On a Unified Mormon Fiction

A cross-post from Mormon Renaissance

On Saturday at BYU's science fiction/fantasy symposium, Life, The Universe, and Everything, Orson Scott Card gave a lecture entitled "SF&F as a Legitimate Literary Genre." Now, I'm going to ignore the primary question of his speech, since science fiction is not what this blog is all about. However, I think some of the points he raised can be legitimately applied to Mormon literature. Because, in its own way, Mormon fiction is like SF&F: a class of writing read by a small, cult-like following, a genre which many (self-proclaimed literary) people look down on because of its "juvenile" conventions.

Card's point was this--the dismissal of an entire genre is usually illegitimate. When we do so (usually by using only one example, or only its worst examples), we're really just setting up strawmen to knock down to our own literary preferences. To read science fiction with an eye for literary fiction is an experiment doomed to fail. The genres have different definitions of success. For example, Card claimed that in literary fiction, the star is the author, who as he/she writes, encodes meaning into complex layers of symbols which the reader is then to decode. This is what people who read literary fiction want, and when it is done well, they are happy. However, these conventions would be found ridiculous to science fiction readers, who are completely concerned with plot. Science fiction is about the believable linkage of cause and effect, an exploration of how we effect the world. That exploration is best done through stories rather than symbols.

I see this applying to Mormon literature in two ways. First, as I said in our opening post, it's unfair to judge Mormon lit by all that is really crappy in it. In Jeff Savage's recent post on LDS Publisher, he pointed out that we ought to look first to find literature that suits our own tastes and then within that genre to find that best books that fit that need. Within Mormon literature, there is room for sappy romances, homey mysteries, epic historicals, as well as literary fiction, as long as we don't expect them to be what they are not. Any impulse to declare any one of these as the Mormon fiction, to the exclusion of the others, would be invalid. However, within each of these genres, there are good quality works and lesser quality works, and we can work on improving each genre to its own ideal to achieve its own ends.

Second, Card's discussion of the different aesthetic approaches of each genre reminded me of what the people in the Fit for the Kingdom films movement are trying to do. This film-making group has divorced itself from the idea that Mormon cinema ought to employ the popular Hollywood conventions, instead trying to define a style of honesty and celebration of the ordinary that is uniquely Mormon. I'd like to see a similar thing happen in Mormon literature. As I said, Mormon literature covers many genres. What makes people (like me) want to unite them is that they all deal with Mormon subject matter. But in style, in approach, they seem pretty disparates: Mormon literary fiction follows literary fiction conventions, Mormon romance novels follow romance novel conventions (obviously with some amendments). This is good--romance novels would not work if the character suddenly broke out into random bouts of symbolism as they tend to in literary fiction.

However, it seems to me that the unity of Mormon literature could benefit from the definition of some uniquely Mormon style, independent of the worldly genres. I'm not sure there's a genre that could be called the "Mormon" genre, but perhaps there could be a specific aesthetic or style of Mormon writing. My personal vision would be an aesthetic of individual consideration and empowerment--a Christian writing where there are no "bad" or "good" guys, but simply sympathetic people trying their misguided best to do what they think will bring them happiness. This belief in the power of humanity and its ultimate humanness is one of the most unique beliefs in Mormondom, and I think it could make for a great literature. From the buzz I'm hearing about Angela Hallstrom's Bound on Earth, this novel seems promising in that direction.

But that's my vision: What's your Mormon literary aesthetic? Am I wrong about Mormon literature not being about genres? Is there one genre that sticks out to you as Mormon?

It's not all about Card: Mormons and Science Fiction

All right, all right. After much harassment from Ben, I've been compelled to post something on my blog about what I've been up to. I just handed in a final paper with the title "Of Saints and Starships: The History of Mormons and Science Fiction." No, it is not all about Orson Scott Card. Seriously people. It's a twelve page long beast listing many of the intersections of Mormonism and science fiction. Here's some interesting excerpts, none of which include the ever delightful Card:

There are two strains of thought on the relationship between religion and science fiction. One view is that these two are inevitable partners because of their scale and themes, a view best represented by C. S. Lewis: “If you have a religion it must be cosmic; therefore it seems to me odd that this genre [religious science fiction] was so late in arriving” (Lewis 125).

. . .

The first [Mormon science fiction] is a short story/play by Parley P. Pratt in 1844 entitled “A Dialogue between Joseph Smith and the Devil,” which portrays a conversation between two regarding the success of the Restoration. . . . . As a work of science fiction, it must be admitted that the piece is fairly shallow. Most of the speculative fiction elements fall into the accusation that religious science fiction is primarily allegorical—the story exists primarily to convey a barely veiled ideas attempt to preach the Mormon message. However, this story undeniably represents an attempt by a Mormon to represent the tenets of his religion through speculative fiction framework.

. . .

Ironically, the short stories of inactive Mormon Zenna Henderson from the same period [1950s-1960s] show a more obvious LDS influence. In 1951, she published the first of her “People” stories. Her stories featured an alien race, dubbed “the People,” forced to emigrate to Earth because of the impending destruction of their home planet. Landing in the southwestern United States (Henderson spent most of her life in Arizona), the People established a society separate from humanity both to preserve their unique culture and to prevent harassment because of their unique psychic gifts. The analog to the establishment of Utah by the early Mormons is obvious, though it has apparently never been commented on by scholars . . . .

. . .

Additionally, three collections of specifically Mormon science fiction were published during the late 80s and early 90s entitled LDSF: Latter-Day Science Fiction (Thousand Oaks, CA: Millennial Productions 1982). These collections were inextricably tied to Mormon culture: the second volume contains an introductory essay by Hugh Nibley and stories that speculate on missionary work involving time travel and a future church where only women have the priesthood. (A copy with margin notes by Hugh Nibley can be found in the BYU library’s Ancient Studies room.) These collections are of mediocre quality and are generally little known . . . .

. . .

Six main themes of science fiction which coincide with the interests of Mormon theology:
1. The identity of the human race and possibilities for human progression
2. The identity of the individual; questions of destiny and free will
3. Explanations for the “homesickness” of the human soul
4. The identity of God; the conflict posed by discovering other belief systems
5. Responsibility for personal actions; the ability to atone for mistakes that affect others
6. The ideal structure of society; the treatment of fellow beings

. . .

Michael R. Collings studies several mainstream science fiction stories with prominent references to Mormonism, the most notable being the satiric “Fosterite Church of the New Revelation” in Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land (New York: Berkley, 1961); the sexually repressed hypocrite Nephi Sarvant in Philip Jose Farmer’s Flesh (New York: Signet, 1986); and the attempt to theologically sanitize Mormonism in Piers Anthony’s Planet of Tarot trilogy (New York: Jove, 1979) (Collings). In other words, . . . many of the Mormon stereotypes of the 19th century had survived intact in genre fiction, and specifically science fiction.

If you're interested in this stuff you might check out the following websites:

• http://www.adherents.com/lit/sf_lds.html - A comprehensive list of all mentions of LDS characters in mainstream SF novels.
• http://mormonsf.org/ - A database maintained by Marny Parkin containing a comprehensive collection of all science fiction written by Mormon authors, as well as a list of non-fiction about Mormon SF authors.
• http://mormonsf.org/reading.html - Marny Parkin’s recommended survey reading list of Mormon science fiction.

Another Reason to Love Orson Scott Card

From his latest column:

Let's face it. You don't start writing fiction if you didn't have a healthy dose of vanity and ambition. What could be more arrogant than to believe that stuff you make up out of your head will be so pleasurable to others that they ought to pay you to be able to read it?

And then we have contests to see whose made-up stuff is best.

Yup, I love this man. Too bad he's already married.

The Great Debate

Ha ha! Orson Scott Card is writing a chapter in The Great Snape Debate, an soon-to-be-released essay collection about whether Snape is good or evil. It's too good to be true. Someone keep me awake! Card puts up a good argument for Harry Potter as literary classic:

It is ironic that the litterati of the New York Times removed children's literature from their bestseller list for the sole purpose of getting the Harry Potter novels out of the number one, two, and three spots. Here we have the most significant event in English language literature in decades -- a book that turns nonreaders into readers! -- and they kick it out of their pages.

Well, they've been kicking real readers out of their pages for years anyway. The Harry Potter books will endure as Tolkien's Lord of the Rings has endured -- because the readers love it so much that they refuse to let it go away. That's what determines what will be studied in literature classes a hundred years from now -- not what's on the adult list in the New York Times, and not what academics of today think is respectable literature.

When The Great Snape Debate comes out, I hope you'll read it. Of course, I think my essay proves that my opinion is correct -- but I would, now, wouldn't I? The book itself, as a commercial enterprise, is a blatant attempt to capitalize on the success of Rowling's work. But I still can't think of what's wrong about that. Because what it really is is a public conversation about one of the most pivotal story points in the most significant work of literature of our day. I thought it was worth taking part in; I hope you'll think it's worth listening in on when the book comes out.

Here, here! When was the last time the public was this involved in a book, or even a story of any kind? Perhaps when they convinced Doyle to bring back Sherlock Holmes. Or when people sprayed "Frodo lives!" on the subway walls. Chalk one up for our favorite wizard.

Extra-curricular Reading

For some extra credit points on my completely arbitrary point scale, check out this afterward by Orson Scott Card to his novel Empire, which I am going to bump way up on my reading list:

It is part of human nature to regard as sane those people who share the worldview of the majority of society. Somehow, though, we have managed to divide ourselves into two different, mutually exclusive sanities. The people in each society reinforce each other in madness, believing unsubstantiated ideas that are often contradicted not only by each other but also by whatever objective evidence exists on the subject. Instead of having an ever-adapting civilization-wide consensus reality, we have became a nation of insane people able to see the madness only in the other side.

Does this lead, inevitably, to civil war? Of course not -- though it's hardly conducive to stable government or the long-term continuation of democracy. What inevitably arises from such division is the attempt by one group, utterly convinced of its rectitude, to use all coercive forces available to stamp out the opposing views.

Such an effort is, of course, a confession of madness. Suppression of other people's beliefs by force only comes about when you are deeply afraid that your own beliefs are wrong and you are desperate to keep anyone from challenging them. Oh, you may come up with rhetoric about how you are suppressing them for their own good or for the good of others, but people who are confident of their beliefs are content merely to offer and teach, not compel.

Wow. Can I just tell everyone how much I agree with OSC? Seriously, the man is a genius--meaning, of course, that he seems to think almost exactly like I do. This is great.

And this great testament to the importance of the church as an organization. Of course, only a business professor could have written it, but it's definitely a good answer to the worries I expressed last week. Of course, the Church is more than a service organization, but that is a substantial purpose of it. Plus there's a great anecdote in there about Mitt Romney:

The important point about the prior paragraph is that our experience was not unusual. Everyone in the congregation was similarly serving, not just accepting assignments to help, but seeking opportunities to help. We gave often, and received often. For example, a short time later our family had out-grown our small home, so we found a larger one and put the word out that we would appreciate any help in loading and unloading our rented moving truck. Among those who showed up that morning was Mitt Romney, now the governor of Massachusetts, who had just completed his unsuccessful campaign for the U.S. Senate in Massachusetts. Mitt had a broken collarbone, but for two hours traipsed between our home and the truck, carrying out whatever he could manage with his one good arm. That spirit is just in the air in the Mormon Church, week after week, year after year. The strong help the weak, and the weak help the strong, and nobody thinks about who is weak and who is strong. It creates an extraordinary spirit of mutual love, because as we work to help others who are in need, our love and respect for those we help intensifies.

He he!

Thought Stew

So I have a whole bunch of things to blog about, but school is currently consuming my life. And I do mean consuming in its fully literal sense. Once we hit reading day, things should slow down considerably. (I never work during finals' week (should that be possessive?), so I have a ton of free time.) Until then, I doubt I'll have time to pull together anything decent for you to read. But since I feel guilty leaving you out in the cold, consider this post a preview of things to come. Here's what's been occupying my mind:

• I GOT INTO MY STUDY ABROAD!! I was so nervous, but it's really happening! I'm going to England in the spring to walk all over and write stuff. Joni is coming too, and it's going to be miraculous! I can't think of a better way to spend two months! Although, this does mean I have to get in shape for the hiking bit . . . drat.
  
• I finished reading Style: Toward Clarity and Grace, and holy crap! it is amazing. I want to write about it in more detail later, but here's a two page summary of the book that I whipped out as part of my ELang final project. Hurrah for classes that motivate you to do what you already want to do. Sorry about the yucky formatting. No time for making it look better. Read it, or better yet, read the book. It will improve your consciousness of good writing. I can already feel a difference in how I think about things.
  
• On Friday, I had an epiphanic moment in History of Rhetoric class: I found my philosopher! I've always found at least some truth in each philosopher I've read, but I also invariably find problems which make their philosophies unacceptable. On December 8, I discovered Kenneth Burke. His theory of dramatism explains exactly why I feel so uncomfortable with experimental fiction that tries to eliminate storytelling *coughVirginiaWoolfcough*. And he has a pyramid theory of rhetoric that almost exactly echoes my circle theory that I've been ranting about for so long! I almost gasped when the teacher introduced it to us. It was like someone read my thoughts and deemed them worthy. It made me want to sing for joy! (I know; I'm a nerd.) I'm now planning to read at least some of his works over the break. I'll write when I find out more.
• Speaking of History of Rhetoric, I'm writing my final paper on early Mormon rhetoric. It's making me think a lot about the previous debate on what makes a good talk.
  
• I'm planning out some Christmas personal essays. Hope you guys are up to some of my crummy attempts at dialog.
• I saw Happy Feet over Thanksgiving break, which has strangely inspired an essay on dealing with the institutional Church in Mormon literature. I promise I'll explain later, though reading Orson Scott Card's review of the movie might help you see where I'm going. (The review is towards the end, but this column also has some stuff about Scotch tape and Bill Bryson, one of my favorite nonfiction authors, so you should just read the whole thing.)
• Also, some thoughts on lit crit provoked by CS Lewis' essay "Fern Seed and Elephants" are in the works. For anyone keeping score in my creativity/criticism debate, creativity is beating the snot out of criticism, but we'll find some virtue in her yet.
• And I promise I have a follow-up for Ben's rebuttal to my Santa post. I will defend Saint Nick to the end. "I believe in Santa Claus like I believe in love . . . ." (Maybe that's not so apt after the last two posts.)

And people wonder why I'm so distracted.

Why I Believe in Santa Claus

On our most recent black Friday shopping spree, my dad purchased a DVD-R machine. The subsequent Saturday and Sunday were spent figuring out how to make the darn thing work. After actually breaking down and reading the manual, things went along quite swimmingly, and we started transferring all of our old, recorded-from-TV Christmas specials from VHS to DVD. We got through "A Charlie Brown Christmas," "Mickey's Christmas Carol," "Frosty the Snowman," and "Little Drummer Boy" before arriving at what must be my favorite Christmas special of all time: "Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus." Sure, it's cheesy (and cheap) animation, but the story is absolutely thrilling. I still get chills when I hear the narrator read Francis Church's response to Virginia's letter:

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. [. . .]

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. [. . .]

No Santa Claus! Thank GOD! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

After reading those words, you might well imagine the shock I felt reading Ben's post on the Santa Myth. How could anyone believe encouraging belief in Santa Claus really be as dangerous as all that? Is Santa, in effect, the anti-Christ, in that he takes the place of the Savior in our holiday celebration?

Of course, you must have guessed my position on this issue by now, but humor me by allowing me to explicate further. No, I do not believe that encouraging children to believe in Santa Claus is wrong; on the contrary, my family is very strong about keeping up the Santa tradition. We hang signs that say, "This house believes," and threaten to take away presents from those who refuse to admit belief in Santa Claus. It's flat heresy to utter the words "Santa's not real" in our house.

In defence of this point of view, I would say these anti-Santa advocates have made one crucial mistake in their logic: they equate encouraging belief in the unreal with lying. I would argue that these are not the same at all, that while of course the second is wrong, the first is harmless, necessary, even healthy.

This willful suspension of disbelief is a wonderful and glorious part of our human experience. Besides Santa Claus, we see this technique commonly used with ghost stories and urban legends. A suspension of disbelief is necessary to maintaining these tales: who would enjoy listening to ghost stories without the narrator's insistance that they were real? The story cannot possibly have the same chilling effect if we know it is imaginary. Only when we are absolutely convinced that the story actually happened to someone's aunt's friend does it strike terror into our hearts.

The same way with Santa Claus: should we insist on asserting that Santa is completely fictional, the magical anticipation of Christmas morning would disappear. No child would anxiously look out the window, mistaking the blinking light of a satilite for the glow of Rudolph's nose, then dive into bed, furiously trying to sleep so she won't be caught awake when Santa comes. I look back on my true believing days with nostalgia and contentment. It is an experience that can be gained in no other way--to believe in something completely and utterly trivial. I maintain that it is a healthy and natural part of life, not to be disturbed because of rare and horrifying stories of children whose faith in Christ is damaged by Santa.

Of course, it is a pleasure that can be had only for a short while. When the dawn comes and the ghost-story teller reveals their craft, the magic is over. Once we first glimpse our Santa Claus presents in the storage closet, the opportunity for that magic in the world is gone. But simply because it cannot exist forever, should we shut down the experience entirely? No, no more than we would deny the beauty of a snowstorm or spring flowers because their presence was only temporary.

Additionally, this belief in Santa serves as a praticing ground for belief in Christ. If we can't believe in Santa Claus, who leaves us physical gifts every year, how can we find faith in Christ? It is essentially an exercise in what faith is--learning to believe without seeing. It's something that's difficult to gain experience in doing, and yet we must find a way to do it. Santa seems as good a method as any.

This aspect is, of course, what primarily concerns the anti-Santa league: isn't it wrong to have faith in something that doesn't exist? Aren't we setting kids up to believe that their faith in Christ will turn out the same way as their faith in Santa?

Obviously, I would argue no. We must develop faith in many things in this life which let us down--other people, for one. This practice faith is necessary. The world would be quite an awful place if we never trusted anyone. Of course we all recognize this faith should never supercede our faith in the one person who will never let us down, Christ. But when Christ told us not to trust in the arm of flesh, I much doubt that he meant we shouldn't trust other people. It's a warning of proportion, not absolutes.

As to the more general opposition of the materialistic and spiritual sides of Christmas, maybe I'm unique in that I've never had a problem with that. Even the materialistic gift-giving of Christmas was always redirected towards spiritual growth. For me, the search for the perfect gift--not just something that they want, but something that they need and that also says something about your special connection as family or friends--is as much an exercise in developing charity as any service project could be, perhaps more because it is undertaken not from necessity but from desire. When else will you spend hours in several different stores, thinking only of your friend and how much you love them?

And besides the gift-giving aspect, all of the other Christmas symbols, un-Christ-centered though they may be, serve to bind us together as a culture. We can laugh with almost anyone when we remember the terribly cheap animation of the Christmas specials or the tune of a familiar Christmas song. These things unify us across all other barriers--bridging social capital, if you will. And is not unity something Christ would have us develop? If we are not one, of course, we are not his.

That said, there's a very interesting Orson Scott Card Christmas short story called "Homeless in Hell," which is about the Santa issue. The message is one we can all agree on: the Santa tradition is a healthy and righteous thing, so long as it does not supercede Christ.

Snowflakes

Wow! I just found SnowDays, via a link from Orson Scott Card's column. This looks like a really good time waster. :D

Middle Woman

Ah-Cheu was a woman of the great kingdom of Ch'in, a land of hills and valleys, a land of great wealth and dire poverty. But Ah-Cheu was a middle person, neither rich nor poor, neither old nor young, and her husband's farm was half in the valley and half on the hill. Ah-Cheu has a sister older than her, and a sister younger than her, and one lived thirty leagues to the north, and the other lived thirty leagues to the south. "I am a middle woman," Ah-Cheu boasted once, but her husband's mother rebuked her, saying, "Evil comes to the middle, and good goes out to the edges."
-"Middle Woman," Orson Scott Card

I guess the real thing I was getting at in my "Insecurities of a Jack" post is that lately I feel like a middle woman, moreso at this point in my life than at other times. I'm neither entirely ignorant nor astoundingly intellectual, neither committed science geek or philosophical humanities student, neither flamingly liberal or staunchly conservative. I don't read the cannon classics or the pulp fiction, but in between. I'm envious of those who can be obsessive fans of something, for I find myself on the borders between fandom and normality. I am a middle woman.

It's not that I don't have firm opinions, because I do. It's just that most of them happen to be firmly in the middle. Everything I've learned has lead me to believe that's where the truth is (see the Circle Theory). But to the people out on the edges, I appear wishy-washy and bland.

In theory, it's a great place to be. The middle is more objective, the middle can try anything, the middle can camoflage itself. But it feels so fake. I'm on the fringes of so many different communities, but part of none of them. Gamers, anime fans, science researchers, English researchers, high culture, low culture, political culture--I've got enough of each to understand what they are talking about, but I never really get out there and commit myself. I balance on the edges, watching and observing.

Which brings me to the excerpt from "Middle Woman." I love the story overall, but I've always wondered about that line: "Evil comes to the middle, and good goes out to the edges." It simply doesn't make sense to me. Good comes to all the edges, no matter how different they are, leaving out only the middle, which is a little like all of them?

And then I wonder if it has something to do with the parable of the unjust steward. Am I only in the middle because I lack the zeal or courage to settle on a direction and move out towards it? Does evil come to the middle because it is afraid?

Seeking Greatness

The other day, the idea of the "great Mormon writer" resurfaced in my mind via Ben's post on this quote:

The first great Mormon writer will be excommunicated from the Church for his writing.

Interesting. Like Ben and Richard Dutcher, I have to say I hope it isn't so. I have to trust that this community of faithful believers will not only have room for something great, but be an ideal starting point for such greatness. However, I can see where the quote is coming from, and I think there's some sad truth to this perspective. If you substitute "excommunicated from the Church" with "scorned by the Church community," you would be hitting much closer to the truth.

I guess I should start by defining what we mean by the great Mormon author (GMA) because there are many possible definitions. The obvious observations would be such a GMA must be a writer of renown who is Mormon. But beyond that, who is their audience, and for what purpose do they write? Here are the basic possibilities, as I see them:

1. Mormon audience, faith promoting--This GMA writes the ultimate novel about the typical Mormon family. They affirm the good things in our community, cause us to weep when the children of their character fall away from the church, and basically make us feel warm and fuzzy when we read them. Think Deseret-Book-style fiction: The Work and the Glory would be the prototypical work of this GMA.
2. Mormon audience, theological--This GMA gives us great analysis of our beliefs and the scriptures and may or may not also be a GA (General Authority). This is the category of writers like Hugh Nibley and CS Lewis (if he were Mormon).
   
3. Mormon audience, community analysis--This GMA analyzes the foilbles of the Mormon community from a faith-based perspective. They are able to write critically with issues like social snobbery and homosexuality in the church, all without losing their faithful perspective. They would deal with our doubts and fears as Church members and portray us in all of our imperfection with an eye to correcting these problems.
   
4. General audience, proselytizing--This GMA writes the great American novel about Mormonism. It is so great that it convinces even the most hardened skeptics to look into the Church further. It tells the tale of Mormon belief in such a way that the world can understand what it means to be a Mormon.
   
5. General audience, literary--A normal great writer who simply happens to also be Mormon. Their works are read throughout the country/world by believers and non-believers to great acclaim. A knowledge of Mormonism is neither necessary to read their works nor gained from doing so.
   

In all likelihood, the GMA must fulfill all of these functions in some way. They are all important aspects of what it means to be a writer from any community. The problem is that certain of these functions are more easily acceptable to the Church community than others. Obviously, numbers 1 and 4 can be done fairly easily without offending anyone within the Church, except that perhaps someone doesn't like your portrayal of Joseph Smith. Number 5 is problematic because many within the Church would see you as being ashamed of your faith if you shoot for a general audience without any intent to convert.

But numbers 2 and 3 are, I think, where the original quote is coming from. Theological writings, outside of officially authorized Church literature, are a very delicate balance in the LDS community. Do we really have room in our society for someone like CS Lewis, whose theological writings are mostly logic based rather than scripture or modern prophets? I have yet to read any good logic-based theology from any LDS author, mostly because our beliefs center so much on authority (ethos, if you will). Yes, we have people with scholarly authority like Hugh Nibley, but even those types are viewed warily from inside the establishment. Many people are worried these things, as Ben says, get too scholarly and therefore detract from testimony and revelation. The GMA would have to hit the right balance in order to not alienate the rest of the Church.

Number 3, social commentary, is an even more dangerous category. I think in Mormonism we are naturally disposed to dislike criticism of our society for two reasons. First, because of the extensive social programs of the church, it's difficult to separate societal issues from doctrinal issues. Second, just from our history of being persecuted, we've become slightly oversensitive to any criticism at all. It's difficult for us the see the line there. Anyway, this is almost certainly where the quote is coming from. Social critics from within Mormon culture almost always end up being pushed to the outside--Robert Kirby, even some of Orson Scott Card. It seems to be impossible to be a mainstream Mormon and also a social critic. The GMA would have to manage to do both, or fulfill this quote by being pushed out.

Of course, if the GMA moves too far out, they can lose their faith, or at least their identification with the community of faith. And the GMA can never be someone outside the community--they must never try to be a neutral observer. A GMA has a vested interest in the community; they are part of us.

(On a side note, as I wrote up these categories, I can see the case for Orson Scott Card as the GMA taking shape. He has major works in most of the categories:

1. Mormon audience, faith promoting: Saints, Women of Genesis
2. Mormon audience, theological: some essays--this is definitely a weak point; we have yet to see a Mere Mormonism from him.
   
3. Mormon audience, community analysis: "Hypocrites of Homosexuality," A Storyteller in Zion
4. General audience, proselytizing: perhaps the Alvin Maker series; also a weak point, according to some; personal beliefs incorporated into his works, but no great converting novel.
5. General audience, literary: Ender's Game, short stories
   

And he has been able to maintain his faith while also writing critically about it. Really, perhaps the only thing that holds him back from obtaining this title is that he lacks great literature about the doctrines of the Church (nos. 2 and 4). However, I personally see these as more minor functions of the GMA, so I would say OSC is, if not THE GMA, at least as close as we have gotten.)

Musings on Fiction

Writers are mean. *pout*

I just finished reading OSC's Rachel and Leah. The strangeness of the Rachel/Leah/Jacob story always irked me in the Bible, and I'll admit I had my doubts that even the amazing OSC could pull it off convincingly. To my delight, the book is full of very believeable characters: the women are very distinct and yet each holds character traits that I see in myself. He strings a delicate path of influence between these women as they grow and change, and not in simple ways either. And I absolutely adore Leah's character, which is why the ending hit me so harshly. There was one brief moment of ecstacy, where I thought he had figured out a way to end the story happily, before it came horribly crashing down around me.

Well, at least he's not a "ruthless killer" like some authors I know. *coughJKRowlingcough* (Great interview, by the way. I always forget how hillarious that woman is.)

Ah, the power of stories never ceases to amaze me. It's the only thing that keeps me clinging on to the idea of becoming a fiction writer, though my grasp of characters and settings will probably never be good enough to suit the task. My characters are the sorts of cardboard cut-outs that horrify me in other's work--dare I say the women of Austen? No, too many of you love her. But I can't help the comparison in a novel as full of women as Rachel and Leah. Each of the women in Pride and Prejudice represents one, maybe two, important concepts and that's all. Their characters are almost perfectly resolved at the end of the plot. The characters who are bad you get to simply hate.

I'm constantly in awe of Card's ability to recreate believeable characters, who in addition to seeming real are recognizeable in the people around me. (With a little tweaking, I can see my sister and myself in Rachel and Leah. No, I won't tell you who's who, though I suppose it shouldn't be hard to guess. Especially if you know my sister.) As in Austen's work, the characters fulfill the purpose of the narrative, but they also take on a life of their own because you understand why they are doing what they are doing. Zilpah, who could have ended up becoming a Lydia-like character instead becomes sympathetic as I recognize her motives as some I have felt in my own heart (though clearly never taken to her extreme). Same goes for Bilhah, even though she goes from good to worse. And even the seemingly evil characters are not left completely hateable. In this way, Card's fiction is truly moral because he forces us to look at every character as someone sympathetic, worthwhile, redeemable, not a mere villian or silly girl.

As for settings, I never did have the patience to describe anything properly. I've got a short story in my head in which the setting is absolutely crucial, but doing it without creating the same drawn out descriptions which I hate in writers like Dickens and Tolkien is another matter. I can't stand reading pages of descriptions--you lose the reason why the setting was so important in the first place--and yet my reader would need to have an extremely good feel for the place. There must be a better way. Again, OSC could be a model for me in this, since his descriptions never bother me. (Does he have many? Maybe I should try to study them.)

But the heartless part of being a writer, I'm sure I could be great at that. Killing off characters is a piece of cake. :D

Wiser than the Children of Light: Parables

Parables are interesting things. The way in which they convey their meanings is somewhat of a mystery, and yet they do it so effectively and consistently. Reading these simple stories brings all who read them to an understanding of very specific doctrines, so much so that the gospels rarely need to provide explanation outside of the story, other than the context in which Christ provided it. For a more eloquent explanation of the wonder of parables, I turn to the OSC:

It's no coincidence that so much of Christ's labor in this life was devoted to creating [parables]. . . . The Church he founded eventually failed him. His doctrines were distorted, forgotten, and lost. His followers were slain. The people he healed eventually died. But his stories, those deceptively simple parables, persisted. Where doctrines consisting of language can be and usually are reinterpreted into convenient new meanings, stories consisting of causal relationships between events are very hard to reinterpret without the audience noticing and crying "Foul!"

. . . If I tell you that the "so-called Good Samaritan" was really a clever businessman who acted as he did so as to impress the innkeeper in order to get a purchasing contract with him later, and if I tell you that Christ's message was that you must do good PR in order to succeed in business, you know I'm lying. (Orson Scott Card, "Art as an Act of Charity," A Storyteller in Zion, p. 112-113)

Generally, the meanings of the parables are just as obvious as that of the Good Samaritan. But in my scripture reading yesterday, I stumbled across the one parable that I view as an exception. And it's become one of my favorite parables not only because of it's meaning, but because it is not as obvious. (Maybe it's just the elitist in me.) For your reference, here it is, the Parable of the Unjust Servant from Luke 16:

1 And he said also unto his disciples, There was a certain rich man, which had a steward; and the same was accused unto him that he had ^awasted his goods.

2 And he called him, and said unto him, How is it that I hear this of thee? give an ^aaccount of thy ^bstewardship; for thou mayest be no longer steward.

3 Then the steward said within himself, What shall I do? for my lord taketh away from me the stewardship: I cannot dig; to beg I am ashamed.

4 I am resolved what to do, that, when I am put out of the stewardship, they may receive me into their houses.

5 So he called every one of his lord’s debtors unto him, and said unto the first, How much owest thou unto my lord?

6 And he said, An hundred measures of oil. And he said unto him, Take thy bill, and sit down quickly, and write fifty.

7 Then said he to another, And how much owest thou? And he said, An hundred measures of wheat. And he said unto him, Take thy bill, and write fourscore.

8 And the lord commended the unjust steward, because he had done wisely: for the children of this world are in their generation wiser than the ^achildren of ^blight.

9 And I say unto you, Make to yourselves friends of the ^amammon of unrighteousness; that, when ye fail, they may receive you into everlasting habitations.

10 He that is ^afaithful in that which is least is faithful also in much: and he that is unjust in the least is unjust also in much.

11 If therefore ye have not been faithful in the unrighteous mammon, who will commit to your ^atrust the true ^briches?

12 And if ye have not been faithful in that which is another man’s, who shall give you that which is your own?

A very strange parable indeed. Here are a few of the things I draw from it. First, we must be able to obey lesser commandments before receiving higher ones. If we cannot be trusted to keep the lesser law, how can God reveal more unto us? We must make better use of what we have. And rushing at the last minute like the unjust servant will not do. The gospel demands the "tranquil and steady dedication of the lifetime" (Elder Oaks, "The Dedication of Lifetime" --the half not on dating!). If not, when we are called to be accountable for our actions, we will be found short.

In that same vein, I believe that the master commends the unjust servant because, even though what he did was wrong, at least he went after what he wanted with zeal. He found himself in a dilemma, weighed his options, "resolved" what to do, and pursued it full-throttle. In this way, those who work evil are often better than those who are good: how many of us go after truth and righteousness with the same determination and single-mindedness that the unjust servant shows towards evil?

Not many, I think. Rather, we wonder and worry about not receiving a special witness that our course is right, and hestitate to act. I am as much guilty as the next person of faith. We want a voice from God to confirm our every action, when He has told us plainly that "it is not meet that I should command in all things" and men should "do many things of their own free will" (D&C 58:26-27). Thus "the children of this world are in their generation wiser than the children of light." (Thanks to James Joyce for that bit of insight, even if it's the only thing I've ever gotten from him. Cursed Dubliners!)

The usually most troubling passage of this parable is "Make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness; that, when ye fail, they may receive you into everlasting habitations." Is the Savior telling us to make friends with evil people? Perhaps yes. Perhaps not. I could see it either way. First, if we are friends with the unrighteous, then we can lift them up, and, in spite of our imperfections, they will testify of our goodness at the last day. Or, the Savior could merely be encouraging us to have many friends, for when our own situation or willpower fail us. If we lack the strength to bring of our salvation on our own, it is our friends who create the tide that we will drift along in.

I love thinking about this parable--so complex and so satisfying.

Reading Material

If you know my reading habits at all, you know that I pratically worship Orson Scott Card. He's a very clear yet eloquent writer with excellent insights into people, religion, politics, and life in general. In addition, he is a great role model for how to balance the conflicting roles of creator, critic, and disciple of Christ.

He writes two columns/essays for a local paper which usually appear on his website within a few weeks. The political column, World Watch, always has a great twist, and never follows the right/left party lines you might expect. He defends truth and logic, which ever party has them, and his results will suprise you. His recent essay on illegal immigration, "What Is This Crime Anyway?", has caused me to seriously reconsider my own position on the topic.

The other column, Uncle Orson Reviews Everything, is slightly uneven, both in quality and content. The staple of the column is movie reviews, which sometimes go a little far in their sensitivity about Hollywood's treatment of political issues (see the review of Mona Lisa Smile near the bottom). Book reviews show up frequently, along with food and restaurant reviews, as well as criticism of the local government. But my favorite parts of this column are his criticisms of people in general. For example:

What, exactly, does it mean when someone says, "My, but you're opinionated." Or "Well, we aren't opinionated, are we?"

What does it mean to be opinionated? Well, presumably, it means that you have opinions and you say them.

But if to be opinionated is something to be discouraged (and the word is always used disparagingly), what is the virtuous alternative? To have no opinions? Or perhaps merely to refrain from saying them?

I believe that "opinionated" is used precisely the way that "judgmental" is used -- in an attempt to make someone embarrassed to state their views, thereby silencing them without having to resort to actually answering any of their views or offering contrary evidence or reasoning. (emphasis in original)

Just amazing, and so true. Reminds me of the old comment Ali made during the "Soul Force" mini-blog-war-thing.

Speaking of reading material, today the Leaky Cauldron posted this interesting study which quantifies the effect Harry Potter is having on reading in children. According to the study (neglecting possible bias, since it is published by Scholastic), over 60% of children age 9-11 and 12-14 have read Harry Potter. Holy cow. And 63% of boys didn't read for fun until they read HP. Talk about influence! It makes me yearn to ever have that sort of audience with my words.

Maybe I'm just power hungry, and that's the real reason I'm an English major.

Post # the Fiftith One

Ha ha! I have actually succeeded in creating a blog with 50 posts in it! This is probably more entries than are in any one of my journals. I am notoriously bad at keeping habits going (well, not notoriously, I guess, since that would imply that other people know/care about it), especially ones that involve as much introspective effort as journaling.

Habits and I have a love-hate relationship. On the one hand, I love the feeling that I know what I need to do at every moment of the day, and that everything I need to do will get done if I just stick to the routine. It makes me feel gloriously productive, and I feel excited to wake up and accomplish things. And there's something inherently satisfying about an unbroken, consistent flow of action.

On the other hand, I resent the way habits take over my life. When I actually schedule in time for all the things I am supposed to do (exercising, blogging, journaling, cleaning, etc.) I have almost no time left in my day. Ask me to show you my schedule if you want proof. Today's schedule, outside of routine actions, has just enough time for FHE and one hour of math studying. (No, I'm not in classes, but I'm studying up on my calculus so I can take Math 302 in the fall. Wish me luck!) As much as I love the structure of a day well-planned, I also bask in the glory of a deliciously unscheduled life.

Ah, the conflict. To habit or not to habit? Perhaps this is once again a question of balance.

P.S. Anyone want to take a road trip to New York? The new Hill Cumorah pagent, written by none other than the Card himself, is now in theatres . . . or hilltops, as the case may be.

Reflections on Introductions

So, I picked up Jesus the Christ at the library yesterday. I've never read this book before, but I decided it's high time that I started picking up some of the church classics. (No, From First Date to Chosen Mate does NOT count--though it is hillariously good reading, right Marisa?)

I've only just finished the introductions to the book (there are about three or four in my copy) describing how it came about, and I've already had several amazing realizations as a result.

The origins of the book have reinspired my desire to learn more about the history and mythology of BYU, or more generally the Church's role in higher education. Apparently, the inspiration for Jesus the Christ was a series of lectures given at what was called in the preface the Latter-day Saint University or alternately the University Sunday School. Very interesting.

Also, reading about this series of lectures reminds me of why I love being at BYU, or in Utah in general. Sure, as most people point out, you end up with some very inbred (ideologically speaking) church members. But I just love feeling like I am at the heart of the action in the church. Being at the place where it all happened, and is happening, and will happen. It just send chills down my spine to think of the steps we are making in the pursuit of truth and Zion. I don't think I could ever leave Utah for very long, for all my complaints about the heat. Not to mention that all my family is here; it's hard enough being an hour away from my grandparents and aunts and uncles--being in another state for very long might be impossible. I mean, maybe I could move out for a few years, but I definitely plan to raise my children in Utah, preferably Salt Lake.

The idea of University Sunday School brings me to another point, related to my previous complaints about Sunday School and the BYU Religion Department. Apparently this book was once used as a text for the "advanced Sunday School" class in the church. Why do they not have this anymore? I mean, you've got your Gospel Essentials, for new converts, etc. And then you have the specialized classes--family history, marriage and family, temple prep, mission prep. And then we just throw everyone else in Gospel Doctrine, which usually ends up being a pretty general review of the stories in the scriptures (with some questionable historical facts thrown in) and applications of the principles in them. But I can just see how much cooler Advanced Sunday School would be--kind of like CS Lewis Society, only maybe a little more doctrinal.

Then again, maybe this kind of distinction was done away with because of the possibility for pride and contention: who gets to go to advanced SS? And if it's by choice, how do you handle the difference between those who chose to go and those who don't, without saying one group is more spiritual, or mainstream, or intellectual . . . . Possibly also done away with because of the expansion of the church--not every ward would have someone qualified enough to teach it, if anyone can consider themselves to be. Maybe I should just trust the Church's organization more. It's all done for a reason, I assume.

Finally, James E. Talmage is definitely going on my list of writing heroes, which is good, since the current list is very short: Orson Scott Card and CS Lewis. I mean, what better place to write a book than in the temple? I've got to remember that for when I finally get around to writing these books that keep poking into my mind. Also, he sets a good example in that books never get written when you have your hands in too many other projects. I mean, Jesus the Christ would probably have never been finished had the First Presidency not almost ordered him to work on it exclusively. This says something about the productivity of taking on too many projects at once (Ben, this means you).

Beauty and A Really Old (-Fashioned) Love Story

I am not usually the type of person for love stories. Perhaps because I have little (read: no) experience in them myself, they've always seemed far more fantastic and unrealistic than the sci-fi and fantasy I prefer. Also, I usually don't empathize very well with the heroines: either charming or naive, but always beautiful, none of which I have pretensions to. I've always defined myself based on a fairly gender-neutral intelligence. Pretty much, I think Jane Austen is boring, and my favorite chic flicks are IQ and You've Got Mail, mostly for Einstein and the witty construction (respectively) rather than the love story, which gets in the way for me.

Leave it to Orson Scott Card to write a romance that I could really enjoy. I'm only half-way through Rebekah, the second in his Women of Genesis series, and if there was anyone who could improve on the beauty of that story in the Old Testament, then it's the OSC. As a friend of mine said (John, this means you) Card is so amazing at understanding people that he makes you feel like a genius just to be witness to his analysis. In Card's religious fiction (Women of Genesis + Stone Tables), I have been continually impressed with his ability to flesh out these iconic figures into realistic characters while still remaining faithful to their place in the religious cannon. Without ruining the story for anyone who hasn't read it, Rebekah has shed much light in my mind on the issue of beauty.

He made me remember that for some beauty can be as much a curse as a blessing when looking for a relationship. (As Tevia would say, may God smite me with it, and may I never recover.) I had sort of realized this in the character of Lina in Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants--kitschy, I know, but true in feeling. Beauty--true beauty, and not just good grooming--is unlike almost any other trait in that it seems to happen almost as an accident, not being an essential part of a person's character. Rebekah's realization of her own beauty and subsequent panic were quite enlightening--I've never had the same worry that someone might want me not for myself but for some accident of birth.

Some will object that beauty is not so much looks as a way of behaving, and this is the other thing Card brings out. As Rebekah meets a particular woman for the first time, she is shocked to realize that though she is as beautiful as this woman, Rebekah has none of the grace, charm, and social skill necessary to really use this to full, feminine advantage. And so she sets out to learn and acquire the ability to make small-talk, flirt (such as it is in biblical times), etc. Until recently, I had mostly assumed that people were either just born with this grace or without: I had never really contemplated it as a skill to be acquired.

Now that I think about it, this is one skill that I could really use, considering my natural tendency is to be blunt or outspokenly passionate about everything. A little charm or grace could do a lot to mediate the bad effects of these two things. I've always avoided being too feminine, but maybe it's time to dabble in that area. I won't hesistate to say I feel quite silly though.

(Aside: I find it ironic that I finish this post while listening to "Astonishing," the song from the Little Women musical in which Jo's refuses Laurie's proposal. Pretty much the antithesis to the woman aspiring to marriage, and currently one of my favorite songs. Hmm.)

Why I Enjoy the Da Vinci Code

In the days leading up to the release of the Da Vinci Code movie, I have been enjoying the opportunity to discuss this book with the people around me. (I missed the first wave of discussion since I was one of the last people I knew to read the book.) So far, I've seen two main arguments as to why people didn't like the book:

1. Historical Inaccuracy/Improbability - Lots of people complain about the history in this book being just plain bad. I mean, overall, it's not good history: ancient texts taken with much more certainty than they can possibly be given, jumping to conclusions based on only a lack of evidence. Not even to mention that Catholics everywhere are mortally offended by the implications. (Of course, I haven't met any of those, but it must be mentioned.)


2. Poor Writing/Predictability - Basically, all Dan Brown books are the same. You think you know the way the world works, but just wait! There's this giant conspiracy run by the people you thought you could trust, and if they are allowed to succeed it could revolutionize the world (for good or ill). Additionally, chapters are artificially terminated to enhance suspense, the characters are flat and static, and the quality of the puzzles is uneven at best. (I managed to guess the answer to the crucial puzzle in both Da Vinci Code and Digital Fortress shortly after they were discovered, which sort of ruins the suspense for the next half of the book.)

Somehow, neither of these things are a problem for me. As infinite numbers of people have pointed out, complaint #1 is sort of silly: this book is fiction. The claim at the front about all the information being correct is a classic ghost-story/Scarlet Letter claim: it enhances the stakes of the story by insisting that it is all true. But underneath all that, no one really believes in magical 'A' shaped comets or in campfire ghosts. The claim is put there to help the reader suspend disbelief, not to make them actually believe the story is true.

The way to deal with claim #2 is less obvious. I mean, what is a story besides good writing? On the contrary, many of the "classic" books have poor writing. Tolkien, Dickens, and Dostoyevsky are long-winded (Please don't attack me! I like . . . well, at least Dostoyevsky.), CS Lewis' Penvensie children are flat characters to the core, and Herman Melville can't stop rambling out on tangents. We overlook some faults in writing because of the quality of the ideas and intent behind them.

Which brings me to the reason that I enjoyed The Da Vinci Code. The topic was original--at least, I still have never read anything like it. It dealt seriously with divinity, religion, and gender issues, though admittedly very incompletely. It set me thinking about new ideas and things which I never would have even given a second thought. Admittedly, I disagreed with many of the main premises of the book--being married does not cancel out the possibilty of divinity--but the thoughts it led me on could still have significant meaning. But before this, I had given up on modern portrays of religion in fiction: either you are anti-religion (which paints all organized churches as corrupt organizations, and all truly good people as merely spiritual--think His Dark Materials) or you are rabidly religious (think all Mormon novels--the characters are perfectly righteous except for a minor flaw, all doctrines of the gospel are assumed to be standard, and, almost without exception, the prodigal sons return eventually or die miserably). Very few books deal with religion and truth as a serious issue, and this is one of them. (The Women of Genesis novels and Stone Tables by Orson Scott Card have come close, though.) It felt so liberating to have a book which actually looked at this issue that I was willing to overlook almost any number of faults to enjoy it.

Who cares if it follows a formula? One could say the same about Sherlock Holmes, but we still read him today. Sometimes we like a good formula fiction. Like writing a sonnet, strict, predictable form can liberate content.

Oh shoot. I just compared sonnets to formula fiction. The English Deparment secret police will be knocking on my door any second.