Sibella Giorello's Blog, page 7

I wrote the below blog post for the excellent site N...

I wrote the below blog post for the excellent site Novel Rocket (if you haven't subscribed, do it now). My point was to encourage first-time novelists, who often set the bar impossibly high. 
    
       I can still remember the ringing telephone.
 Coming through the door -- beach sand still in my hair -- I lunged for the phone, always certain somebody has just died.
     But it was my editor at Revell.
     "You won!" she exclaimed.
     It will sound disingenuous but the truth often embarrasses: I didn't know what she was talking about. Several significant moments of silence passed. Then an idea dislodged itself from my beach brain. 
     Oh. Christy Awards. This weekend.
     My first novel, "The Stones Cry Out," was nominated for best first novel.
     "What's wrong?" the editor asked, as the silence stretched on.
     "Nothing."
     "You're probably in shock. Isn't it great news?!"
     Yes.
     And no.
     Despite the nomination, I never expected to win. Given the great novels competing in the same category, I didn't think my book would win.
    Actually, I didn't think it should win. 
     My first novel reminded me of a knock-kneed colt struggling to stand up on its own feet. That it would win an award like the Christy seemed absurd. I wondered if a mistake had been made.
     Ever since, I've felt a certain ambivalence about winning that honor. I figured my problem was pride (I'm human; there is always pride). But four novels later, I can see some sense in my ambivalence. And I can share three important lessons. 

One: Pray that your first book is not your best. 
     Despite the award in my hand, I remained busy grieving my novice abilities. Fortunately, God countered the sackcloth-and-ashes with a spirit of perseverance. I decided the only way to get better was to keep going.
     "Most people won't realize that writing is a craft," said Katherine Anne Porter. "You have to take your apprenticeship in it like anything else."
     Of course, you will find your own ways of enduring the early apprenticeship, but one of my favorites was The Tour of First Novels.
     One day, at my most frustrated, I stormed into the library and checked out first novels by my favorite authors. Within hours, relief was humming through my veins. Not that schadenfreude sort of relief, but something productive.
     Most of those first books were bad. Some even stunk. And none matched their author's later output.
     Like most first novels, those first books read like seed pods yearning to bloom. 
    Or: knock-kneed colts struggling to stand. 

Two: In the modern era of e-books, the first book might not be so final. 
     Some months ago, the copyright to "The Stones Cry Out" returned to me.
     Here came my colt, running for home.
     Unfortunately, temptation was riding with it.
     The rationalization went like this: It won a Christy. Received good reviews. Launched a successful series. You should just put it on Kindle. As-is….
     But we're called to be workers who need not be ashamed, "rightly dividing the word of truth." (2 Tim 2:15). Since I still didn't love my first book, it was my responsibility to do something about it.
     With prayers for humility and discernment, I proceeded from Page 1 and continued to the end, rounding out scenes, adding flesh to characters, trying to bring the story closer to what followed in the rest of the Raleigh Harmon series.
     And when "The Stones Cry Out" was put on Kindle, I didn't hesitate to add the Christy Award honor.
    Because it looked different to me now.
     Not only for the new work done, though it played a large part. The difference was lesson three.
      I didn't write that first book to win an award; I am grateful for it. But I am also grateful that the honor didn't fill me with (more) pride. The simple fact is, I write because God made me a writer. That's what I'm supposed to do. Any honors, awards, or leading positions on the best-seller list can only be viewed through the lens of grace.
     Completely undeserved: And yet, there it is.
     And the apprenticeship carries on accordingly.

For the Love of Dog

In most homes, the family member with the best servant's heart is the dog.

Here's a short story by Ray Bradbury, posted on mockingbird.com.

Hope you will carve out a few moments to read and reflect.

And rejoice.

The Poet as Prophet

Today's news is that Usama Bin Laden is dead.

Today is also Holocaust Remembrance Day.

God's timing is ceaselessly fascinating. While each individual can draw their own comparisons between the two events, I found myself recalling lines from a W.H. Auden poem, "1st September 1939."

September 1, 1939 was the day Hitler invaded Poland. The 20th century was never the same again.

They say history repeats itself. It does. But history also rhymes with itself.

And Auden's poem fits both then, and now.

Here is the poet reading his poem.

The Blues

Joe "Blue," bringing down the houseWhen it comes to music, I prefer long ballads and poetry.

But I married a blues musician. Our first years of wedded bliss included dancing every weekend -- with me thinking, "You're not going to repeat that line again, are you?"

The structure of a blues song is so simple it seems cruel. Usually there's nothing more than three stanzas with two repeating lines, followed by a third line -- that replies to the repeating line!

It's enough to drive a novelist straight into the arms of William Faulkner.

But a funny thing happened on the way to growing up: My appreciation for The Blues has deepened every year.

Rock music can obscure any shallow sentiments with decibels and lightning guitar licks. Folk singers can pirouette on brilliant phrasing, even if there's no feeling involved. Grunge grinds down on despair, proving misery loves company. And rap -- well, let's just say rap doesn't belong in this paragraph about music.

Meanwhile, the simplicity of a Blues song works like an auger for truth. The song's meaning doesn't come from its words or fancy chord progressions. Its meaning comes from the heart, and the repeating lines underscore the sentiment -- sorrow, pain, loss, affliction.

A good novelist can't simply type a book. And a true Blues musician can't just sing a song. The common goal is to reach the heart. Which often requires bleeding in public -- on purpose.

Some religious people describe The Blues as "the devil's music." But I think it's closer to the opposite. It's about those sighs "too deep for words."

Recently The Hunk of Italy and I attended the Washington Blues Society's annual awards show. For the second year running, The Hunk was nominated for best blues harp while his band -- Hot Rod's Blues Review -- was nominated for best band. (By the way, double nominations two consecutive years doesn't means poor supply. Just the opposite. Most states are fortunate to have one blues society. Washington has six -- six! -- grooving the Northwest from the Oregon border up to Canada and across the Cascades into Spokane. From April to October, there's a blues event nearly every weekend.) Although The Hunk lost to the gracious and equally talented Jeff Herzog, it was a lovely night at The Triple Door.

And it reminded me once again why The Blues and the people who play it are so special.

Here's the short list:

Age. Other than the beautiful Stacy Jones, who can belt it out like LouAnn Barton, most blues musicians are pushing 40 or 50. A serious percentage are giving 60 new meaning. And since age generally matures the heart, the older the musician, the better his Blues.
      Take that, MTV.

Tone. Not just musically, but conduct. As wild, individualistic, and imaginative as these musicians are, nobody's shouting a blue streak through the microphone or grabbing his crotch or pulling a gun in the parking lot (although those impulses might wind up in a Blues song).

Men in suits. Zoot suits. Double-breasted sharkskin. Suits as green as parrots. Blood-red smoking jackets. Paired with two-tone oxford shoes. And fedoras.
       Man, it's style.

Finally, most importantly, Truth.

These songs of pain and sorrow celebrate life.

Yes, it's a paradox.

Just like another paradox.

A homeless guy was tortured and mutilated and hung on a cross for everybody else's faults -- and we call that day "Good Friday." Scandalous and beautiful, the greatest story ever told reads a lot like a Blues song. A fallen world, the wicked human heart. A fallen world, the wicked human heart. But God came back, He came back.

Now get up and boogie.

Get up and boogie.

Poetry Month

In honor of poetry month -- which, really, deserves to be 12 months long -- I dipped into one of my favorite anthologies.

"Northwest Verse" was published in 1931 by Caxton Press of Caldwell, Idaho.

Most if not all of these early poets from Washington, Oregon, Idaho and Montana have been forgotten. But here is just one of its delicious offerings:



   Notes on a Concert

While scientists debated whether
'Twere wise to publish their decision,
The morning stars sang all together
In gay derision.

They said: "This planet is the greater,
And that the less, of those before us."
The stars lampooned each commentator
In ribald chorus.

Antares, Betelguese and Mira,
The big and little constellations,
Sang "fol-de-rol" and "tira-lira"
With variations.

For stars have little else to do
But chant in praise or sing in revel,
And glorify what things are true,
And shame the devil.

But the astronomers still peer
Through telescopes, and jot down data;
They are too occupied to hear
The great cantata.

And one will wag his beard and say:
"Behold, I've solved a hard enigma;
This star, ten billion miles away,
Shall be called Sigma."

                                              ---Stoddard King

Trivia!

Thanks again for making the Raleigh Parteigh on Facebook such a wonderful event!

I can't think of better company than a lively group readers. Thanks for the smart and witty comments, beautiful pictures, and funny answers.

I'm grateful to each of you for coming out to play Tuesday night.

And because some of us require closure (your humble scribe included) the trivia answers are posted below.

See you at the next Raleigh Parteigh!


What did I do for work before I was an author? Newspaper and magazine reporter (also worked as a farm hand and bartender)

How many books are there in the Raleigh Harmon series? Five, counting next year's release, "The Stars Shine Bright."

How many daughters do I have? NONE! I have sons.

Do you think I have a subscription to Scientific American? Nope. And if you read the blog, you'll see why....

Now, for those of you who have read The Mountains Bow Down – here's a few questions about the book:

Geert Van Broek is head of ship security. What country is he from? Holland. Bonus question: What agency trained him in law enforcement? Royal Marechaussee

How does Special Agent Jack Stephanson get to Alaska? He flies his plane.

What is a phillumenist? Someone who collects matchbooks. Bonus: Why does that word have two Ls? Because one root of the word comes from Greek (phila) and one root comes from Latin (luma).


Where does Raleigh's mom always go to find peace for her troubled mind? Church or chapel -- God's house.

What is the name of Aunt Charlotte's New Age store? Seattle Stones.

DeMott Fielding's family has lived on the same Virginia estate since the early 1700s. What is the name of that property? Weyanoke. BONUS: Can you name two of DeMott's family members? MacKenna and Jillian are his sisters. Harrison is his father. And Peery is his mother.

And the winner is ... Was it YOU?

I'm thrilled to announce that

Cathy Wilcox from Texas

will soon be sailing on the high seas because she has won a $500 Vacations To Go gift certificate to put toward the cruise of her choice! Amy from Litfuse Publicity Group will be in touch for your info Cathy - congrats.

And thank you to everyone who entered and helped Spread the Word about The Mountains Bow Down!

Well, we come again to the crossroads of science and the...

Well, we come again to the crossroads of science and theology-- which means it's time to make derogatory statements about creationists.



Writer Paul Horgan has penned a Scientific American piece in which he is forced to admit (publicly) that scientists have no idea how life began: "Geologists, chemists, astronomers and biologists are as stumped as ever by the riddle of life."



Call the New York Times!



Oh, wait. The news already ran in the the Gray Lady.



In fact, that's what sparked Horgan's editorial. The "paper of record" mistakenly pulled back the curtain on the evolutionary road show.



Horgan seems concerned that people might get the silly notion that evolutionists don't know what they're talking about. So he describes some previous evolutionary theories. One of the most popular was self-replicating RNA.



RNA -- DNA's sometime assistant -- was supposed to be capable of severing and reattaching itself. Since this was a self-directed action, the replication meant RNA was evolving on its own. There was only one problem. In order to "self-replicate," RNA needed a serious catalyst; it required the scientist to make it happen.



Let that sink in a moment. Not only was RNA not self-replicating, the person making it happen was an evolutionary scientist.



Since life can't recreate itself by itself Horgan was forced to type a quote that probably made his fingers bleed. ". . . (E)ven if RNA did appear naturally, the odds that it would happen in the right sequence to drive Darwinian evolution seem small."



The only known fact is that life came suddenly, and it continued swiftly. On that evolutionists agree. Horgan quotes one scientist saying our origins resembled "Athena springing from the head of Zeus."



Alluding to mythological Greek gods won't get you kicked out of any peer-reviewed journals, because referring to the fictional stories of an ancient, noble, and pagan culture only proves you went to the right college.



But try uttering words like, "Six days." Or even, "God breathed." You'll find yourself lumped in with those crazies who believe in aliens.



Well, maybe not aliens.



Because Horgan says evolutionary scientists are returning to a 1950s theory which speculated -- wait, wait, hold on! Did I say speculate? That's not right. Let me find the exact word Horgan used . . . ah, yes, here it is. Conjectured. Much better.  Let me try again.



Horgan writes that evolutionary scientists have "conjectured that aliens came to Earth in a spaceship and planted the seeds of life here billions of years ago. This notion is called directed panspermia."



It must be a legitimate theory. There's a scientific term containing two Greek roots.



Except I'm not sure those roots are correct. The actual term for this theory is panstupidia. Definition: Widespread and obstinate resistance to any truth that extends beyond man's comprehension.



Horgan concludes his essay -- of course -- with an obligatory jab at people who believe in God.



"Creationists are no doubt thrilled that origin-of-life research has reached such an impasse . . . but they shouldn't be. Their explanations suffer from the same flaw: What created the divine Creator? And at least scientists are making an honest effort to solve life's mystery instead of blaming it all on God."



My kids used to argue like this, around age four. "Oh, yeah? Well, he did the same thing. And at least I tried to help."



If Horgan were intellectually brave enough to leave the peer-reviewed echo chamber, he would discover Christians and Jews wrestling with those very same questions -- and with the great questions of science. Faith-based thinkers don't view science and theology as binary. The mysterious equation is more algebraic, containing the unknown: God.



Scientific American boasts a long record of bias against biologists, geologists, and physicists who believe in God, and the think tanks that facilitate their work, such as The Discovery Institute.



But the real problem with Horgan's editorial -- and the voluminous yet vaporous tomes by Richard Dawkins et al -- is that it resembles nothing so much as a magic show. The magician on stage can't afford to let the audience see what's really going on, so he must move his hands back and forth, back and forth, conjecturing if you will, until the moment when he can finally reach into his hat and pull out . . . hang on . . .  it's coming . . . really . . . pretty soon, you'll see, God had nothing to do with any of this . . . please, stop believing in Him.



But thousands of years ago, a more humble scribe wrote the truth. Long before DNA was discovered. Long before supposedly self-replicating RNA. Before aliens and spaceships and seed pods. Eons before Scientific American.



"In his pride the wicked does not seek him," wrote the Pslamist (10:4), "in all his thoughts there is no room for God."

Well, we come again to the crossroads of science and theo...

Well, we come again to the crossroads of science and theology-- which means it's time to make derogatory statements about creationists.

Writer Paul Horgan has penned a Scientific American piece in which he is forced to admit (publicly) that scientists have no idea how life began: "Geologists, chemists, astronomers and biologists are as stumped as ever by the riddle of life."

Call the New York Times!

Oh, wait. The news already ran in the the Gray Lady.

In fact, that's what sparked Horgan's editorial. The "paper of record" mistakenly pulled back the curtain on the evolutionary road show.

Horgan seems concerned that people might get the silly notion that evolutionists don't know what they're talking about. So he describes some previous evolutionary theories. One of the most popular was self-replicating RNA.

RNA -- DNA's sometime assistant -- was supposed to be capable of severing and reattaching itself. Since this was a self-directed action, the replication meant RNA was evolving on its own. There was only one problem. In order to "self-replicate," RNA needed a serious catalyst; it required the scientist to make it happen.

Let that sink in a moment. Not only was RNA not self-replicating, the person making it happen was an evolutionary scientist.

Since life can't recreate itself by itself Horgan was forced to type a quote that probably made his fingers bleed. ". . . (E)ven if RNA did appear naturally, the odds that it would happen in the right sequence to drive Darwinian evolution seem small."

The only known fact is that life came suddenly, and it continued swiftly. On that evolutionists agree. Horgan quotes one scientist saying our origins resembled "Athena springing from the head of Zeus."

Alluding to mythological Greek gods won't get you kicked out of any peer-reviewed journals, because referring to the fictional stories of an ancient, noble, and pagan culture only proves you went to the right college.

But try uttering words like, "Six days." Or even, "God breathed." You'll find yourself lumped in with those crazies who believe in aliens.

Well, maybe not aliens.

Because Horgan says evolutionary scientists are returning to a 1950s theory which speculated -- wait, wait, hold on! Did I say speculate? That's not right. Let me find the exact word Horgan used . . . ah, yes, here it is. Conjectured. Much better.  Let me try again.

Horgan writes that evolutionary scientists have "conjectured that aliens came to Earth in a spaceship and planted the seeds of life here billions of years ago. This notion is called directed panspermia."

It must be a legitimate theory. There's a scientific term containing two Greek roots.

Except I'm not sure those roots are correct. The actual term for this theory is panstupidia. Definition: Widespread and obstinate resistance to any truth that extends beyond man's comprehension.

Horgan concludes his essay -- of course -- with an obligatory jab at people who believe in God.

"Creationists are no doubt thrilled that origin-of-life research has reached such an impasse . . . but they shouldn't be. Their explanations suffer from the same flaw: What created the divine Creator? And at least scientists are making an honest effort to solve life's mystery instead of blaming it all on God."

My kids used to argue like this, around age four. "Oh, yeah? Well, he did the same thing. And at least I tried to help."

If Horgan were intellectually brave enough to leave the peer-reviewed echo chamber, he would discover Christians and Jews wrestling with those very same questions -- and with the great questions of science. Faith-based thinkers don't view science and theology as binary. The mysterious equation is more algebraic, containing the unknown: God.

Scientific American boasts a long record of bias against biologists, geologists, and physicists who believe in God, and the think tanks that facilitate their work, such as The Discovery Institute.

But the real problem with Horgan's editorial -- and the voluminous yet vaporous tomes by Richard Dawkins et al -- is that it resembles nothing so much as a magic show. The magician on stage can't afford to let the audience see what's really going on, so he must move his hands back and forth, back and forth, conjecturing if you will, until the moment when he can finally reach into his hat and pull out . . . hang on . . .  it's coming . . . really . . . pretty soon, you'll see, God had nothing to do with any of this . . . please, stop believing in Him.

But thousands of years ago, a more humble scribe wrote the truth. Long before DNA was discovered. Long before supposedly self-replicating RNA. Before aliens and spaceships and seed pods. Eons before Scientific American.

"In his pride the wicked does not seek him," wrote the Pslamist (10:4), "in all his thoughts there is no room for God."

On this day, in 1867, the United States paid Russia $7 mi...

On this day, in 1867, the United States paid Russia $7 million for Alaska. Personally, it's my favorite purchase. 
But the anniversary has me thinking about how much the state has changed, particularly in recent years.
My great-grandparents arrived in Juneau in 1885, and my grandmother was born that same year, the youngest of eight children. She was rumored to be the first caucasion baby born in Juneau. At age five, she was kidnapped by Tlingit Indians. Her eldest brother later saved her, toting his best shotgun. 
 My grandmother's story was later dramatized in a play, "Hootchinoo and Hotcakes." The play was primarily staged for tourists who came to town by cruise ship. But sometime during the 1970s, a bunch of folks moved to Juneau from Outside -- the lower 48 states. They didn't like the play. It was "culturally insensitive." "Politically incorrect."
The play was taken off the stage.
Despite historic fact, we weren't supposed to say that during territorial days the Tlingit Indians behaved like ruthless savages. But they did -- and good for them. The Tlingits were the only Alaska Native tribe the Russians couldn't conquer. And that's saying something: The Russians were plenty ruthless too.
Six years ago I went back to Juneau for my parents' memorial services. At the time my youngest son was five. He wore a coonskin cap and carried a toy rifle wherever he went -- even to bed. Having heard the heroic story of his great-grandmother's rescue by shotgun, he wanted to find a toy replica in Juneau.
But the Juneau toy store owner told us she didn't carry guns -- not even cap guns. She couldn't. "I would like to carry guns, but the parents in town would boycott my store. They'd drive me out of business."
Our son was crushed. So we walked down the block to the bakery, hoping a doughnut would lift his spirits. And when we walked into the bakery, a bunch of boys immediately gravitated to the kid with the coonskin cap and toy rifle. Happily, our son let them hold the rifle and touch his hat. His face beamed. But suddenly women began rushing forward, yanking the boys away. I didn't understand. Until one of the women stomped up to me and declared: "WE don't play with guns!" 
I wanted to shoot her. 
That afternoon, we went back to the house where we were staying. Our host, a dear old family friend, had lived in Juneau for eighty-five years. He was close friends with my grandmother who was kidnapped. Born and raised in Alaska, and a die-hard Democrat, he was instrumental in drafting the state Constitution. For decades he served as a highly respected judge and also served during WWII with the 10th Mountain Division. Upon seeing my son's interest in weaponry, he brought out his old .45 from the war. What a thrill!
But somebody in the room wasn't happy. She was head of Alaska's department of fish and game. She didn't grow up in Alaska, but now she was in charge of telling Alaskans how to manage their living natural resources. And she told us we were encouraging "violence" by letting our son handle the historic weapon. Nevermind how she glared at the toy rifle.
Back in the 1970s, around the time "Hootchinoo and Hotcakes" got banned, the Outsiders were coming north in droves. Some came to work the oil rigs. But just as many came up as environmentalists and lawyers and "activists" of various stripes. 
As a girl, it seemed like an exciting time. The Alaska Pipeline was going to change everything -- there were even rumors we would get TV reception. 
But I can still remember the moment in August, 1974, when I begged my dad to buy me a sweatshirt with a picture of the Pipeline. My dad refused. He wouldn't buy anything that heralded the Pipeline. 
A lifelong Alaskan, District Attorney during Alaska's territorial days, and later a justice on the Alaska Supreme Court, he hated what was happening. Not the oil, not the revenue. Those were necessary, he said.
"But the do-gooders are coming," he told me. "The people who know what's good for you -- better than you know yourself. And they always pave the road to Hell. Someday you'll understand."
I was eleven at the time. I thought he was wrong. I wanted that sweatshirt. The Outsiders seemed like very nice people. They just wanted to make things better. They just wanted Alaska to be more like the other states. 
What was wrong with that?
A significant rite of passage is when you realize your parents were right. 
Standing at my dad's memorial service, with my gun-toting five-year-old by my side, I told my dad he was right. 
And then I told him good-bye.