Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 57

More Things You Shouldn’t Say to an Indie Author

Last week’s post in the Indie Author Life series – 5 Things You Should Never Say to an Indie Author – proved just how tight-knit the indie community really is. I deeply appreciate all the ‘likes,’ the reblogs, tweets, and most especially, all the “Me, too!” comments. The post was so successful and the responses so overwhelming, I’m posting a ‘sequel’ this week.

My new author friend Rachel Thompson and I organized a poll for more writers to share their stories of ignorance and disappointment from people who mean well, but just don’t understand how publishing works…or how difficult it can be.

More things you shouldn’t say to an indie author:

“Who published your book?”

Just like you should no longer assume that every person you meet is heterosexual, don’t assume that every author’s books are published in the traditional way. A better question to ask is “How was your book published?” It may seem like semantics to you, but trust us: it sounds a lot better.

“I’d love to write a book, too. But I don’t have time right now- I’m too busy with my career.”

This doozy can be extremely annoying to those of us whom writing IS a career: or are working very hard to get there. I have separated people into two groups: those who like to write, and those who are writers. The writers are the ones who get published: somehow, in some way. They make it a priority. They cannot imagine life happening around them without writing as a way to make sense of it all, because writing is a way of processing. And when writing is shared, it communicates a grain of truth about the human experience.

Those who like to write, on the other hand, are people who do it when they have time. There are bigger priorities in their lives, and that’s fine. If they get to it, they get to it. But in my opinion, a book written by someone who ‘likes to write’ is not as good as one by someone who LIVES to write. I can’t explain how I can tell the difference, but I can.

“Hey, wanna write my life story for me?”

Can’t say I’ve heard this one (yet) but more than one person mentioned it, so it must be real! It’s flattering that you think enough of someone’s writing skills to ask this, but writers tend to be very busy people. Ghost writers exist for this very purpose. Also, be aware that if you ask someone else to write your book for you, they are entitled to a portion of royalties. Are you okay with that?

“That’s nice you get to stay home and write stories all day.”

That’s like telling a stay-at-home mom that it’s nice she gets to stay home while her babies sleep all day and play quietly. Our writing is a business; it doesn’t always go the way we want it to. There are good days, and then there are times when there’s more coffee making, vodka tipping, hair pulling, and venting than getting anything productive done. Have you ever had a workday like that?

Finally, here is a look at the long-term impact a few careless words can have on someone who is trying to be a successful writer (out of respect to those who submitted, all these quotes are anonymous):

My husband has repeatedly said it’s not a real job because I don’t earn enough and I don’t put in the same effort as with a “normal” job.

I think the worst is my family who has never really read my writing…it’s not that I expect me family or friends to like what I write. I know that choosing what we read is much more complex than that BUT so much of who I am is in what I write so if you aren’t reading it you really don’t have a chance of truly knowing me.

“Oh, is that, like, on your bucket list?” (In response to the process of writing a first novel.) I find this question insulting. As if writing a fucking novel is on the same level as a long weekend spent fly-fishing in Montana.

I had a friend on Facebook who wrote me something like “All you do is travel to nice places and have fun,” to which I was going to respond “No, actually, all I do is WORK in nice places. I spend 12 hours or more every day writing, marketing and building a career for myself, instead of sitting somewhere I hate, doing something I don’t want to, lining someone else’s pockets.” I didn’t in the end, I just deleted him.

Friends, family members, and new acquaintances, I’m sure you mean well when you ask us questions about our books. We love your questions! Just think carefully about what you ask, and how. Respect the fact that we are people who have chosen a long, twisty route to fulfilling our dreams. Your support means everything.

Lessons my father taught me

If you’re lucky enough to be raised by a good father, as I was, you may be tempted to hold him up as the epitome of all fathers. But I’m not one of those daughters. I know my dad wouldn’t want to be elevated to an impossible standard of perfection. He isn’t perfect. Neither am I.

I’m the kind of daughter to really test a parent’s patience. I guess by most people’s standards, my antics weren’t that crazy: I never went wild with drugs, alcohol, or gangs (though I did get tattooed, and Dad was less than thrilled about that). I’m the daughter who defied family tradition by going to church when I was raised in synagogue. Took the risk of permanently hurting his feelings when I legally changed my name (it was his grandmother I was named for, after all).

In recent years, we fought over things: some legitimate, but mostly not. We said some hurtful things. I took the first chance I got to move 1,500 miles away, with no intentions of turning back.

I could have been a lot better. I could have done a lot worse. That applies to both of us.

It sounds strange, but cancer didn’t seem like a big deal at first. At age twelve, I knew plenty of people died from it – but they were all elderly. My dad was still young and healthy. We live in a first-world country with the best medical treatments available. He’d be fine.

I often ask myself which is the better scenario: to have a loved one taken from you in an instant; to be woken up by a frantic phone call in the middle of the night, alerting you that your relative was struck and killed by a drunk driver, or shot in a drive-by, when the real target was the guy standing behind him. Or, is it better to know ahead of time that your loved one is dying by degrees; to prepare accordingly, and say what you need to say before the moment is gone forever.

Both are tragedies. I can only speak some degree of wisdom about the latter.

For me, I needed those extra years. Who’s to say I wouldn’t still be in Colorado right now, living my own life, without concern for making amends. I’ll be honest: I am the kind of person who is sometimes content to leave things broken because the effort to try and fix them is too time-consuming and too humiliating. I’m someone who needs time to stew for a while before I can start being a grown-up and clean up my messes. But sometimes I just don’t.

My dad, thankfully, is the opposite. I have his hair, his nose – his whole face, really – but not as much of his personality as I’d like: the kind of traits that would make my life a lot easier, because they would improve the quality of my relationships with a lot of people.

My father wouldn’t let me run away. He called me, faithfully. Sent me funny cat memes on Facebook. Waited anxiously for me with my mom at the airport on holiday breaks. Unlike me, he is not a grudge-holder. He’s a man who knows that time is precious.

For years, I watched the cancer cripple my father. I watched, with increasing devastation and helplessness, as my previously active father, head coach of the high school track team, began to lose his mobility. It’s as ugly as you can imagine.

But the one comfort I have in this shit-storm is the knowledge that there’s nothing else I need to say that hasn’t already been said. At the end of the day, nothing matters more than “I love you,” and I say it as often as I can, while I can. Everyone should.

I don’t have a perfect dad (no one really does). But I have a dad who doesn’t believe in wasting anything, whether it’s leftover wine sauce from dinner, plastic bags to scoop up dog poo, or a limited amount of days. I have a father who knows how to make those days count. My uncle, his brother, asked if he’d want to just travel as much as possible, soak up as many new experiences as he could. That may appeal to some people, but that’s not what Dad wanted. He only wants to be with his family.

In a world with an alarming number of deadbeat sperm donors, I don’t know why I was blessed to have a dad who taught me how to tie my shoes, ride a bike, drive a stick shift, and quit being so stubborn all the time. Unlike Dad, I don’t believe in good people: but I think my father comes pretty darn close.

I love you, Pop Pops. Thank you for all that you’ve taught me.

(You’re forgiven for never getting me that pony)

5 Things You Should Never Say to an Indie Author

The next installment of the Indie Author Life series:

This post can apply to a variety of people, not just authors. Some of it also applies to traditionally-published authors. Bottom line: ignorance of the publishing industry is a daily reality that drives us crazy at best, and makes us wonder why we bother writing at worst.

5 things you should never say to an indie author:

When are you REALLY going to get published?

Somehow, despite the fact that my book is available on a number of online retail sellers – most notably, Amazon and Barnes & Noble – some people are still under the impression that no agent = not ‘really’ published. If someone’s books are available for purchase and they earn a royalty for each, guess what: that means it’s been published!

On that note…

How much do you make?

This is a rude question to ask anyone, period. If you mean to ask how much royalty I earn, the answer would be 70%. But as for my monthly earnings? Yearly? That’s none of your business.

How’s the writing hobby going?

Any allusion to writing as anything but a career, be it a hobby, a past-time, or something that’s ‘just for fun’ is offensive. It takes time for an author to build a solid platform and readership. We’re working our butts off to try and stand out among the thousands of other authors who churn out a new book every few weeks or so. According to one source, that comes to roughly 10,000 self-published books per year. You may think we’re crazy (and we probably are), but please respect our dedication to what we do.

Why don’t you just get an agent?

There’s no such thing as ‘just’ getting an agent; it’s a lot more complex than that. I haven’t ruled out the possibility of querying someday, but I’m enjoying being my own boss for the time being.

Why don’t you get a real job?

As previously mentioned, building a platform is one of the hardest parts about being a writer: in my opinion, it’s harder than writing the book itself. Very few people enjoy overnight success. Since I’m in this for the long haul, I expect it will take years before I can expect my books to pay the bills. But there’s nothing else in life I’d rather do, so I’m willing to accept disappointments and failures along the way to achieving my goals. There is no shortcut to anything worth doing.

But here are some things you can do to help your favorite indie authors…

On triggers and violating personal space

I’m one of those people who places tremendous value on personal space. Get too close, and I get very uncomfortable very fast. I only cuddle my cats and my fiancé. I only hug close friends and family members. I’ll shake strangers’ hands, but that’s about it.

Some people are naturally like this, but for me, I know it’s a repercussion of PTSD; something I’m trying to figure out if I need to manage better or learn to live with. For people who aren’t aware, this might make me come off as a huge bitch. Consider the following scenario and let me know:

Today, I’m at my favorite coffee shop and notice the big red couch is free. Yes! That couch is never free! I happily sit down and stretch out. It’s a lovely change of pace for the hard seats that make my butt go numb after a while.

Enter an adult male who sits right next to me on the same couch. Worth noting: there are only half a dozen other patrons in here. There are plenty of other available seats (including another couch and cushy chair). I try not to flare up, but he’s sitting six inches from my foot (I’m guessing). I can smell him. Like a reflex, I start to sweat.

I think: Well, what right do I have to tell this guy where he can and cannot sit? I don’t own this couch, and this is a public space.

I think: If this punk doesn’t get up right now, I’m gonna have a conniption the size of Texas.

The guy did get up and leave eventually – allowing me to breathe again. Maybe I’m letting my personal issues get in the way of respecting others, of being charitable and understanding in a public vicinity, where people are free to move about.

But this isn’t the first time I’ve had guys sit near me when there were plenty of other seats available. This guy in particular didn’t seem like the type who enjoyed getting a rise out of getting too close, but I’ve seen others make intimidation a spectator sport: pulling out my headphones to tell me I’m pretty, following me when I get up and waiting outside the restroom door to ask me how I’m doing, asking me what book I’m reading and if I come here often, even when I’m giving VERY CLEAR SIGNALS that I want to be left alone.

Why do men do this? Why does anyone do this?

This guy today probably saw the couch and thought, Oooh. Comfy couch! and nothing more. The bitchy-looking girl with the “I’m Silently Judging Your Grammar” t-shirt was probably an afterthought, if I was even a thought at all.

I probably overreacted. Freaking out about sharing my seat space probably wasn’t the most ‘Christian’ thing to do. But given the history of people – typically men – who don’t understand the boundaries of personal space, even in public, can you blame me?

“I’m not gonna write you a love scene…”

You may have noticed lately that YA literature is a lot sexier than it used to be. From beer to books, we all know sex sells…but it doesn’t have to (unless your genre is erotica. Then have at it). I’ve been asked by some readers of Where There’s Smoke why the “fade to black” scenes weren’t more explicit. Why? Because I didn’t want them to be!

All that to say, here is my response to the temptation to sex up my books to sell more copies. To be sung to the tune of “Love Song” by Sara Bareilles:

Head over to Goodreads

And they tell me

To read easy for a while.

But reviews get harsher,

Even I know that.

NA or YA, it’s plain to see

There’s an increase of sex scenes

I’m usually hard to give in to…

Blank stares and blank pages

No easy way to say this

You want more, but you make this hard on me…

I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you asked for it, ‘cause you need one

You see, I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you tell me it’s make or break in this industry

If you want more pay.

I’m not gonna write you to stay-ay-ay…

If all you have is leaving I’m gonna need a better reason

To write you a love scene…today

I learned the hard way

That they all write

Things they wanna read.

My heavy heart

Sinks deeeep downnnn underrrr…

You and your twisted words!

They’re losing their shirts!

You are not who I thought you were!

Hello to 1-star goodbyes…

Convinced me to please you

Made me think the characters need to screw!

I’m trying to let you hear me as I am…

I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you asked for it, ‘cause you need one

You see, I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you tell me it’s make or break in this industry

If you want more pay.

I’m not gonna write you to stay-ay-ay…

If all you have is leaving I’m gonna need a better reason

To write you a love scene…today

Promise me

You’ll read my next one

To help me see

That not all characters need to get it on

‘Cause I believe there’s a way

You can love me because I say…

I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you asked for it, ‘cause you need one

You see, I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you tell me it’s make or break in this industry

If you want more pay.

I’m not gonna write you to stay-ay-ay…

If all you have is leaving I’m gonna need a better reason

To write you a love scene…today

If you wanna know they ‘did it,’

You won’t waste another minute

Babe I’ll keep it rated PG

Unless there’s just a real good reason

For me to write you a love scene

Todaaaaayyy…!

Doubting Thomasina: the struggle of being a Christian with questions

It’s been six years since I first prayed to Jesus on the bathroom floor, and I’ve let go of my childhood desire to be the first Jewish saint. Or any kind of saint, really.

In some ways I feel I’ve outgrown my fascination with Joan of Arc. She’s still my favorite historical figure, but I no longer desire to be her. Maybe it’s cheesy, but I can only be myself: contradictory, fantastically screwed-up, always curious, still somewhat prodigal, but never boring.

Every day is a process. Every day is a challenge.

I realize today that there’s more to Christianity than evangelicalism, but it’s hard to decipher what’s true Christianity and what’s Christian culture. I think I’m okay living without the latter–many of its precepts are damaging: unhealthy instructions about submission (abusive Christian relationships were rarely mentioned), sexual education was driven by shame for our bodies rather than appreciation for being made in God’s image, relations with non-Christians were treated with an “Us vs. Them” mentality.

The more I wrestle with faith, the more I start to believe it’s better to be the kind of Christian who admits “I don’t know,” rather than throwing out the parts of the bible that don’t make sense. I really struggled with this when Dad was diagnosed with cancer for the last time, just months before my wedding. I longed to be Jewish again, to return to my roots: I even had the Hebrew word for “life” tattooed on the inside of my wrist–the same symbol Dad always wore on a gold chain around his neck (a gift from his father).

Watching his health rapidly deteriorate, I realized I didn’t know for sure what I believed about the afterlife anymore. I also realized there are some things Jews handle better than some churches I’ve attended recently: things like grieving. Jews, who are no strangers to suffering, don’t overly theologize pain. In my experience, Jews don’t have the same pressure to reframe it in a more sanitary context, assuring the sufferer that there’s a higher, holy purpose for this awful situation. Rather, they accept it for what it is. They aren’t afraid to simply say, “That really sucks.”

I wish more Christians realized that sometimes it’s perfectly okay to say that. Sometimes empathizing, not theologizing, is the most Christ-like response.

But I won’t go back to my pick-and-choose habits again. I continue pressing on because, as confusing as Christianity can be, I still believe Jesus is a man worth knowing. A man worth living for. He’s the original anti slut-shamer: a man who talked to prostitutes, humanizing them while the rest of society would have preferred to have them stoned. He’s a man who, after rising from the dead, chose to appear before a woman in a time when a woman’s testimony in court was worth the same as a criminal’s. He’s a man who championed underdogs when he could have had a direct way in to the Pharisees’ Cool Table.

He’s unique, this Jesus. And God willing, I will continue pursuing him until the end, no matter how difficult it gets.

I believe in a God who embraces our questions. It shows we are serious about seeking him.

Excerpted from Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, revised edition

Guest blog: Writing a book that sells itself

It’s Friday, which means another episode of Indie Author Life!

As you all know by now, I’m no stranger to controversial content. My first book, Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, remains my most popular book to date due to its controversial subject matter: a Jew embracing Jesus. Today, guest blogger Camille Hugh, author of the best-selling book The Thigh Gap Hack, shares her story about how publishing controversial material helped her sales. While I haven’t read her book, she has some wise things to say about believing in what you write, knowing the potential for backlash is real.

***

When I set out to write my first book, The Thigh Gap Hack, I had no idea that in a few months the media would turn the topic of thigh gaps into a daily trending topic – for the worse. I just knew that I had struggled with losing fat on my thighs despite a 30-pound weight loss and after supposedly doing everything right – according to personal trainers and random fitness advice givers on message boards alike – still wasn’t getting the results I wanted. I then tried a different approach that ended up working, and I wanted to share my findings with the world.

I had always heard that writing the book was the easiest part. Since it took me months of research and lots of late night hours writing, editing and formatting my 250 page book, I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the hard part of marketing the book one bit.

However, once I did complete “The Thigh Gap Hack”, it immediately started to sell, and I mean immediately. I got my first sale within minutes of making and posting the live download link. This was without spending a single dime on advertising.

So, how did I do it? The answer is simple – by writing a book that sold itself.

The hook of The Thigh Gap Hack, is that anyone can slim their thighs in a smart and healthy way – no eating disorders, counterproductive workout plans that will set you back a few months or invasive surgery necessary. I had been told my shape (pear shaped) made a thigh gap / slim thighs impossible and had believed it all my life. Of course, once you disprove the impossible as possible, you realize other people’s limitations aren’t necessarily yours.

When I began writing, I knew there were others like me – in other words, a market. The daily questions and pleads for help on message boards, that closely resembled my very own months prior, affirmed my hunch. A keyword search further solidified the demand was there, but this was not just any market.

You see, some markets/niches are saturated to the hilt. The key to writing a book that sells itself, is having high market demand in an area that has little to no competition and no one was writing about thigh gaps because it was a taboo subject.

The negative stigma was real, yet plenty of women still secretly (or not so secretly) longed to find an answer to change their body shape and proportions. In my observation, whenever someone dared ask how to get rid of their stubborn thigh fat, they were met with chides to embrace their strong thighs, criticized, made fun of, or told to do the exact same things people looking to grow their thighs were being told. I say all of that to say, my hook was an easy sell as it provided the exact solution that people wanted – which up until that point had been hard to find.

Now, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that I had a medium sized list of people who were eager to get my book once it was completed. Still, the only reason I was able to amass that list is because, at the risk of being redundant, the clearly reinforced topic and hook on my sales page sold the book to list subscribers for me.

There is one last thing that I want to point out about writing about controversial topics, and it’s about media coverage and potential backlash. It goes without saying that the women/girls who wanted the information my book provided were fans and shared the content on social media websites. This is one of the great things about controversial topics, they tend to be easy to share.

But I should also note that they are fodder for journalists and the media for the same reason – topics that incite strong reactions on either side is well known click bait and easily shareable. As you can imagine, there were many critics – people who judged my book negatively by its title and cover, and imposed their prejudices or hang-ups unto my work without giving it a fair shot.

A lot of people won’t embrace writing about a controversial subject because the thought alone of strangers, bloggers and/or respected media criticizing their work (unwarranted or not) scares the living daylight out of them.

It’s human nature to fear bad reviews, whether they be on the big scale or little scale, but I have a different way of thinking about this matter. Would getting a potentially bad book review stop you from writing the book you’ve always wanted to write? Some people might hate it, and some might love it – but at the end of the day, how do you feel about yourself and your work?

As the media began to spin the two words (thigh gap) into a dirty word to appease the masses, I have to admit I was a little nervous. Articles were coming out every day about how young women were harming themselves to achieve this supposedly unrealistic goal. You never heard the stories of women/girls going about their aesthetic goals in a balanced and smart way, the way I had or the way my book advised.

I got approached to be on The Dr. Oz show, radio shows, and got written up in large publications – most of them putting me on the defensive. That’s another thing about taking a different stance, regardless of being published by the Big 5 or not, good journalists will want a counterpoint. I have to say that if you don’t believe in your work or yourself, the harsh words and scrutiny can get to be too much. However, if you do believe in your work, at the end of the day the bad press or press with bad intentions doesn’t hurt – and in some cases it only helps.

I saw each instance of negative criticism as a platform to not only respond, but explain my stance and defend my book. My fans, who had actually read the book, came to my defense as well and this made dealing with the dark side of choosing a controversial topic much easier. I say all of that to say, don’t just take a controversial stance that you don’t believe in to move books – keep your integrity in tact.

I hope my story has prompted someone out there to think twice about the book he/she really wants to write but thinks it might be too controversial to tackle. If you want to write about a potentially polarizing (people either hate it or love it) subject that you believe in, know there’s a market that hasn’t been completely saturated, show proof of concept by getting people to opt in to your mailing list or pre-order, then you potentially have a book that will sell itself.

Write on, my friend – and if the fear of criticism still seems to be getting the best of you, might I remind you that pseudonyms exist for a reason.

Camille Hugh is the author of the best-selling book, “The Thigh Gap Hack: The Shortcut to Slimmer, Feminine Thighs Every Woman Secretly Desires”, which has been featured on the Dr. Oz show, Cosmopolitan, Spry magazine, and Sirius radio, and “Bye Bye Thunder Thighs – The Weight Loss Diet Plan for Pear Shapes”.

Her books reveal unconventional diet and exercise tactics to combat stubborn fat and bulky muscles to contour slender, sleek legs.

She is the producer/host of the popular thighgaphack channel on youtube, which features workout videos and other hot fitness related topics.

Camille is currently working on her latest book “How to Lose Water Weight – The Fast and Easy way to Drop up to 20 Pounds in 14 Days or Less (August 2014)

More information can be found at – http://www.thighgaphack.com

Not Jewish, but Jew-‘ish’

After much begging, pleading, and offers of bribery, I finally accepted Emily’s offer to visit her Messianic Synagogue, for no other reason except to get her off my back.

I had no idea what to expect, but I was skeptical. Would it be a normal evangelical service with traditional hymns, but with a side dash of Hebrew? Would the preacher simply don a talit and yarmulke and consider that Jewish enough? What if I hated it…or worse, what if I ended up liking it?

I was especially irritated at having to get up early on a Saturday for it–yep, the Jewish Sabbath. But Emily, darn that charm of hers, talked me into it by promising me Starbucks on the way. There’s hardly anything I wouldn’t do for Starbucks.

The first thing I noticed, once inside, were the women: they looked considerably Orthodox with their mid-length shirts and long skirts. Some even wore head coverings. The men wore suits and talits draped over their shoulders, all decked out with the same Messianic Seal I was wearing around my neck (I figured that was the most acceptable place to wear it).

The service opened with the same Hebrew chants I knew by heart. I’ll try not to be too judgmental here, but I have to confess: it did bother me that the rabbi (Minister? Preacher? What is the proper title for a Messianic Jewish leader?) kept mispronouncing certain words. Aha! I thought. You must be a gentile, too! But I wisely kept my mouth shut. The thing was, I could force my mouth shut or my mind to stay open, but it was really hard to do both. You’d think I would feel right at home in a place like this, but everything from the Israeli flag at the podium–next to a cross–to interspersing prayers with cries of Yeshua HaMoshiach! just felt…forced.

I wanted the seams of my identity to blend nicely with the rest of the fabric, but this was not the way to do it. This felt like a child forcing a puzzle piece into a space it didn’t belong. I don’t know how else to explain it.

It’s tradition to kiss your prayer book and then touch the Torah with it as it is carried down the aisle mid-service, so as not to soil it with grimy human hands. But the Torah was being lifted from the Ark just after singing a song about Jesus. For some reason, as much as I believed in Christianity, I could not touch the Torah with my prayer book after that. That seemed like way more heresy than I could handle, and I already handled quite a lot.

There was even a rendition of Hava Nagila, a song and dance number usually reserved for weddings or bat mitzvahs, at the end. It was truly an effort in self-control not to groan out loud–like, how many Jewish traditions can you squeeze into one service?

This wasn’t Jewish. This felt Jew-ish.

But it meant a lot to Emily, whom I liked and respected. When she asked what I thought, I told her “It was interesting,” and left it at that.

I’ve met many Christians who use the phrases “Jew for Jesus” and “Messianic Jew” interchangeably, not realizing they are two completely different groups. Jews for Jesus is an evangelism campaign founded in 1973 by a man named Moishe Rosen–a Jewish-born Baptist preacher. Messianic Judaism is a unique branch of Christianity that initially began as a safe haven for Jews who believe in Jesus. Its popularity has grown due to a surplus of Protestants developing an interest in their faith’s Jewish roots (2,000 years belated, in my opinion). This “denomination” now boasts a growing number of gentiles, like Emily, who want to see the Church return to her Jewish roots.

I agree that it is completely necessary for pastors to educate their congregants about Judaism, but I have many mixed feelings about the Messianic way of doing it. I love Chinese food, but I wouldn’t be fooling anyone by calling myself Chinese. I can’t help feeling the same way about Christians who “feel Jewish” because they love Judaism.

I recently bought a ring with the Yiddish word bashert engraved on it. Traditionally, bashert has been used on wedding bands and is interpreted as “soulmate.” An additional interpretation is also “meant to happen,” which I’d like to believe is an appropriate summary of my spiritual journey. Jesus refers to the Church as his bride in the Scriptures. No matter what label I call myself, Jesus is my bashert.

Excerpted from the revised edition of Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, now available on Kindle for 99 cents: http://amzn.to/1rBYIe5

Not Jewish, but Jew-’ish’

After much begging, pleading, and offers of bribery, I finally accepted Emily’s offer to visit her Messianic Synagogue, for no other reason except to get her off my back.

I had no idea what to expect, but I was skeptical. Would it be a normal evangelical service with traditional hymns, but with a side dash of Hebrew? Would the preacher simply don a talit and yarmulke and consider that Jewish enough? What if I hated it…or worse, what if I ended up liking it?

I was especially irritated at having to get up early on a Saturday for it–yep, the Jewish Sabbath. But Emily, darn that charm of hers, talked me into it by promising me Starbucks on the way. There’s hardly anything I wouldn’t do for Starbucks.

The first thing I noticed, once inside, were the women: they looked considerably Orthodox with their mid-length shirts and long skirts. Some even wore head coverings. The men wore suits and talits draped over their shoulders, all decked out with the same Messianic Seal I was wearing around my neck (I figured that was the most acceptable place to wear it).

The service opened with the same Hebrew chants I knew by heart. I’ll try not to be too judgmental here, but I have to confess: it did bother me that the rabbi (Minister? Preacher? What is the proper title for a Messianic Jewish leader?) kept mispronouncing certain words. Aha! I thought. You must be a gentile, too! But I wisely kept my mouth shut. The thing was, I could force my mouth shut or my mind to stay open, but it was really hard to do both. You’d think I would feel right at home in a place like this, but everything from the Israeli flag at the podium–next to a cross–to interspersing prayers with cries of Yeshua HaMoshiach! just felt…forced.

I wanted the seams of my identity to blend nicely with the rest of the fabric, but this was not the way to do it. This felt like a child forcing a puzzle piece into a space it didn’t belong. I don’t know how else to explain it.

It’s tradition to kiss your prayer book and then touch the Torah with it as it is carried down the aisle mid-service, so as not to soil it with grimy human hands. But the Torah was being lifted from the Ark just after singing a song about Jesus. For some reason, as much as I believed in Christianity, I could not touch the Torah with my prayer book after that. That seemed like way more heresy than I could handle, and I already handled quite a lot.

There was even a rendition of Hava Nagila, a song and dance number usually reserved for weddings or bat mitzvahs, at the end. It was truly an effort in self-control not to groan out loud–like, how many Jewish traditions can you squeeze into one service?

This wasn’t Jewish. This felt Jew-ish.

But it meant a lot to Emily, whom I liked and respected. When she asked what I thought, I told her “It was interesting,” and left it at that.

I’ve met many Christians who use the phrases “Jew for Jesus” and “Messianic Jew” interchangeably, not realizing they are two completely different groups. Jews for Jesus is an evangelism campaign founded in 1973 by a man named Moishe Rosen–a Jewish-born Baptist preacher. Messianic Judaism is a unique branch of Christianity that initially began as a safe haven for Jews who believe in Jesus. Its popularity has grown due to a surplus of Protestants developing an interest in their faith’s Jewish roots (2,000 years belated, in my opinion). This “denomination” now boasts a growing number of gentiles, like Emily, who want to see the Church return to her Jewish roots.

I agree that it is completely necessary for pastors to educate their congregants about Judaism, but I have many mixed feelings about the Messianic way of doing it. I love Chinese food, but I wouldn’t be fooling anyone by calling myself Chinese. I can’t help feeling the same way about Christians who “feel Jewish” because they love Judaism.

I recently bought a ring with the Yiddish word bashert engraved on it. Traditionally, bashert has been used on wedding bands and is interpreted as “soulmate.” An additional interpretation is also “meant to happen,” which I’d like to believe is an appropriate summary of my spiritual journey. Jesus refers to the Church as his bride in the Scriptures. No matter what label I call myself, Jesus is my bashert.

Excerpted from the revised edition of Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, now available on Kindle for 99 cents: http://amzn.to/1rBYIe5

Undoing the damage caused by “purity culture”

I follow a group called Thank God for Sex on Twitter (it’s not what you think). Recently they posed this question for their followers: “When was the first time you can remember learning about purity culture?”

Some Twitter users wrote that they first started hearing these messages – the idea that physical purity is the truest measure of (mostly female) worth – as early as age 2 or 3 (!). For me, it was much later. My parents are secular Jewish liberals; none of those lessons were taught in my house (or in my reformed synagogue, for that matter).

No, the first time I was introduced to “purity culture” was in early high school at a seminar called Silver Ring Thing. Oddly enough, in a small conservative town like mine, an event like this was a must-see. All my friends were Christians, and I was enough of an oddball already, so I didn’t hesitate about saying yes when I got invited to attend.

You see, I was a very strange little girl. Despite being raised in a liberal home, and despite being Jewish, with no interest in Christianity whatsoever, I was still interested in Christian ideals like purity (shameless plug: this backstory is explained in my revised memoir). I had picture books about saints like Joan of Arc to really drive the purity message home: what you do with your body matters. Sex matters.

By the time I was old enough to properly date, I believed in saving sex for marriage. What I saw at the SRT seminar reinforced those beliefs, but it wasn’t until my twenties that I started carefully deconstructing those messages, and the damage hiding beneath them (don’t take my word for it: check out SRT’s gift shop, and take note of the ‘Don’t Contaminate Your Life’ sticker).

I still remember the seminar very clearly. In an attempt to be hip and relevant, Silver Ring Thing’s messages were delivered through skits, comedy acts, and personal testimonies. The skit that stands out most in my memory is one where a girl carries a cardboard heart, offering pieces of it to different boys in her class (always a girl doing this, mind you). But these pieces of her ‘heart’ weren’t just accepted casually – stuffed in a pocket or stored elsewhere. No, they were destroyed. One guy brought out – I kid you not – a blowtorch to burn this poor girl’s ‘heart,’ so by the time she’s standing at the altar, all she has left to offer her husband is a small, charred splinter.

But wait! There’s hope! If anyone in the audience already had sex, they could still achieve ‘honorary purity’ by asking God’s forgiveness and ‘starting over.’

I have no doubt that God can redeem anything. It’s just a little problematic to spend so much time making sex look evil, the damage so traumatizing, for an almost thirty-minute skit…only to squeeze the redemption message within the last two minutes of the show.

Which message do you really think is going to resonate more? Nearly ten years later, I still remember the blowtorch.

Students who experienced sexual abuse were included in the presentation, too, with the same reminder of redemption. But I wish the speakers had devoted more time to advising counseling, reporting the abuse to the proper authorities, and most importantly, the fact that rape does not equal loss of virginity. Rape has nothing to do with purity, and the ‘giving up’ of one’s virginity is a personal choice (the exact definition of “virginity,” and whether it even exists, is a subject for another post).

As a Christian, I believe sex should be reserved for marriage. I don’t fundamentally disagree with the message that society would be better off – less STDs, single parenthood, less heartbreak – if everyone saved sex for marriage. Obviously, that’s not the reality we live in. There has to be a better way to communicate abstinence than what I witnessed, since the odds of today’s teenagers waiting until marriage are not in their favor: the average American gets married in their late twenties (as fate would have it, I’ll be married at the exact average age an American woman is predicted to marry: 26).

As an adult, I’m having a great deal of trouble defining “purity” in a way that doesn’t reap shame and condemnation for those who didn’t follow the path of abstinence. Surely there is more to the worth of a person than how they express their sexuality? Surely there is more to offer a spouse than an intact hymen (if you’re even born with one), because sex alone does not a great marriage make: marriage is built on trust, respect, fidelity…qualities I value far more in my fiancé than what he did or didn’t do with prior girlfriends before he even met me.

If you’ve been taught that sex can make you as undesirable as a charred piece of cardboard, what miracle occurs on the wedding night that suddenly makes it okay?

Chances are, the teens that don’t keep their virginity till marriage may find the act of sex to be anything but shameful and damaging. If that message from their trusted church leaders is proven false, perhaps they’ll start to wonder what else the church might be lying to them about.