Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 54

Naked butt pictures and “real feminism”

What does it mean to be a “real feminist”? I’d say it requires one to believe in the inherent worth and dignity of women: the spectacular concept that we deserve better treatment than that of second-class citizens.

It’s just too bad we can’t all agree on what that looks like in real life. Particularly the “dignity” part.

I am no slut-shamer. If a woman decides to pose naked for a magazine, fine. I’d never do it, but that’s me. It just blows my mind that so many women and men alike see this kind of exhibitionism not just as someone’s choice, but as something to be jealous of (because all women who have pride in their bodies would shed their clothes for the world, is the underlying implication). Doesn’t that sort of fly in the face of the whole concept of personhood – something women have been fighting to prove for, I don’t know, centuries? Millennia?

“Personhood” being this radical idea that women are more than breasts. More than objects to masturbate to. More than just vaginas.

That’s why I agree with Glee actress Naya Rivera when she commented on the latest nude photo spread of Kim Kardashian that is rumored to #BreakTheInternet. “I normally don’t, but…you’re somebody’s mother.”

I don’t agree because I think mothers aren’t allowed to be sexy. I agree because of the implications for young girls who are facing enough sexual pressure already simply by growing up. And for a young girl to see her mother become so successful for her appearance alone…well, that just seems a little counter-intuitive.

That being said, it’s wrong to call Kim Kardashian a slut. Name-calling is never okay. I am critiquing the decision to pose nude, not the woman who made it.

I ask you to please take a moment to consider what we’re really saying when some of the loudest preachers of feminism today (in the celebrity realm) are women whose entire careers are bent toward catering to male fantasies, effectively confirming that sex appeal gets you further ahead than intelligence or a college degree can.

That’s the message I read when another singer releases an album where her ass is more prominent than her face. That’s the message I receive when a woman is called “brave” for being open about her role in the adult film industry to pay for college, and somehow that’s a bigger deal than education being so expensive, students have to turn to porn to afford one in the first place.

But it all boils down to choice over principles, so that makes it perfectly acceptable. It really seems that if you have any standards about sex and the human body at all – even if you don’t impose them on others – that makes you backwards, unprogressive, and unenlightened.

What I see is not empowerment, but increasingly lowered standards for success. It’s beyond pathetic that in 2014, we have not advanced to a point where sex appeal is not just part of a woman’s career, but a launching pad for one (and don’t mistake me, people: I don’t think sex appeal in and of itself is a bad thing).

If that makes me a “bad feminist,” so be it. This is “empowerment” my ass (yes, that was an intended lame pun).

Filed under: Feminism Tagged: Controversy, Feminism, Kim Kardashian, Pornography

Owning the story I didn’t want

It’s three days until my 26th birthday, three weeks until my wedding, and about six weeks until the end of the year. I’m sitting here at my desk sipping coffee and thinking…This isn’t how I expected my life to go. At all.

That’s a mixed blessing. I never thought I’d lose my father before he got to walk me down the aisle; no one asks for that. But I also never envisioned myself getting married in the first place. I thought I was one of those people who is “called to singleness,” and I was in the process of becoming okay with that right until I bumped into Joshua in the student center of Kent State, and was unexpectedly asked out on my first date in…well, um, ever, actually (that Sadie Hawkins date in 10th grade doesn’t really count).

Through all that, I developed a quarter-life crisis of faith, which didn’t happen overnight. There was seminary…bouts with depression and anxiety…personal crises…the usual stuff (well, maybe not seminary). That’s quite normal for anyone, but it’s especially traumatic when you go through the tedious process of converting, upsetting your family, finally reaching a mutual place of respect and understanding, and then having to wonder…was it all for nothing? Or is this just a particularly damaging pothole in the middle of the road?

I mourn the certainty I had in college. Man, I used to be so solid. I used to be this iron-clad woman of conviction. She had her problems, and could be quite annoying, but at least she was consistent.

Like a typical millennial, I’ve found some solace in the blogging community. I follow many Christian bloggers: funny, articulate, deeply intellectual people who remind me that it’s perfectly okay to pursue faith while deeply enmeshed in doubt. Then there are opposite perspectives, like this guy who grew up in the Bible Belt as a devout Southern Baptist. But at some point during adulthood he started to question everything he was taught, and ended up leaving it all behind.

You may be thinking: why are you reading this stuff if you’re still determined to remain Christian? This can’t be helping you. Well, it is and it isn’t. I’ve never met him, but I respect Neil. I like the way he organizes his thoughts so that discussion and alternative viewpoints are welcomed, not antagonized. He’s a breath of fresh air in the midst of stereotypes that say all atheists are angry about something.

But I’m angry, too. I’m angry because he raises important questions that many Christians prefer to sweep under the rug, doing more harm to the faith than anything else: like why a supposed good God doesn’t do a better job of warning his children about hell (and why is there even a hell in the first place?). Why did he order genocide of women and children? Why allow the tree of good and evil if he knew humans could eat from it?

(I’m still working through those questions, in case you’re wondering. So don’t ask me for my opinion).

Aside from the doctrinal debates, I’ve witnessed deep damage to the cause of Christ by Christians themselves: Christians who follow a “prosperity gospel” that praises God for close parking spaces and shiny new possessions while children all over the world die of malnutrition and other preventable causes. Christians who perpetuate the same tired rhetoric over and over when it would be so much more beneficial to drop the sales pitches and ask people to simply share their life stories. Sometimes I’m embarrassed to claim these people as my own, and admit I’m part of their tribe.

Which brings up another valid question: Why do I still care about being a Christian in the first place?

Lately I feel like I’m toeing the line between faithful and agnostic. But a big turning point for me was realizing I don’t have to choose between faith and reason. I believe literature can be used to communicate truths about humanity even if the story itself didn’t happen exactly as it’s written – and while parts of the Bible function as a history book, other parts of it are literature. I see traits of the kind of person I want to be in Jesus, for there is no one in history quite like him. And being Jewish himself, he is woven into the rich history of midrash – the practice of scholars expanding on specific aspects of Scripture that are commonly overlooked (like how did Sarah really feel about Abraham carting their son away to be sacrificed?).

The entire Jewish tradition embraces questioning without having to know all the answers. Because Christianity is born from Judaism, I don’t see why that aspect cannot be embraced in Christian tradition as well. It frustrates me sometimes, this Christianity with all its principles and doctrines that, quite frankly, seem ludicrous and unintelligible. But I so badly want to believe in redemption – the idea that broken things can be made new and beautiful again – and I cling to the hope that Christianity offers that.

Does that make my faith a crutch? Maybe. But for all the trouble I went through to claim it, I’m simply not ready to give up on it yet.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, First World Problems, hell, Judaism, marriage

How many words does it take to tell a good story?

Preparing for a writing conference is one of the scariest and most exciting things I’ve ever done. Exciting because I get to meet writers in real life, not just in my computer! But it’s scary because there’s always that pesky tendency to compare my work and success with theirs.

And then there’s the pitching part. I signed up to pitch my latest story to an agent. I don’t think I need to describe how intimidating THAT will be.

I submitted my query letter ahead of time and got it back last night. My WIP is unfinished and currently thirty thousand words. I don’t have a final word count goal; I never do. My stories end when I feel they are finished. After reading the comments on the query letter, though, now I’m starting to have doubts. My longest work is just shy of fifty thousand words, and according to the pro who read my letter, no agent will touch a manuscript that is not a minimum of sixty thousand words.

My first thought: What! They won’t even LOOK at it? That’s not fair! Novellas are a legitimate form of literature!

My second thought: Well, these people are professionals. They know it requires a minimum amount of words to tell a good, well-developed story. They know the publishing world way better than you, and they certainly aren’t idiots.

Like any writer, indie or otherwise, I enlist a great deal of trust in my beta readers to tell me if a story is ready for publication. Now I worry that, despite their honesty, I published half-assed, under-developed stories. The reviews overall don’t suggest this is the case. But that doesn’t mean I don’t worry. I am and will always be my worst critic.

I’m reminded of all those book reports I had to write in high school where there was a minimum of five required pages. This was annoying, since I could perfectly summarize the book and what I thought of it in half that amount of pages. The key, I thought, was choosing the right words and using them well.

So what do you think? Is there a required minimum amount of words to tell a good story, or is it highly subjective, depending on the subject and genre?

Filed under: Writing & Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Indie Author Life, self-publishing, Writing

Why Another Rape Book?

As I’ve discussed before, one of the best advantages of self-publishing is the ability to write about anything you want. Even if it’s not, from an agent’s standpoint, very “marketable” (and that’s a highly subjective term). If you’ve been following this blog for a while, or if you’ve read any of my books, you’ve probably figured out that I lean more toward the dark and the serious. In particular, religious turmoil (like this book and this one) and the real hardballs like consent.

That last topic is huge: no one book can adequately do it justice. Which is why that subject will appear again in my next book, tentatively titled SHADES OF DOUBT. Unlike Someone You Already Know, which focuses on the victims of abuse, this book takes a different spin by focusing on the accused perp himself, and the girlfriend who wants to defend him.

Why does this subject matter so much to me? Because I used to be that girlfriend. Only the assault I tried to excuse and justify was my own.

Crime reports show again and again that most victims are assaulted by someone they know. And whatever you think a rapist is “supposed” to look like, the majority of them don’t come across that way. Too often, they are popular, well-liked, respected pillars of their communities. They often have good jobs and loving families. They are, quite frankly, the last people you’d expect to be accused of something like rape.

Which is why so many accused rapists never see a day in jail, much less the inside of a court room.

You may have heard the expression “gray rape.” It’s a favorite of defense attorneys and politicians who try to explain away rape accusations with little evidence by claiming they are the result of misunderstandings. He wanted it; she didn’t; he read into the situation one way; she says something completely different.

This is a book that will explore the personality, relationship history, and family background of one accused “gray rapist” in an attempt to understand how he turned out the way that he is. What complicates matters even more, both in the book and in real life, is that plenty of men commit acts of rape and don’t see themselves as rapists. There are people who genuinely believe that saying yes to sex once means saying yes to sex at all other times. There are people who believe that sex is something they are “owed” after a nice date. And the women who suffer as a result are often brushed off with, “Well, you know how men are.”

I want this book to be an instigator in the discussion of why we say such things. I want readers to come away with an understanding that rape is not the black-and-white issue many of us think it is, even though it should be. I don’t expect all readers to agree with me. But the important thing is to start talking.

You can read the first chapter here. Also, here is the full synopsis (no release date yet, but stay tuned!):

Adelaide Scott is a 25-year-old relationship advice columnist for Stunning! Magazine. Her new boyfriend, Jordan Johnson, is a renowned photographer for Sports Unlimited. On the surface, he is everything a woman should want: Good-looking, hilarious, and charismatic. Their relationship seems perfect…until an ex-girlfriend confronts him, and publicly accuses him of raping her.

Jordan swears he did nothing wrong. In fact, he’s so confident in his innocence, he draws up a list of all his ex-girlfriends for Addie to “interview” in order to prove he’s a good man. Desperate to believe he’s telling the truth, Addie complies with his request, using the magazine she writes for as her cover: She will pretend to undergo research for a future column about sexual assault, in which the former girlfriends will be anonymous participants. But what if the women don’t want to talk? Or worse – what if Addie doesn’t like what they have to say?

It doesn’t help that her best friend and editor, Kiersten Sharp, sees rape as a black-and-white issue, with no shades of doubt. Addie is about to discover that the truth – in all its forms – is complicated, and not at all what she expects.

Filed under: Feminism, Rape Culture, Writing & Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, Controversy, Feminism, Indie Author Life, rape culture, Someone You Already Know, Where There's Smoke

WHERE THERE’S SMOKE Birthday Sale & Chapter Excerpt

In honor of my birthday next week, my latest novella WHERE THERE’S SMOKE is on sale for 99 cents until November 8th, then $1.99 until the 12th, when it will return to its usual price of $2.99. Like stories with intrigue, suspense, and a bit of controversy (homosexuality, forbidden relationships, spiritual abuse)? Now’s your chance to give it a try for less than a cup of coffee. Full synopsis and chapter excerpt below.

Pastor Henry Collins is hailed as a hero after rescuing a teenage girl from a burning church. But the real reason he was at the right place at the right time is known only to him and Hannah Mercer, the teenage girl he rescued: a girl whose faith has more to do with keeping up appearances than anything to do with God.

Lia Anders is a classmate of Hannah’s: a girl whose coming out as a lesbian resulted in immediate expulsion from the church. As an unlikely friendship develops between the two, Hannah begins to realize the error of her hypocritical ways, and encourages Henry to make a decision that will forever alter the course of their lives. But for Henry, the price of living a lie is easier than owning up to the truth.

Where There’s Smoke is a story that asks: who are we really? Are we the sum of all our actions? And is the note we finish our lives on the most defining of them all?

***

Without having to discuss it, Hannah and Lia kept within their self-imposed margins at school. Their “friendship,” if it could be called that, had an unspoken clause of staying within the bounds of Lia’s home. It was unfortunate, as Hannah was be­ginning to realize Lia wasn’t the deviant soul-snatcher her church would have her believe. But what could she do? If Lia were a true friend, she wouldn’t force Hannah to choose between her and Kaylee. Right?

Lunch hour remained the same. Their respec­tive tables were not far apart; Kaylee didn’t have to make much effort to raise her voice for Lia to over­hear her pre-lunch prayer: “Lord, we thank you for this bounty of food you blessed us with, and we pray you will use our witness to set an example for other students who are trapped in a life of sin.” The other girls echoed “Amen,” Hannah included, but a stolen glance at Lia made her lose her appetite. She didn’t appear angry or offended; she merely rolled her eyes at Hannah and returned to her book.

But within minutes, she disappeared.

It would have served Hannah right to be stood up, but after the final bell Lia was waiting at their usual spot outside the school, not a minute too late. “Ready to go?” Hannah squawked, shoulders hunched, preparing to be shot down.

Lia shrugged. “Sure. Whatever. Let’s go.”

She took off at a rapid pace. Without further question, Hannah adjusted the straps of her bag and took off after her.

“I think I did better on the last quiz,” she huffed. “But I still have a few questions about varia­bles–”

“Mmhmm,” hummed Lia, without turning around or slowing down.

“And maybe we could look at some of these homework questions? I think Maddix said they might be on the next quiz–”

Lia stopped short, causing Hannah to trip over her own feet to avoid crashing into her. “Do you and your little church minions think I’m deaf or something?”

A knot formed in Hannah’s throat. “What?”

“I have ears, you know. And they work fine. Your friends make damn sure of that.”

The knot wound itself tighter, threatening to strangle her. “Well, um, maybe you could switch tables and then you wouldn’t hear them.”

“Now there’s a colossal example of missing the point,” Lia snorted.

“What do you want me to do?” Hannah asked the ground.

Lia drew a sharp breath, poised to issue an ultimatum: give up Kaylee and the rest of the church crowd, or fail Algebra. Even before she asked, Han­nah knew she was thinking it, and promised herself not to put up a fight if that was what she decided to do. They each had their principles, and made respec­tive sacrifices in order to keep them. But just because Lia weighed the costs and decided she could live without friends didn’t mean that Hannah could.

“Nothing,” Lia sighed. “Just forget it.” They walked the rest of the way to her house in thick, smoky silence.

Tucked in the safety of her cozy kitchen, Lia still showed hospitality in setting out crackers and boiling water for tea. With their textbooks splayed open on the table, they could have carried on with business as usual, but Henry’s Just be kind advice chorused in Hannah’s head, prompting her to ask, “When did you know you were gay?”

Lia looked up, startled but not angry, as she poured steaming water into the mugs. “My whole life, pretty much.”

Hannah waited for a “Why do you ask?” to follow, but none came. “Your whole life? Really?”

Setting the mugs on the table, Lia responded, “When I was four, I told my mom I wanted to marry a girl. She laughed it off, but my dad rightly took it as an omen and urged my mom to take me to some kind of therapist. She insisted it was a phase and I’d grow out of it. Then, in first grade, the class had a mock wedding for the letters ‘q’ and ‘u’ because, you know; they’re always together in the English lan­guage. I asked the teacher why both letters couldn’t be decorated with lace. And that’s just the begin­ning.”

“So…” Hannah sipped her tea, realizing she was treading on thin ice. “So you mean…you didn’t choose to be gay?”

“When did you choose to be straight?”

“I…didn’t.”

“Then there you go.”

The workbooks were still open, but Hannah decided that wasn’t the lesson she wanted to focus on. “The youth group had a guest speaker who said she was cured of homosexuality not too long ago.”

“Hate to be the one to break it to you, but that lady is either lying or in deep denial.”

“Kaylee says with enough prayer, we can overcome anything.”

“Well, Kaylee says a lot of idiotic things.”

In her church, in their school, insulting the deacon’s daughter was tantamount to blasphemy. “You really hate her, don’t you?”

The words slapped. Lia calmly stirred her tea, but Hannah could detect a slight hummingbird shaking of her hand that held the spoon. “I don’t hate anyone, Hannah. The world has way too much of that already.”

Hannah wouldn’t have blamed Lia one bit if she did hate her. Even Hannah herself wondered what might happen if she dared to doubt Kaylee’s lunchtime prayers or evangelical campaigns as being less authoritative than the Gospel itself. But not because Hannah had opposing convictions–she’d believe whatever it took to have a place at their coveted table.

Hannah hadn’t realized the attractiveness of humility until her meeting with Henry. Henry, who blushed when she thanked him for taking time out of his busy schedule to meet with her. Henry, who probably learned all the answers about life and faith from his pastor father by the time he was old enough to toddle, but still demonstrated a kind of patience that made her feel safe instead of stupid.

Henry. She would see him again in less than two hours. She ought to bring up the math lesson so neither her time nor Lia’s was wasted–and so she’d stop grinning like an idiot–but now she was far too curious. “Is that why your dad left? He couldn’t handle you being gay?”

The question had been knocking the walls of her brain ever since Lia had mentioned she had an absent father. Today it was barely contained behind the cage of her teeth; she opened her mouth to snack on a cracker, and it slipped out like a slithery eel.

“Wow, aren’t you brazen today.” Lia re­sumed stirring, even though the sugar had to be long dissolved by then. “He and my mom had a lot of issues, but yeah, I guess the different ways they viewed their dyke daughter was one of them.”

The last time Hannah heard the word dyke was over a year ago, when Lia first came out–obvi­ously not used in any positive sense. It baffled her how casually Lia used the word to refer to her own self. She was itching to ask her about it, but gorged herself on crackers instead. She probably maxed out her Personal Question Quota for the day.

But Lia hadn’t. “So why did your dad leave?”

It was now Hannah’s turn to shake. “I’m not sure.”

“Come on, I told you my ugly truth. Now it’s your turn.”

Hannah shook her head. “I honestly don’t know. Things weren’t perfect before, but I didn’t think…I never expected him to…” God, it was so embarrassing how quickly the tears welled and threatened to spill over. No one had ever asked her about it before, not genuinely. There were girls who wanted salacious details only, and there were the Kaylee types who patted her pain with “God can fix anything!” platitudes that were more annoying and hurtful than any gossip.

With her “Faith Face” strapped firmly in place, Hannah could fake her way through almost anything. She never expected to crumble so easily from kindness–especially from the least likely person to show her what that looked like.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry. You don’t have to share if you don’t want to.” But the tears already started flowing in snotty rivulets down her face, prompting Lia to move her chair to the other side of the table, next to her.

After what they’d just shared about their lives, it was ridiculous for Hannah to tense up when Lia hugged her–of course it was a friendship hug–but old habits were tough to break. The blazing thought Ohmygod a lesbian has her arm around me pulsed in Hannah’s head for a moment before she had the sense to shut it down.

And then she allowed herself to hug Lia back.

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Filed under: Religion, Writing & Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, Homosexuality, Spiritual Abuse, Where There's Smoke

So what does it mean to “die with dignity”?

I have been thinking a lot about Brittany Maynard. She’s been on my mind ever since I heard her tragic story, because it was released to the media just after my father died of cancer. Other than Robin Williams, I’ve never felt grief this big for someone I didn’t know personally.

I think it’s because I have an idea of where her family is emotionally right now (but only an idea). My pain is still fresh and raw, and that’s without having my grief under a national spotlight.

Brittany’s story matters to me because, earlier this summer, Dad considered making the same choice that she did. He didn’t, though. His reasoning was that he wanted to engage with friends and family for as long as he could. He didn’t want to lose any more days of consciousness, and I respect him for that.

But I respect Brittany’s decision, too. I know it was not made lightly. I also know that, for those who say it’s impossible to define a “quality of life,” pain DOES impact your ability to live well. I remember all too clearly the night Dad forgot to take his pain medication: it’s a night I hope I can forget. A few days later, over brunch, he described what it was like: how it robbed him of the ability to think of anything else, because the agony completely took him over.

I am fortunate to have never experienced that kind of physical pain; I only know emotional agony. I understand now that many depressed people don’t really want to die; suicide is just a means to get the pain to stop. If they could live depression-free, they would – just as Brittany would love to have kept on living if not for her fatal diagnosis.

I understand both sides of this ethical conundrum. Really, I do. It wasn’t that long ago I believed euthanasia was wrong all the time, in every scenario. But today, I don’t consider Brittany’s final act to be suicide. I don’t know how to define “dying with dignity,” but if that was how she defined it, how can I judge? I haven’t been in her place.

In my dad’s case, he died with dignity by living into the first few days of autumn. The doctors predicted he wouldn’t make it through the end of summer, so it makes me smile that Dad had his final moment of “Fuck you” to the disease by surviving most of September. He always had a strong, optimistic spirit, which everyone who knew him believes kept him alive for so long. In that way, the cancer did not win. That was how he died with dignity.

To paraphrase John Green, we don’t have a say in whether or not we suffer. But we do have a say in how we suffer. I still have very mixed feelings about euthanasia, but if we are unwilling to approach this subject with empathy, we will only cause more pain to those who are left behind.

My question for people on both sides of the issue is this: if there is such a thing as dying with dignity, what does it mean to die without dignity? Or can we define the act of death in any special way, since it is a fate that all of us will meet eventually, whether we want to or not? How do some do it “better” than others?

Filed under: Miscellaneous Tagged: Brittany Maynard, cancer, Controversy, depression, grief

Writing the Wrongs: Sensationalism vs. Social Justice

Today’s guest post is from Amy Thomas, a writer who asks an important question that hits home for me whenever I see topics that are “trending” on social media, and I feel an itch to write about them: what’s my real motive? Do I really care about the importance of this subject? Will I handle it with the sensitivity it deserves? Or do I just want to write about whatever topic will guarantee my blog to be among the first results on Google?

Agents often look for these trending topics to figure out which books will be the most marketable, but as an indie author, I am not limited by those trends. I have published, and continue to publish, books on topics that I know are not popular, but as Amy says, I want to at least get people to see why they matter.

I love that Amy was brave enough to bring this up, because it will undoubtedly strike a nerve among other writers. Agree or disagree? Leave your thoughts in the comments!

***

The strongest misconception I have witnessed as a writer stems from sensationalism. Political, spiritual, sexual, or otherwise, innumerable written works have been labeled for their alleged agendas or money-monger authors. As our world becomes increasingly riddled with injustices, so our writers are discredited in tandem as abusers and opportunists.

Although I cannot deny that there are voices who latch onto hot topics and trending debates for readers, they are likely less than half of those who choose those subjects about which to write. For me, writing is a systematic and honest documentation of current events, attitudes, and suffering. I learned these details about past years through literature, and I hope they will be learned by future generations. Preserving human suffering is, in part, to preserve human dignity. Many authors and writers who do so are tagged opportunistic raiders frothing at the mouth for open wounds.

Opposite and equally shaming, another reaction to social justice writers is revulsion. Many people are still unable to face such topics, despite being surrounded in them at present. In my last year of college, I wrote a series of short stories based on the social problems of my generation, and many are difficult to address: homophobia, rape, racism, cyberbullying, etc. I understand that to some, these stories strike hurt places in them that need healing or are not ready to read what they have never believed or witnessed. I do not write these stories necessarily to change anyone’s mind—a person must come to his own beliefs in his own time. The point instead, I believe, is simply to get them to see. If a person sees injustice, no matter what he or she believes, at least its presence is acknowledged. I think it is the hope of many writers that eventually this acknowledgment will lead to action.

There is, however, a right way to address issues such as these, but it is not restrictive. Style is irrelevant. There must only be a present sensitivity in writing that acknowledges that some of those who have already suffered are reading. Gratuitous scenes of overly descriptive, exploitative violence are useless to anyone, sympathetic or otherwise. Many television shows are guilty of this. Instead, a respectful subtlety is appropriate. By no means do I intend to say that graphic scenes should be prohibited—if they are necessary to a character or story and are, as mentioned, sensitive to affected readers, then so be it. These are the scenes that make it easy to distinguish opportunists from true authors, and they are the scenes that often earn writers a bad name.

I hope writers continue to refuse these labels and keep working toward justice in literature. It can be hindering to share these works with the world, but their work will inevitably cause good, even if for a solitary reader. When I presented my aforementioned stories at a podium before graduation, my fear was overcome by a dead certainty that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Amy Thomas is a graduate of Santa Clara University, where she worked as a fiction editor and editor in chief of the Santa Clara Review. She was recently published in Sediments Literary-Arts Journal and continues to work as an editor. Find more of her writings at www.akthomaswrites.com.

Filed under: Miscellaneous, Self-Publishing Tagged: Controversy, Indie Author Life, social justice, Writing

Writing tragedy as healing

I’ve finally reached a point where I can start writing about the events of the last few months. It’s very rare for me to not “feel” like writing; when life gets unbearable or extremely busy, writing is something I always make time for. Just not lately.

It’s a strange phenomenon to have so many emotions and pent-up energy, yet no words. The thought of writing everything down in chronological order was exhausting, so I started with small snippets:

I started with how Halloween, my favorite holiday, is now major Trigger Territory because those fake plastic skeletons people put on their porches remind me of what Dad looked like on his death bed.

I went on to describe the final tipping point of the summer, when Tommy, our 15-year-old tabby, died of liver failure. His condition went unnoticed because Dad’s health issues took center stage. The kitty who believed he was a dog went downhill one weekend, and was gone in a matter of days. It was tragic because it was unexpected. It was excruciating because we felt like we had just gone through this – caring for a loved one who didn’t have much time left, trying to keep him comfortable when there was nothing else we could do.

It’s almost poetic, in a twisted way, to lose your father and a childhood pet in the same year you get married. It almost feels like a great literary tragedy, if you will: the juxtaposition of addressing wedding invitations while making funeral arrangements, then flying 1500 miles away to move into an apartment you have never seen before, because your fiancé picked it out while you were away caring for your dad.

And then, finally, the mix of nervousness and excitement when trying a new church, knowing you are not in a condition to be meeting new people and putting on a happy face, but if you don’t try, it will never happen.

For me, the best way to combat depression and anxiety, or at least make it more manageable, is to start with one choice. First, get out of bed (that’s an accomplishment some days). Next, take a shower. Remember to eat. And, finally, start writing.

I must have been in pretty bad shape for that last step to feel like the hardest. Unlike showering or eating, writing is something I cannot do on autopilot. Perhaps the scariest part is knowing that the act of picking up a pen or placing my fingers on the keyboard is an act of returning, and it’s hard to return to an identity that feels stretched, worn out, debilitating, and even ruined.

But I have new goals to reach. I’m preparing for my first writer’s conference in two weeks. I’m excited with the direction this new book is going, because it’s different than anything I’ve written before. And, per Dad’s request, I applied to graduate school (yes, again) for an MFA in Creative Writing. I will get married, adopt another kitty (or two) and start over. I will try not to fear being happy, even though most writers know that sometimes the best fodder for stories are found in the greatest of tragedies.

Filed under: Miscellaneous, Religion, Self-Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, cancer, Christianity, grief, marriage

Ending my Church Sabbatical

I made a promise to both myself and my fiancé to start off on the right foot when I move in with him in Greeley, an hour from my current home in Denver: we would be intentional about finding a community. We wouldn’t be hermits (which, thanks to Netflix and the liquor shop across the street, would be extremely easy to do). The idea of having to meet new people again – particularly church people – terrifies me. I keep thinking of all the times in the last year it went horribly, horribly wrong.

But even though I’m still bitter, this may be what I need. This may be part of what brings me back to myself. It is, after all, how Josh and I met. So clearly good things have come out of belonging to a church.

Except Josh and I are from two completely different worlds. We want different things when it comes to churches. He grew up in evangelical culture and doesn’t see the same flaws within it as I do.

Some of those flaws are undoubtedly real. I’ll admit, others may or may not be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I bring a copy of Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter because Josh said there’s a bookstore at this church that features local authors. I submit it to the manager, who tells me she will look it over “To ensure it aligns with our teachings.”

“They won’t accept it,” I tell Josh when I walk out.

“Why not? You’re a halfway decent writer,” he responds with a wink.

I shake my head. “Because it ends with uncertainty. I mention how I’m not sure what I think about the afterlife anymore, after Dad died. And I may have used the word ‘shit’ once or twice.”

Josh simply says “Oh.” We’ll have to wait and see, I guess.

We file in to the sanctuary, where the worship portion has already begun. This is the part I despise most about any church, because I am a lyrics snob and all the people waving their arms around creep me out. Josh stands, but I sit quietly, so I won’t be tempted to judge anyone. I use that opportunity to fill out one of those “Connect Cards,” where you write your name, contact info, if this is your first visit, and what you want to know more about.

I check off “Marriage,” “Small Groups,” and “Women’s Ministry.” But I still have doubts while doing so: what if they have those marriage seminars that focus on wifely submission in unhealthy ways? What if they act oblivious towards domestic violence? What if the small group bible studies don’t tolerate difficult questions, like why God seems to approve genocide in the Old Testament? What if “women’s ministry” just means scrapbooking and reading anti-feminist books like Captivating?

Quit your bitching, Sarahbeth.

The music ends and the sermon begins. The pastor is a short, funny old British guy who has somewhat satirical, and dare I say almost biting humor, like mine. Josh smiles at me, as if to say Am I right? Don’t you think he’s totally cool?

Okay, fine. The pastor is pretty decent. More than decent, actually. Especially when he mentions that Queen Elizabeth has opened a Twitter account. He name-dropped Her Majesty within the first five minutes of the sermon (you know I’m obsessed with the monarchy, right?), so I was quite impressed.

He went on: “It was a completely innocuous tweet, but soon enough, those internet trolls came crawling out from their caves. You know what an internet troll is, right? People who like to start arguments in comment threads for the heck of it? Well, have you ever met a church troll?”

Oh God, I couldn’t help thinking. He’s talking about me.

“Church trolls,” he continues, “Are people who are determined to find flaws in whatever church they go to, real or not.”

I gulp.

“That should be an oxymoron, right? ‘Church trolls’? Well, here’s the thing: we pastors don’t possess magical ‘lovey-dust’ to make everyone in the congregation pleasant and agreeable. That’s on you. My job as the pastor is to remind you that we’re all under construction. None of us are perfect, none of us have our theology 100% correct. Our spiritual journeys are not only shaped by Scripture, but by experience.”

And that, right there, was one of those moments where I somewhat understood what people in my college ministry meant when they talked about a moment being a “God thing.” Like I was somehow meant to be there, at that church, to hear that particular sermon. Could it be? I don’t know. I’m not sure how much stock I put into “God things” anymore, but yesterday made me want to reconsider.

At any rate, I agreed to check in again next week, and see what happens.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Christian culture, Christianity, Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, Feminism, grief, marriage

Getting Creative When the Market Gets Crowded

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Here’s a disheartening fact that concerns all authors (traditional or indie): there are over ten thousand e-books published every year on Amazon. Not even half of them will be best-seller material, but that’s still an awful lot for readers to wade through to find their next favorite. I’ve realized that marketing online isn’t enough, but it’s awkward trying to sell your work to people you know.

This has forced me to get more creative. Even if people don’t read my books, I’ve found other ways to get my name out:

Leave my books at any coffee shop with a bookshelf or a book swap, or a place where someone is guaranteed to find it (but since I don’t have an endless supply of paperbacks on hand, this is an expensive and rarely used tactic).

Post business cards on public bulletin boards. Panera and lots of other coffee shops have these available for customers to advertise their businesses (and yes, writing counts as a business). In fact, leave business cards anywhere you can, so long as you aren’t littering or leaving piles of paper around for someone else to clean up and throw away.

Make friends with the employees of indie book shops and ask if it’s possible for them to recommend your book if a customer purchases one of a similar genre.

Anyone else have other ideas? I’d love to hear about them!

Filed under: Self-Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Indie Author Life, Writing