Books

Settling in with a bad book?

Today’s post is inspired by two things: the #writestuff live Twitter chat from this Tuesday and the discussion on yesterday’s post.

Tuesday night’s discussion was about the difference between a good book and an enjoyable one. Yesterday, I wrote about my dislike for Christian fiction as a genre, mainly because it usually seems to me to be “not good.” So today I thought I would explore that further. What makes a book “good” or “not good”? Is it entirely subjective?

This is a tough question. I’ve struggled for many years to define what, for me, makes a book “good.” There seems to be this idea that a book can be objectively “good” even if we don’t personally enjoy it. But what about books that are considered classics, yet fairly universally hated? Are they still good? What about books that are widely popular, but poorly written?

I have to admit, I struggle with boredom when I read. I want to read things that are faster-paced. So for me, a good book is one in which there is very little unimportant information. I also prefer books in which there is at least one character to whom I can relate. If I dislike everyone, I won’t want to read the book. Writing style makes a difference as well. I recently read a story with good pacing, great characters, and an interesting plot. The problem is that the writer’s style was distracting. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something just grated on my nerves.

I don’t necessarily need to enjoy a book to recognize it as good. I had an interesting discussion recently in which I was explaining why I didn’t like Steinbeck’s The Pearl. On reflection, I realized that it is actually a very, very good book. For one thing, I read it in one sitting because I couldn’t stop. I was sort of horrified, but at the same time, I was fascinated. For another, the book has stuck with me for over twenty years. I can recall most of it in vivid detail. And when I went back over the themes, I realized how complex they were. I came to a new and deeper appreciation for a book that has bothered me for many years. I think it might be worthwhile to go back and read it again, with this new understanding.

On the other hand, I can read a book and enjoy it with the full understanding that it is not, in fact, a good book. I enjoyed the escapism of the Twilight series, for example. But I realize that the writing is sub-par, the plot is thin, and there are numerous problems with the characters. I think that objectively, the books are probably not “good.” But that doesn’t prevent me from having a bit of fun.

So tell me, what do you think makes a book good?

A (Christian) Novel Idea

Books

I don’t like Christian fiction.

That is, I don’t like the genre Christian fiction. There are plenty of books written by Christians that I like, such as Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings. I like nearly everything written by Elizabeth Berg. There are even books that are fairly explicitly Christian that I enjoy—C. S. Lewis’ fiction comes to mind. But as a category of fiction, I do not like Christian novels.

For the most part, I think the vast majority of Christian fiction is garbage. I realize this is true for lots of non-Christian fiction as well, but the difference is that I feel free to say so. For example, I can say without hesitation that I think the True Blood books are trash. I might offend someone who likes them, but it’s not the same level of horror as when I try to explain why I don’t like Left Behind or Frank Peretti. There is zero guilt attached to disliking secular fiction.

I suppose that’s one reason I despise Christian fiction. There’s a heavy layer of guilt laid on people who read the first three pages and already want to hurl the book through the nearest window. I mean, as Jesus followers, we’re supposed to read Christian books. They’re supposed to be one of the ways we show ourselves to be “in the world, but not of the world.” Right along with listening to Christian radio (do not get me started).

It’s not that I think there is anything wrong with writing from a Christian perspective. Our faith should inform what we do. But that doesn’t excuse producing junk for the sake of providing a “Christian” version of something else. Sadly, that’s what the majority of Christian fiction is. It’s not focused on providing us with an escape from reality. It’s not about creating great, believable, realistic characters in whom we see ourselves. It’s not about crafting a story in which we find themes such as bravery, loyalty, friendship, forgiveness, doing the right thing even when it’s hard, having faith in the face of fear. It’s actually about having a sanitized version of secular works already available.

And that’s what I find so distasteful. So much of what’s out there is just good books with the objectionable parts excised. Christian “romance” is largely the same plots as regular romance, but without the sex. The same is true for Christian “horror” and “fantasy.” It’s someone’s idea that if sex, violence or magic are cleaned up properly or removed, then you’re left with something acceptable for Christians to read.

That, like all other forms of inappropriate guilt laid by the church, needs to stop. What I’d like to see is far more Christian authors write the kinds of stories I mentioned above. Books that express the complexities of life, preferably without any preaching. Books that turn what we think we know on its ear. Books that are rooted in faith, but not in Christianese. Books that are genuine, not just a fictionalized version of last Sunday’s sermon.

While I wait for such a thing, I’m simply going to enjoy good books when I come across them.

What are you reading right now? Is it explicitly Christian? Fiction or non-fiction? Share it here.

Children’s Books Gone Wrong

Books, Parenting

I have a tendency to stick with children’s authors I know and trust these days. We’ve found a few new ones we like, of course, but I’ve become wary of what’s out there. Trust me on this, there is a whole lot of crap available to our kids.

My daughter picks out most of her own books. This is a very good thing, because she’s only discovered how much she likes to read in the last several months. Before that, if I handed her a book and told her to have some quiet time, you’d think I’d asked her to shovel manure out in the yard. She could read, yes, but she didn’t like to do it.

Anyway, I’m now in the habit of scanning her books to make sure there’s nothing in there I don’t like. I thought this was something only the most extreme religious fundamentalists did. And I’m not even looking for objectionable religious content! I just want to make sure that my kids aren’t reading urban legends disguised as “facts,” misogynistic fairy tales, or books glorifying aggression.

Now I have to look for books that send damaging messages about other things.

Two of the books we took out of the library last week required talking with my daughter about what the books are really saying. The first seemed okay when I glanced through it. But after reading it to her, we both went, “Huh?” It’s a cute story about eggs hatching into things and then laying more eggs, and babies growing up and having their own babies. Now, if you know anything at all about science, you know that only female birds lay eggs, only female butterflies lay eggs, only female polar bears give birth . . . you get the idea. At the end, there is a picture of a baby. It grows up to be . . . a boy. My daughter said at the end (no prompting from me), “Why isn’t it a girl baby?” Good question, kid. (For the record, I have no problem showing boys growing up to be fathers. My problem was a book filled with female animals concluding with a male baby. The baby should at least have been gender neutral, because the ending text is that the baby grows into a “boy, just like you.”)

The other story that bothered me was different. It was the story of a miniature dinosaur who feels ashamed of being little and gets picked on for his size. He does some heroic act and then everyone miraculously recognizes what an awesome dino he really is, becoming his best friends. Believe it or not, this one bugs me far more than my previous example.

This isn’t a good message for our kids. Think about it: Something is “wrong” with you (you’re not just like everyone else), so you get picked on (of course). You show everyone that you are brave, strong, and good (despite your obvious flaw). Suddenly, all the people who hated you now want to be your best friend.

First, this teaches three bad things about being “different.” One, being different is a Bad, Bad Thing. Your differences separate you from everyone else. Two, that if you don’t look or act just like everyone else, you might as well paint a giant target on your back. Because of course, no one different can be expected to make friends. Three, if you are “different,” you probably hate yourself because of it, as though no one could possibly feel confident unless he or she aligns perfectly with some mythical standard.

Second, it teaches that you only have value (especially if you are “different”) if you perform noble acts. You are required (again, especially if you’re “different”) to prove to others that you deserve respect and love. In fact, you only deserve it if you rescue the person who has been bullying you. (I love the way this is subverted in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Warning: Spoilers, highlight to read. Harry saves Draco Malfoy twice at the end, and then Ron Weasley punches him in the face from under the invisibility cloak. Message: “Sure, we’ll save you because we’re not heartless; but you’re still a major prick.”)

Third, it teaches kids that by being a Super Awesome Person, they will eventually get their enemies to adore them. Sorry, this isn’t the way things work. In fact, sometimes, bullies aren’t all that grateful for help. Sometimes, bullies still hate you. Sometimes, bullies grow up and they like you for you, whether you ever “rescued” them or not. Sometimes, bullies get to know you and like you because you’re fun and interesting. And sometimes they don’t. Being a hero isn’t the thing that changes relationships.

Thankfully, I have two bright kids who can read a story like that and understand that it doesn’t represent reality. The good news is, it leaves room for discussion. We have the opportunity to find out what our kids have seen and experienced in real life, and how they feel about the messages in the books.

Hm, I think I’ve changed my mind. Maybe instead of monitoring and rejecting, I’ll keep it all—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and take it as another chance to get to know my kids better.

Beyond the Majority Experience

Books

I realized something unsettling the other day. We’re pretty narrow in what we expect kids to read. I’m guilty of it too, unfortunately. Clearly I have some research to do.

Looking back on my years being educated in public schools, I’m disappointed by what I find. Nearly every book I read was written by a straight, white male (most of whom were at least nominally Christian). That’s pretty sad. The only required reading written by someone outside of that demographic was To Kill a Mockingbird. (We had to read The Diary of Anne Frank in eight grade, but it was the play, not her actual words.)

We read Shakespeare, Dickens, Bradbury, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald. We read a few books by lesser-known authors. We read plays and short stories, with only two women among them (Joyce Carol Oates and Flannery O’Connor). Even when we read poetry, it was mostly Frost, Whitman, cummings. I think we might have read one or two by Langston Hughes, but that’s about it. Even in the younger grades, the only female-authored books we read were excerpts from the Little House series included in our textbooks.

Not a single African-American in the bunch. No Jews. (Anne Frank doesn’t count, as it was the dramatization). No gays. No one of any other religious or racial demographic.

That’s depressing.

On my own, I chose books authored by all sorts of interesting people. But I happened to love reading and devoured anything I could get my hands on. I also had a mother who would recommend books, or strategically place them where she knew I’d find them. I was lucky.

In high school, much of what we read had at least some parallel with what we were learning in history. It wasn’t always an exact match, but they ran roughly side-by-side. I can certainly understand wanting students to read literature relevant to a historical time period. What I don’t understand is the limit placed on that. For example, when learning about the Soviet Union (which still existed at the time) in social studies, we were reading Animal Farm and 1984 in English class. Why weren’t we also expected to read The Communist Manifesto? Certainly would have been useful information, something from the opposite perspective. When we studied the American Civil War, we read Huckleberry Finn and The Red Badge of Courage. But we didn’t read anything at all by Frederick Douglas.

I suppose a case could be made that English class is for literature, which explains not reading nonfiction. However, even in the general pool of fiction, most of our books were, as I said, written by straight, white men. I don’t understand the silencing of the voices of people outside that narrow subset of the population. What is it that we’re afraid will happen if we let those voices speak? What terrible notions do we think students will have if they read them? And why do we expect students to do this entirely on their own, without the guidance of their teachers?

There is limited time in a school year, forcing teachers to choose only some of the available literature. It still seems strange, though, that there wouldn’t be a better sampling of what’s out there. It’s the job of educators to provide opportunities for their students to be exposed to things they might not otherwise choose themselves. Why in the world would we want to narrow it down to a single perspective?

For all my friends out there who teach literature: Expand your students’ minds. Give them books written by people who aren’t part of the dominant culture. Encourage your students to see the world from multiple points of view. Talk about these things. Don’t be afraid to ask, and have them ask, tough questions.

For all my friends who are parents: Don’t expect the schools to do this. Do it yourself. Give your kids books by all sorts of writers. Don’t wait, hoping they will discover this on their own.

I know that it takes more than reading a book for us to understand each other. But making sure we only have one side of the story, so to speak, is a certain way to ensure we never will. It may be a small step, but it’s a step in the right direction.

Someone Cooler than I

Blogs, Books, Doctrine, Emergent Thought, Links

Promises, promises. I said in this morning’s post that I would lead you to someone cooler than I am in tonight’s post. I’m late with that, but it’s for a good reason. I spent the evening in the company of my sisters and their families. It was worth it.

Anyway, here is a person I think you should track: Brian McLaren.

Back in 2009, I was struggling to make sense of the fundamentalist fog I’d lived in. I felt as though I had very little spiritual direction, but I could no longer subscribe to much of the theology that had informed my faith for twenty years. The problem was, I didn’t have anyone at the time who had been through it and came out on the other side. Nearly everyone I knew still held to all (or almost all) of the things I was ready to leave behind.

And then I read a little book called The Great Emergence by Phyllis Tickle. She makes reference to Brian McLaren, among others. I decided to check out some of the people mentioned in the book. I quickly discovered that McLaren was the one who interested me most. He appeared to have gone on a spiritual journey that mirrored mine, and he made reference to C. S. Lewis. Those two things made him already a kind of kindred spirit in my mind, so I went in search of his books.

Our local library didn’t have a copy of A Generous Orthodoxy, unfortunately, and the one copy in the system was already checked out. Fortunately, another branch carried some of his titles. I brought home copies of Everything Must Change and A New Kind of Christian.

My husband quickly devoured Everything Must Change, but I wasn’t quite ready for it. I started with A New Kind of Christian (ANKoC). My world was turned upside down from page one. Before, I had been unable to put words to what I’d been feeling, muddling through and hoping that I would just recapture the faith I thought I’d lost. Instead, I found someone else who did have the right words. He named it and embraced it. I felt as though McLaren himself had stepped into my living room for a chat, reassuring me that I wasn’t crazy and that I wasn’t on the verge of turning into an angry former Christian.

Again and again, McLaren writes with this same conversational style. I finished the rest of the series that begins with ANKoC (The Story We Find Ourselves In, The Last Word and the Word After That), then went on to read many of his other books. Two years ago, I read A New Kind of Christianity and learned about the flawed narrative that overlays much of our theology and doctrine. I listened to his series of podcasts walking through the Bible, while simultaneously listening to the entire Bible on MP3. Last year, I learned how to pray again by reading Naked Spirituality. In short, McLaren is my go-to guy when I need to read or hear something spiritually uplifting.

And that sums up what I like about his style—it’s a pick-me-up, gentle and humble in tone. Although he does make some good points, theologically speaking, it’s never a matter of having to wade through theology-ese. One doesn’t need to have a PhD in religious studies to make sense of what he says. Heck, one doesn’t even need to be a Christian.

If you can, check out some of McLaren’s books from the library. Read his blog. E-mail him a question (as far as I can tell, he answers all of them). Even if you end up disagreeing, he is worth checking out. If you live near me, I will loan you my copies of his ANKoC series, because I believe it’s that important.

I’m looking forward to reading his next book.

What Boys Can’t Do

Books, Parenting

This morning, S and I took a break from school to just read together. We cuddled up in what the kids call the “hot corner” in our living room. (It’s a space between our sofa and love seat where the heating vent is. The kids have it set up with a blanket and a large floor pillow.) We read one of the American Girl books, the first one I’ve read to her. She picked the one about the girl living during the Great Depression.

I have to admit, I think I enjoyed the story as much as she did. We talked about how Kit, the main character, is a bit of a tomboy. She doesn’t like anything pink or frilly, and she loves sports. S told me about the things she has in common with Kit and the ways she is different. We also had the chance to talk about the history, what it was like for many families in the 1930s.

It was such an engaging story that I wanted to find out if there was anything similar for boys. J has read the My America books, but there are only two boy characters, and the stories cover a limited time period. The American Girl books span most of United States history. Sadly, there isn’t anything else like the AG books for boys.

As I pondered what I should do, I realized that I was doing exactly what I’ve said I wouldn’t do. I was creating a literary box for my kids, and placing them in it. I had decided that J needed “boy” books, as he couldn’t possibly read books about girls. Right then, I made a decision.

I said, screw this.

Just why, again, can’t a boy read the AG series? They aren’t especially girly, they just feature female lead characters. But even if they were, why can’t boys enjoy them?

We don’t bat an eye at girls who want to read about Tom Sawyer or Jim Hawkins or Harry Potter or Frodo Baggins. I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and all the Bunnicula books with both my kids, and didn’t concern myself with whether my daughter could relate to the male characters. I even read the Ramona books with J, and we’ve enjoyed other books with strong female characters. The other day, J was looking with interest at The Long Winter, by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I told him we could read the series, but if he wanted to, he could read that one. They don’t have to be read in order.

How are the AG books any different? Why shouldn’t J read them?

I can’t think of even one reason not to let him.

Settling in with a bad book?

A (Christian) Novel Idea

Children’s Books Gone Wrong

Beyond the Majority Experience

Someone Cooler than I

What Boys Can’t Do

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