Heroes and Heartbreakers

by Lisa Hughey

I know what you're thinking. What does that title have to do with religion?

Not a damn thing. I'm firmly in the camp of, however you choose to worship (or not) is your own business. I won't show you mine and don't show me yours :)

Instead I have some fun news. I'm also going to be blogging over at a new publisher sponsored website: www.heroesandheartbreakers.com

The site launches TODAY. :) So stop on by and take a look. And feel free to let me know what you think!!

Happy Valentine's Day from the Pens!!!!


Lisa

And the Winner is...plus a few other tips for aspiring writers

Comment number 9 (we use the totally impartial www.random.org to generate our winners :) )

So...Michelle!!!!! You have won a copy of

Writing Romance—The Ultimate Guide on Craft, Creation and Industry Connections



So here are some writing tips straight from the Pens:

1. Write. This one sounds simple but sometimes it isn't. Don't say you want to write. DO IT!! Put your butt in the chair, hands on the keyboard and type away madly. BIC HOK TAM

2. Celebrate. Every single milestone that comes your way. Finish a chapter, yay! Finish a draft, yay!! Final in a writing contest, yay! Get a good critique, yay! Sent out to an agent/editor, yay! Got a rejection, yay!

3. Submit. We've met people terrified to submit their work. What if no one likes it? Well what if they LOVE it? Use the internet tools to find agents/editors interested in what you write (www.querytracker.net) and SUBMIT.

And last but not least: we wish all of you GOOD LUCK on your publishing journey!!!!

Love, The Pens

Big Truth

--Adrienne Miller

I remember the first time I was informed I would be going to hell. I was about eight years old. My sister and I were riding in the back of my grandmother’s van. She was up front, tsking and clucking over the terrible fact that neither of us had been baptized.

“Such a shame that they’ll be going to hell,” my grandmother’s friend said. Her tone was so matter of fact she could have been talking about eggs going bad. Well, if you leave them out on the counter, of course they’re going to be rotten.

But she wasn’t talking about eggs, she was talking about my soul.

I waited for my grandmother to contradict her, to say something, anything, about how that wasn’t true. We were good kids. Polite kids. Nice kids. But my grandmother just sighed and nodded.

My eyes went wide as I looked to my sister. My lovely sister, Lisa, a few years older and far more firmly grounded in reality than I ever have been, just rolled her eyes and shook her head. Neither one of us would be going to hell, she assured me. 

Lucky for me, I believed my sister, but the whole incident never left me. Not because I worried about burning forever in a pit of fire, but about why a woman who knew me, and who I knew loved me--deep down, really loved me--could believe such a thing. 

My grandmother would always take us to church when we spent the weekend with her, and I loved to look at the stained glass windows that lined that nave. I was fascinated by  the symbols they contained, swords and trumpets, demons and angels. They were beautiful, filled with more symbolism than I could comprehend. I knew there was something big there, something more than the simple linear story they told, something just beyond my understanding. 

Even at eight I knew I wasn’t seeing what my grandmother was in that illuminated glass.  She saw answers there. She saw a way to live a life. She saw a pathway to redemption.  But even when I tried my hardest I couldn’t see what she found there. Reason always battled with belief.

As I grew, my fascination with mythology grew, but I still could never find the kind of absolute truth that my family and friends found in their various religions. As an adult I was able to cobble together an unorthodox patchwork system of spirituality that I hold close to my heart.

But time doesn’t heal some hurts. I know that my grandmother went to her grave believing in her heart that she and I would be separated for all of eternity, but I’d like to believe that the Truth is bigger than our worldly struggles for understanding and sense. I’d like to believe that the Truth is big enough for all of us...and yes, I mean all. 

Finding one’s helpful demons

By Juliet

I'm not what you'd call a church-goin' gal. Maybe because I've never felt a true calling, I find religious faith fascinating. Especially how it inspires creativity: art, music, and writing.

For instance, what happens when you shut a bunch of men away for hundreds of years, tell them not to have sex, and scare the crap out of them with tales of the devil?

Above: President Buer, 10th demon

They think a whole lot about demons. And they come up with really interesting characters. And spin some great tales about them.

There are seventy-two major demons in the Christian demonic pantheon, and they all have names and unique personalities and --at least to this heathen-- sound like the sort of characters with whom one wouldn’t mind sharing a bottle of wine and swapping stories.

Here's the really interesting thing: You don’t summon these guys to inflict B-movie horror tricks upon your neighbor in retaliation for weed-whacking at 7 in the morning.

Instead, these guys are helpful. They help people. Seriously. The conjurer, also known as the exorcist, calls these fellows up for a chat, then uses them to learn about science, or literature, or to get some serious work done. Even Noah was said to have called on the demon Shamdon for help in planting the first vine.

It’s all written down in grimoires and tomes with names like the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum and The Lesser Key of Solomon, consisting of the Ars Goetia, Ars Theurgia Goetia, Ars Paulina, Ars Almadel and Ars Notoria. These books describe the spirits and the spells needed to compel them to do the will of the conjurer

Right: Marquis Ronwe or Ronove

The demons are referred to as kings, princes, earls, marquises, dukes, counts, and presidents.

I love the ritzy titles. They’re all royalty, and they have some really interesting talents.

Vapula is a powerful Duke of Hell that commands thirty-six legions of demons. Depicted as a griffin-winged lion, he teaches philosophy, mechanics, and sciences. Leraje is a mighty Great Marquis of Hell who has thirty legions of demons. He inspires battles and disputes, and makes gangrene wounds caused by arrows. He is depicted as a gallant and handsome archer clad in green, carrying a bow and quiver.

Or my personal favorite, Dantalian, of whom the The Lesser Key of Solomon says: "He is a Duke Great and Mighty, appearing in the Form of a Man with many Countenances, all Men's and Women's Faces; and he hath a Book in his right hand. His Office is to teach all Arts and Sciences unto any; and to declare the Secret Counsel of any one; for he knoweth the Thoughts of all Men and Women, and can change them at his Will. He can cause Love, and show the Similitude of any person, and show the same by a Vision, let them be in what part of the World they Will. "

Above, Duke Abigor, desribed as a "goodly knight" riding a steed given to him by Beelzebub

The Pseudomonarchia Daemonum describes the demon Phenex: "Phoenix is a great marquesse, appearing like the bird Phoenix, having a child's voice: but before he standeth still before the conjuror, he singeth manie sweet notes. Then the exorcist with his companions must beware he give no eare to the melodie, but must by and by bid him put on humane shape; then will he speake marvellouslie of all woonderfull sciences. He is an excellent poet, and obedient, he hopeth to returne to the seventh throne after a thousand two hundredth yeares, and governeth twentie legions."

It's easy to get lost in this stuff. So if you’re looking for inspiration for a novel, you might want to check out the antics, talents, and tragic figures in this list of demons. Most of them command many legions of lesser demons, so there are thousands more where those came from.

And here’s the great thing: these demons were full of knowledge, wisdom, and beauty. From them one could learn the secrets of the world. But if they weren’t controlled, if they took over, there was hell to pay.

Hmm. Seems like there's a metaphor for the creative life in there somewhere....

Holly Roller

You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I was a holy roller for a time. I swung from the rafters.

Yep. I'll wait right here while you get over that.

Okay? You all right? Good.

I have a theory that in high school, a teen turns to sex, drugs, rock'n'roll, or religion. There might be sports in there, too, but since I can't hit the wall with a spitball, that was never for me. And sex... well, I was a little confused about that one, so that wasn't my choice. Drugs scared the bejeezus out of me after I read Go Ask Alice--I was convinced I was going to drink a Coke that was laced with acid and end up clawing my own skin off. Rock'n'roll, well, I was really into '40s big band, so that didn't work, either.

I was left with religion. It started when I was a freshman--my new best friend Nicole brought me to her church, and I fell head over heels in love with the LOVE. Everyone loved me! They thought I was funny! Smart! They wanted me there! They hugged me all the time!

The Pentecostal church was nothing like the Episcopalian one I'd been taken to as a child with my mother. They raised their arms while they sang and prayed out loud with their eyes closed. They said, "Yes, Lord" and "Praise Jesus" while the pastor prayed. They spoke in tongues (and eventually I did, too, something I don't actually like to think too much about). They stayed in church from 8am till noon on Sunday, and Wednesday night service was encouraged. People came to the altar to get saved at least once or twice a service, and someone was always confessing something (and that something was often BIG--they'd cheated on their spouses, they felt attracted to the opposite sex, they'd started drinking again).

And they were loved, too! Those sinners were loved so hard that it was easy to stay once you came in the doors of the church. I felt God's love, sure, but what I craved was the love of Patti, the youth minister. When she smiled at me from the wisdom of her twenty-two years, I could fly.

I also loved LaRae. She was a hard-knock case--didn't come from the best family, had done lots of things that maybe she shouldn't have, and she was a grade older than I was. She both scared and thrilled me. When I was a junior and she was a senior, she'd pick me up to go to school in the mornings, and we'd sit in her little brown Honda Civic in the high school parking lot, the heater running, clutching each others' hands tightly as we prayed as hard as we could. Pray that we could witness to others. Pray that we'd ace the geometry test. We'd pray for just about anything or anyone, but what I remember most was the way her hands felt in mine.

I dropped out of the church in my senior year when I realized that yes, maybe I was interested in girls, and maybe the church was a little bit too intolerant on that one. Of course, this was twenty years ago, and I didn't say these things out loud to many people. I just remained in love with my new best friend (Monica) and went about the business of growing up.

Years later, I tracked down LaRae and called her. "So... are you still in the church?"

She laughed. "Hell, no."

"Are you...?"

She laughed harder. "Gay? Hell, yes."

But I believed in that religion I'd found in her Honda between our chastely clasped hands, and I'm still worshiping there. Love, friendship, kindness, acceptance. That's really all the church I need.

A Freedom Worth Not Taking For Granted

by Sophie

RELIGION

Every once in a while I get a reminder that the religious freedom I take for granted (and trust me, I take it entirely for granted) is scant in the rest of the world.

Right now in Afghanistan, though the official constitution guarantees that people "are free to exercise their faith," the courts rely on Islamic law in some cases, including religious conversion. Under some interpretations of Sharia - and I'm cribbing from the NYT here - leaving Islam is punishable by death.

People converting from Islam in Afghanistan, then, run a daily risk of beatings, persecution, and worse.


Some Afghans think so little of the Pope they burn him in effigy...

In our household, we have free and open discussions of religion. One of my children is an atheist; the other deeply faith-motivated. We practice the sort of loosey-goosey Christianity so prevalent in the 'burbs: church on weekends when there isn't anything more compelling going on, most of the major sacraments observed, stints in religious ed and family/faith gatherings - but I'm openly critical of our church's leadership as well as the Vatican. I refuse to participate in some parts of the Mass and openly abhor - and I mean with every fiber of my being - many of its teachings. And yet - there we are, week after week. No one bars us entry; no one has tried to eject us; no one's even called me a hypocrite (probably because I beat them to it).


...but then again, this guy could stand to learn a thing or two about tolerance, too.

I'm always surprised at the level of contempt and mistrust of people from other cultures, out here in the affluent zip codes. It's made worse, of course, by the presentation of the "news" by some of our media. I wish that everytime someone in my community is about to make a dig - subtle or not - against the folks down the street who came from elsewhere and practice a non-Christian faith - they would instead remember with great gratitude that our freedoms aren't worth a whole lot if we don't extend them to every citizen. And freedom from persecution doesn't just cover not getting beaten in the streets - it ought to preclude the ladies at the PTA meeting wondering aloud if that new family is "like, Islamic-Islamic, or, you know, American."

Okay. Rant off. I'm a little cranky today. Since I do try to bring my blog posts around to writing at some point, I'll add this thought: when I considered all the books I've completed that will see publication (so far that's a total of eight) I was surprised to conclude that every single one of them touches on the protagonists' personal faith. As my daughter rightly points out, faith is a whole different can o' worms than religion, but I reference churches and worship in every book as well (not always in a positive light) and believe that a faith journey is an important part of each protagonist's arc.

Huh! I found that interesting, since it was not something I set out to do consciously. I'm neither proud nor not-proud of this - but I do find, on reflection, that I like what I've done so far in this arena. And I imagine I'll do more of it.

Contest ends at 5 pm EST today

Okay. We're too impatient. We can't wait until Valentine's Day so you've got until 5 pm. EST or 2 pm. Pacific to comment on last Friday's post.

http://bit.ly/en1zqY

For a chance to win a copy of our SFA-RWA book. Good luck to everyone. It has been GREAT reading your comments about your writing journey. Thanks for letting the Pens participate!!

The Fury of the Damned

by Gigi 

Many people once believed that the stone gargoyles high atop old churches were the trapped souls of people who hadn't lived a virtuous life.

I'd look pretty furious, too, if I'd been trapped in stone.

The purpose of this interpretation of gargoyles was to convince people to attend church so that their souls wouldn't end up like the unfortunate tormented figures. 

Here are a few gargoyles I photographed that look furious and frightening enough that you can understand why people might have believed these creatures to be damned souls.

Gargoyle at Westminster Abbey in London whose eyes seem to follow you wherever you go.

Gargoyles at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. These fellows sit on a lower level than the most famous gargoyles of Notre Dame, and have a more unnerving appearance.

Martha Loves A Furious Franchise

The Fast And The Furious franchise has grossed nearly one billion dollars over four movies while costing 1/4 as much. I'm sure the impending release of the fifth on April 29th 2011 will push revenues over that mark, and I haven't even begun to count up DVD or merchandising sales.

How can you reconcile the film's success with its critically panned driftless characters and cheesy one-liner script?

Well, sure there's this:

(thanks Google Images)

But actually, the reason is more simple.

It's AWESOME.

People underestimate awesome. Me included. When I write, I get caught up in meaningful symbolism or character journeys or blah blah blah blah, but really, as a reader and a viewer, I want awesome. Lots of awesome. I want to jump out of my seat because of an unexpected or perverse twist. Because of a surprising stunt.

The filmmakers also seem determined to give fans exactly what they want, no matter how far fetched.

Seen the same car stunts? Throw in some drifting!
Miss the core character's hiatus? Bring them back!
Think the same characters keep doing the same thing? Add Dwayne The Rock Johnson to the mix!

When creating your own vision, your own story, it's worth stopping and thinking - what's the MOST AWESOME thing that could happen right now? Whatever you originally planned might be what the character needs, might be what the story deserves, but is it AWESOME????? If not, just consider throwing it in. For fun. A billion dollars is just around the corner.

A Quiet Fury

by Lisa Hughey

So I was driving along mentally composing ideas for this topic, thinking about the physiological effects of fury (I’ll get to that later) when I noticed the SUV in front of me had a rainbow shining over the back windshield.

Pretty.

But I continued to drive along, moving onto thinking about another aspect of fury which is the ability of small children to induce a certain level of fury in their mothers. And yet, if you threaten their child, that same mother will turn on you with a ferocity unmatched.

And then, I saw another rainbow on the windshield of a truck coming toward me. Pretty again. Before I can even move on to the next potential slant for my fury post, another rainbow!

Beautiful rainbow picture courtesy of www.climate.met.psu.edu

By now I’m completely distracted because it hasn’t rained here in days, the sun is shining, none of the vehicles are wet. So where are these rainbows coming from? I can’t figure it out. Then I decide I really don’t need to know, I just need to appreciate them. My point being, I’m more about rainbows than fury.

However, that doesn’t mean that I don’t ever get furious.

My kids have been the target of my fury, the red-faced, spittle spewing, so angry you feel like your brain is going to burst right through your skull and splatter all over the walls fury, when they drove me to think brink of craziness. It’s only happened a few times, but I’m here to tell you that I happened to glance in the mirror as I stalked toward my son, screaming, just in case he couldn’t hear my already off the charts decibel level (he’s usually the one inducing me to insaneness) and I looked scary.

My totally East Coast WASP-y upbringing leaves me nearly incapable of expressing fury most of the time. A quiet tightening of my chest until the effort to breathe is in peril and the thud of my pulse in my forehead as my brain struggles to hold in the rush of sheer emotion is usually accomplished with nary a word being uttered. But just because I don’t scream and shout doesn’t mean that underneath my cool, composed appearance I am not seething with fury.

I have a quiet fury. I don’t scream. I don’t throw things-even if I do feel like it. I don’t break things. I don’t cut with mean words. I just...disengage.

Overall, I’m a live and let live person. My first inclination if you do something I don’t like is to wonder why you are having a bad day. I might even ask if everything is okay. I think sometimes I get taken advantage of because I’m so easy going. And by focusing on what is really important (like rainbows), I let a lot of things go. But at some point, and the tip is never the same, I expect to be treated properly and if you’ve tipped over the edge. We’re done.

In the words of the mafia, “You’re dead to me.”

That doesn’t mean I won’t ever talk to you again. Far from it, I will be polite, smile, ask how you are, and as soon as I’ve met my social obligation, I will walk away. And you will never, never, never be my friend again.

Lisa