatly diminished. God gave us food, drink, and each other to enjoy in virtue, not for the sake of sin or indulgence. There is an underlying sense of wanting the good for one another in Christian charity in the bonds of our Catholic faith. Not that non-believers can't live virtuously or wholesomely, but as One Body there is something sacramental that builds up, rather than exists without purpose or meaning or happenstance. 

The other thing that was great was there were tons of kids. We had the space for them to run around and play games like hide and seek, sports and cornhole. Part of the purpose of these gatherings we host is for the kids to get the chance to build up friendships in a safe environment while sharing the communal elements of their faith. Two local priests also graced us with their presence, and given how busy they are these days, that was a nice bonus. The weather was looking a bit iffy beforehand, so my wife and I prayed for the intercession of St. Medard ten minutes prior to people coming over, and the forecast went from 90% chance of rain to 50% to zero in a matter of a half hour. Thank you St. Medard!

When my wife and had our first son, I had to ask a friend from college to be his godfather, because we had so few Catholic friends. Most of our partying/gathering back then were with my secular friends back in Philly, and we weren't plugged in with any Catholics, especially those with big families that considered it normal to have more than three or four kids. I still remember the pray I prayed in the spirit of St. Francis, "Lord, send me some brothers!" And He did! He also provided devout Catholic women our age for my wife as well.  

Part of Christian charity is learning to live in a way that doesn't always ask, "What can I get out of this or that?" but "What can I give?" Living out the virtues cultivates the hard-fought battle to learn selflessness, but when you are all doing it together and building one another up, it becomes easier. Even Jesus needed the women to wipe his face and Simon to help carry his cross on the way to Calvary. As Christians, and especially as Catholics, our road to Heaven is corporal, not individual. For families like ours and others, though, it helps when you are able to have a little fun and fellowship along the way.

Review: "Father Stu"

 

In a 2017 interview with Aleteia, filmaker Barbara Nicolosi gives an astute insider perspective on the state of the Christian movie industry:

"What happened was that the Evangelical world started guerrilla filmmaking for itself and found a way to turn a profit doing it. By comparison with mainstream movies, the numbers are generally small, but the studios noticed and have been very happy to distribute the films to the Christians and make a few bucks in that space. Every studio now pretty much has a faith division where they’re looking for content for that niche market. This is good and bad. The good part is the mainstream industry is talking to people of faith instead of thinking of us as what’s wrong with the world. The bad part is that it’s ghetto-ized us.

They’re trying to find the political spot that makes a movie something the Christian audience will rally around, as opposed to trying to make something beautiful. The truth is we don’t need a rally, we need to experience compunction ourselves, and we need to attract people who don’t believe that we believe."

I respect Ms. Nicolosi because she is striving within a bottom-line, often godless industry to "make something beautiful." That is art, or at least should be one of the ends of (good) art. 

Films like The Passion of the Christ straddled that line between film as film and film as art. It was a moving, powerful cinematic project that grossed well and made cinematic history in the modern age. While not without some controversy, it's objective was to stir the spirit of man on the screen by depicting the graphic reality of Christ's torture and death on the cross. To that end, I believe it accomplished it's purpose.

Father Stu, starring Mark Wahlburg, is not art. But it is also not a ghettoized, low-brow Christian film turning fifty-cent tricks, or a Formed-worthy porcelain portrayal of the sanctity of the priestly calling you watch with your kids for movie night. It is something else entirely, and may have come onto the mainstream movie scene at an opportune time. When a worldly audience not yet redeemed hungers for purpose, redemption, and God Himself but finds overtly faith-based films unpalatable, it may have just found a curious niche.

Father Stu tells the true story of the life, redemption, and eventual grace-inspired ordination of Fr. Stuart Long, who as his mother says of her son, doesn't do anything half-heartedly. 

When his past-prime boxing career fails to pan out and his foray into acting falls flat, Stuart struggles to find his purpose. He is passionate and unrefined, rough and hard scrabble, which comes out in his fighting (both in bars and in the ring). At his core, he carries a deep father wound as a result of the lack of affirmation from his own father (played by Mel Gibson), which brings with it the experience of anger towards God, especially in the shadow of his younger brother's unexpected (and seemingly unfair) death at the age of five.

While working in the meat department of a local grocery store, Stuart is smitten with the beautiful Carmen (played by Teresa Ruiz), who he discovers is a devout and evangelistic Catholic and Sunday school volunteer. In his willingness to do anything to capture her affections, he agrees to be baptized and enters into R.C.I.A (the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults). He's trying--hard--to be "good," though shortly after his baptism he goes to the bar, gets drunk, and brushes up against death's door when he T-bones a car on his motorcycle. Through an (unconvincing, in my opinion) encounter with the Virgin Mary while lying bloodied on the pavement, he appears to receive the much-needed grace to eventually turn away from the sins of his past life and give himself to God in service.

While his seemingly impulsive "discernment" to become a priest as a means of carrying out this purpose appears at first to be just another one of his half-cocked fancies, his tenacity in exercising the will and not letting anything stand in his way actually works to his advantage to overcome obstacles. But as saints like Augustine know, the Pelagian "will alone" does not in itself suffice one to become good and holy; it must be aided by grace. And that grace comes in the form of his unexpected diagnosis with a muscular-disease (similar to Lou Gehrig's). Suffering is the teacher of all teachers, and when it comes to learning humility and dependence, is effective at exacting the lessons for its subject. Although initially reticent to carry out his ordination as Stuart's illness progresses and he is confined to a wheelchair, the bishop is persuaded and Stuart does become "Father Stu." He visits men in prison, hears confessions, and eventually dies at age fifty "a priest forever, in the order of Melchizedek" (Heb 7:17; Ps 110:4).

As the Angelic Doctor, St. Thomas Aquinas notes, "grace does not destroy nature, but perfects it." A film is lost on its audience if it's characters are not believable, especially when they are asked to step outside their comfort zone in viewing it. Thankfully authenticity (aided by competent acting) is not lacking in the film. I think the film does over-compensate a bit in the excessive use of coarse language (and use of the Lord's name in vain), which can be jarring and unnecessary at times to those with more sensitive consciences. Again, this isn't the type of movie you would watch on Formed, and it's R rating is appropriate. If you can look past these callouses, the underlying story of God making smooth stones with coarse rock has a redemptive and inspiring element that those of us with sinful pasts can well relate to.

Every sinner has a past, something we as Catholics sometimes forget--what it's like to sit in the back pew like a publican, not knowing when to sit and when to stand, offending others with our ignorance; what it's like to stumble while trying to find our footing after being washed clean in the waters of baptism...in essence, when we "become good" (by grace), we can sometimes get--well, religiously uppity. 

Father Stu as a film has the potential to bring "good" Catholics back down to the gritty earth, while also inspiring those ignorant of the faith to look beyond the porcelain veneer of two dimensional church-goers and unrelateable clergy. At the heart of the universal salvation story present in Father Stu is the meaty center of what it means to be a fallen man ransomed and redeemed, transformed by the gift of suffering, and called by God into the vocation prepared for him.

Indeed He Is Risen!

 Christ is Risen! Indeed He is Risen!

It has been 40-some days since I have posted. If you're still around, welcome, and I hope you had a fruitful Lenten season.

Over the past forty days, as Catholics, we have prayed, fasted, and gave alms. Hopefully we have focused our prayer lives, denied our bodily needs in order to mortify the flesh, and acted in charity towards our neighbor. 

But Lent always reminds me of our good intentions coupled with our human weakness, like the disciples falling asleep overcome by the flesh at Jesus' hour of need in Gethsemane, or Peter's bravado-turned-shame in denying Christ three times when he said he would go to his death for him.

I ran across an incisive adage by St. Moses the Black:

"You fast, but Satan does not eat. You labor fervently, but Satan never sleeps. The only dimension with which you can outperform Satan is by acquiring humility, for Satan has no humility."

This Lent was actually a fairly fruitful one for me. I lost 12 pounds in fasting (a pleasant and much needed byproduct), and we were able to increase our giving. I could have set aside more time for prayer and spiritual reading, but overall it was a time of recollection and stillness, which was part of my reason for pausing my writing during that time. I'm not sure if it worked or not, but I think I needed a break anyway. 

Part of the benefits and necessity of denial and mortification is that when it is time to feast, we can truly appreciate what God has given us in food, drink, and company. It's part of the reason I like going camping periodically--a hot shower and a Domino's pizza never tasted so good when you get off the trail! And I fully plan to enjoy my long awaited Wawa latte after Mass to the fullest extent!

Dostoevsky in Notes from the Underground said that if you gave people everything they wanted..they had nothing to eat but cake, and nothing to do but sit in warm pools and busy themselves with the continuation of the species...the first thing they would do after a week or so would go half insane and smash everything up just so that something they didn't expect would happen so they would have something interesting to do. 

It is not appropriate to fast when the Bridegroom is present, and now He is truly present in our midst, risen from the grave. We live in the joy of the Resurrection, but the resurrection has meaning because of the horror of the crucifixion and the painful uncertainty of whether that is the end of the story. As Christians, we are people of hope because we know by faith that the story does not end at Calvary. 

In the midst of war, political uncertainty, and the rising costs of necessary goods, Christ gives us the example of a man perfectly at peace in all things, asleep on a pillow during a tempest. This can be a difficult example to follow when fear and anxiety grips us. But the message is clear: "In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world." (Jn 16:33)

One thing pausing writing during this period has taught me is that I'm not that important. We can get wrapped up in our own cosmos, thinking we are very important and that what we say and get wrapped up in has great importance. But as St. Thomas the Angelic Doctor, in his wisdom noted, “I can write no more. All that I have written seems like straw.” The world goes on without you. The dead are forgotten over time and their legacies fade.

But Christ remains. Christ endures. It is not faith, hope, and charity that have had their day, but Death, which has been conquered once and for all. The captives have been set free. Poor sinners like myself, who were ensnared in the miry pit, now have hope that they can rise above their past darkness and enslavement. 

If you had a lousy Lent, let the reminder of your human weakness make you cling to Christ all the more and lead you to humility, which is the crown of all virtues. If you had a great Lent, enjoy the fruits of your mortification, but always remember to "take heed, lest you fall." (1 Cor 10:12). And if you are reading and are not Catholic or Christian, may you be filled with a holy curiosity and hopefully observe the curious actions of Christians worldwide who live in the joy of the Resurrection through Christ, who is our hope.

Christus resurrexit

Vere resurrexit!