Writers’ Ten Commandments #9: False Witness

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This series is about breaking the Ten Commandments in your writing—doing to your characters, or having them do, things you’d never want anyone to do to you.

Commandment #9: You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.

Bearing false witness is another way to say “lying.”

Taken from a certain point of view, all we fiction writers do is lie—or, as my friend Charise Olson likes to say, “confabulate.” We tell tales, prevaricate, lead you up the garden path. We pull your leg, bend the facts, put a spin on it. We tell falsehoods, fibs, half-truths, whoppers, taradiddles. We fabricate, deceive, invent, falsify, exaggerate. We even dissemble, dissimulate, misinform, and mislead.

On purpose. And we’re not even sorry.

Have you ever wondered why the English language has so many ways to say “lie”? We all (well, most of us) do it. We all know it’s wrong. We’re ashamed of it. It’s bad form to accuse anyone else of it directly, and painful to accuse ourselves, so we euphemize.

But writing fiction makes it okay. In fiction you can lie all you want. In fact, it’s usually preferable not to tell the truth. (See post on commandment #5.)

But. (You knew there was a “but” coming, right?)

We write about people who never existed, but we have to make them true to what we know about human nature. We write about events that never happened, but they have to be events that could happen—at least within the story world we’ve created.

We may create entire fantasy worlds, or worlds that resemble our own with a major twist—but we can’t violate the fundamental moral rules of the universe. Rules like free will. Cause and effect. Justice tempered by mercy. The ultimate triumph of the good.

These are things you can’t lie about and make good fiction. There is a limit to how far readers will suspend their disbelief. There are some kinds of lies they won’t swallow, no matter how you sugarcoat them.

Sometimes these lies people won’t swallow are things they would accept if they happened in real life. Coincidences happen all the time, but it’s tough to make them fly in fiction. People do get saved by miracles, but if that’s the way you solve your plot problems, your readers may give up in disgust. People do drift through their lives letting things happen instead of making them happen; but if your protagonist does this, he won’t hold your reader as far as page two.

Why are we pickier about stories than we are about life? Well, for one thing, we don’t have a choice about life. We can’t return it to the store for a refund. We can complain to the Author, but it won’t do us much good.

More importantly, though, I think it’s because stories are meant to follow the ultimate rules of the universe as originally created, rather than the broken rules of the fallen world. Here on earth, life isn’t fair, and in the short run, good doesn’t always win. People have free will, but sometimes they get stuck in circumstances they can’t control. Sometimes they drift because they can’t see a path on which to act. Sometimes they act only to have what looks like destiny slap them in the face.

As fiction writers, we have to rise above the limited truth of this fallen world. We have to tell the higher Truth of the universe as it was meant to be.

To me, this is what it means to be a writer and a Christian: not to write stories in which characters “get saved” (necessarily), but to write about a universe in which the will of God is triumphant over evil. Those are the stories that resonate most deeply with the human heart.

That’s the edge Christians have over writers who know only this fallen world. I’d like to see more of us use it.

 

Writer’s Ten Commandments #8: You Shall Not Steal

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This series is about breaking the Ten Commandments in your writing—doing to your characters, or having them do, things you’d never want anyone to do to you.

Commandment #7: You shall not steal.

I can sum up my advice on this subject in four words:

Never plagiarize. Always steal.

In case you’re unclear on the distinction: Plagiarism is taking a whole piece of writing—anything from a sentence to an entire book—written by another and passing it off as your own.

Stealing is taking a technique, a metaphor, an idea, a setting, a characteristic, or an element of any sort that you like in someone else’s work and reshaping it to fit your own work.

Here are a couple of quotations to help explain what I mean:

“Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is nonexistent.”
—Jim Jarmusch

“Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion.”
— T. S. Eliot

So many artists in various media have talked about this, someone has put together a whole page of quotations on the subject, which is where I got these two. Also, to make my composer husband happy, here’s one I can’t authenticate:

“Bad composers plagiarize. Good composers steal, then hide their theft.” —Igor Stravinsky

Ultimately, our work (like this blog post) is nothing more than a collage of everything we’ve ever read, sensed, or experienced. The trick is to put the pieces together in a way that is both artistic and wholly your own.

Do you like the way Author A conveys character emotion with a gesture? Steal it! Not that exact gesture, but find an expressive one of your own. Like Author B’s descriptions? Steal them! Again, not the exact words, but let his approach inspire your own.

This is the fundamental reason I take every opportunity to exhort my fellow writers to steep themselves in the classics. If you’re going to be stealing—and you are—you should make sure you’re stealing from the best. (If you’re really uncomfortable with stealing, you could call it borrowing—but honestly, are you ever going to give the stuff back?)

Here are some of my favorite writers and a few of the things I’ve stolen, or tried to steal, from them:

  • Jane Austen: Witty dialogue, satirical comment on human nature, keen moral sense
  • Charles Dickens: Fantastic characters, character description
  • L. M. Montgomery: Description of nature
  • Emily and Charlotte Brontë: Eerie atmosphere, over-the-top emotion
  • J.R.R. Tolkien: Depth of theme, eternal significance of story
  • T. S. Eliot: Mellifluous language
  • Dorothy L. Sayers: Richness of allusion
  • C. S. Lewis: Clarity of style
  • E. M. Forster: Plight of the individual entrapped by society; witty narration
  • Anthony Trollope: Minute examination of character motivation
  • Margery Allingham: Incisive characterization
  • Leo Tolstoy: Depth of understanding of human nature
  • Fyodor Dostoevsky: Fearless exploration of sin and redemption
  • William Shakespeare: Absolute mastery of language, deep insight into just about everything
  • New King James Version Bible: Beautiful (and understandable) language, Ultimate Truth

Go forth and read, absorb, steal freely, and create something beautiful that is all your own.

What writers do you consider worth stealing from, and what would you steal?

Writers’ Ten Commandments #7: Adultery

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This series is about breaking the ten commandments in your writing—doing to your characters, or having them do, things you’d never want anyone to do to you.

Commandment #7: You shall not commit adultery.

You knew it was coming to this. The biggie. For some reason, speculation on which is beyond the scope of this blog post, Western culture before the sixties, and Christian culture even now, seems to regard the seventh commandment as the be-all and end-all of all commandments. (Never mind that Christ said “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and your neighbor as yourself” holds that distinction.) Adultery is seen as the sin of sins.

For this reason, presumably, those writing and publishing for a Christian market tend to shy away from it in fiction. Gina Holmes has taken a lot of flak for her excellent novel, Dry as Rain, because she deals with adultery head-on. I myself was told my first novel would never work for CBA because the main character has sex with someone she isn’t married to. The book doesn’t condone this activity at all—but it’s still taboo in CBA.

Frankly, folks, if you declare upfront that you’re not going to allow any adultery or fornication in your fiction—even off stage—you’re losing a terrific opportunity. Some of the greatest novels of Western literature focus on adultery. Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary, The Scarlet Letter, Doctor Zhivago, The End of the Affair—the list could go on and on.

The thing about adultery is that it touches on some of the deepest emotions we know: love, lust, guilt, betrayal. Adultery can shake the very foundations of not just one life, but many. It ripples out to all the lives around it. Like death, adultery, if properly handled, can give your novel tremendous emotional power.

Am I suggesting you should write about adultery as if it were okay? Not remotely. Not only would this be untrue, it would eviscerate the subject and turn it into just one more plot point. Write about adultery in all its shattering wickedness. Make sure—as Tolstoy did so powerfully in Anna Karenina—your readers understand that adultery will destroy not only their lives, but their souls.

And who knows? It’s possible that in the writing, you’ll exorcise from your own soul a quiet little demon who’s been whispering temptations in your ear.

Artistic Adultery

Now to flip the coin. There is another kind of adultery I see far too often, and it grieves me. All around me I see writers who have betrayed their first love and are flirting with, or have completely given themselves to, a false lover called The Market.

I’m going to step on some toes now, so I ask your forgiveness ahead of time. I’m not targeting anyone personally. I know every writer has reasons for what he or she chooses to write. But just let me rant for a minute.

If you are a true writer, if you were born with that in you which can find expression through fiction and no other way, then you will have certain stories within you that need to be told. These stories may or may not fit into the rather narrow confines of “what the market is looking for right now.”

Let’s trace the career of a hypothetical writer—call her Griselda. She begins by writing the stories that are clamoring to be told, only to be informed by seemingly callous agents and editors, “That kind of thing doesn’t sell.” She is writing in the first place because she wants to communicate, and communication has to be two-way—it requires a reader. So she puts her dreams on the shelf to be called for later and tries to fit her inner stories into the Genre of the Moment—whether it’s Amish zombie romance or coming-of-age dragon stories or paranormal pickle people.

Let’s say Griselda succeeds, at least well enough for the demands of the genre. Her books sell, so the publisher pressures her to write more of the same. Until the Genre of the Moment changes, and then she is expected to change with it.

Griselda hoped when she first sold herself to The Market that one day she would be able to return to her first love. But if she’s successful selling the Genre of the Moment, her publisher will be reluctant to allow her to branch out into something untried. And if she isn’t that successful, she’ll have even less chance of selling her publisher on a book that has no built-in sales guarantee.

At some point, the dead feeling in the center of Griselda’s chest—which she felt but forced down when she first sold herself—will become unbearable. She’ll start scribbling her true stories on napkins in restaurants, carving them into the bark of trees, having them tattooed on her upper thighs. She’ll beg her muse to forgive her and take her back.

But muses are touchy—sometimes even touchier than spouses. Once you’ve betrayed them, you run the risk of never being able to get them back.

Once you start writing for The Market, you may never be able to write, let alone publish, the book of your dreams.

Can I promise you the book of your dreams will sell? No. My own haven’t yet. But I can promise you this:

Even if it never sells, the book of your dreams is the only one worth writing.

Nothing else is worth all the sacrifices a writer has to make—time, money, recreation, sleep, friendships, even family. Yes, that’s what I said—nothing else.

Now shoot me.

Writers’ Ten Commandments #6: You Shall Not Kill

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This series is about breaking the ten commandments in your writing—doing to your characters, or having them do to each other, things you’d never want anyone to do to you.

Commandment #6: You shall not kill.

Why can’t fiction be nicer than life, all sweetness and light? Why do good characters have to die?

Caveat: I’m not talking here about mysteries and thrillers, in which you have to have dead bodies to advance the plot, and some of them may need to be more or less sympathetic. I’m talking about stories in which death occurs other than as the main event.

Off the top of my head, here are several reasons characters have to die:

  1. Death is part of life. If a serious novel that spans any length of time is to be realistic (in the deeper sense of emotional truth, not the realistic vs. fantasy sense), chances are the protagonist will lose someone close to him—parent, friend, spouse, sibling, favorite aunt, mentor.
  2. Death catalyses change. The death of someone close to us never leaves us quite the same. It may completely change our pattern of living, as when a child loses a parent or a husband his wife. It may leave us with regrets that will cause us to reexamine our values. It may cause a character to contemplate revenge, or it may lead him to forgiveness. As a near certainty, it confronts us with our own mortality. It temporarily strips away our excuses and defenses and takes us to a deeper level. This may lead to a subtle or dramatic shift in priorities, habits, and mores. If you need to force your protagonist to move forward, the death of a loved one is a surefire way to do it. Would Frodo have gone on to Mordor alone if Gandalf had not apparently perished? Would Harry have struck out on his own to find the horcruxes if Dumbledore had still been alive?
  3. Death can be redemptive. A character may directly sacrifice his own life to save another’s physical life—as in Charlotte’s Web, where Charlotte uses the last of her strength to spin the web that saves Wilbur from the chopping block. Or the redemption may be more subtle. In Little Women, Beth March contracts the scarlet fever that ultimately takes her life while nursing a poor family, but her death also sets an example of patience and faith for her sister Jo that helps Jo find her true path—a spiritual redemption.
  4. Death engages the reader deeply. See previous post. If you write it well, and if you kill the right character at the right time in the right way (i.e. so that the death has meaning), you can create an event of unmatched emotional power.
  5. Sometimes death is the only possible resolution. How could Hamlet end other than in death? When a character has reached the end of his road, you’re being untrue to your story if you don’t let him die.

The Post-Modern Sensibility

A couple of years ago, I had the privilege of taking a fiction-writing class taught by Davis Bunn. He was addressing people who write for the evangelical market, which often succumbs to the temptation to “pretty up” life for the purposes of fiction. Davis emphasized to us that this approach does not work for the post-modern reader.

Readers nowadays know that life is not pretty. We expect the fictional worlds we enter to be less chaotic than reality, to make more sense and have more obvious structure and meaning; but we do not want them to be artificially pretty, serene, smiley-face places where characters do not even yell at each other, let alone die.

To make a fictional world real for contemporary readers, you have to resist the temptation to tie up all the loose ends. Some of the protagonist’s goals should not be achieved, or should be achieved at tremendous cost—such as, for instance, the death of a loved one. Triumph must be tempered by tragedy, or readers just won’t buy it.

As a seed must fall into the ground and die in order to create new life, so a character or two may have to die to give life to your story.

Writer’s Ten Commandments #5: Honor Your Parents

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This series is about breaking the ten commandments in your writing—doing to your characters, or having them do, things you’d never want anyone to do to you.

Commandment #5: Honor your father and mother.

Judging from my Facebook feed around Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, you’d think my friends lived in some weird reverse Lake Wobegon—where all the parents are above average.

I can see two possible reasons for this:

  1. We remember, or at least talk about, only the good in people after they’re gone.
  2. Only the people with exceptional parents post about them on Facebook.

It’s got to be one of these two, because it’s a simple fact that we live in an imperfect world with imperfect parents. Some are just imperfect enough to make our lives interesting, while others are imperfect enough to make our lives miserable.

Flannery O’Connor said something like (I paraphrase):

Anyone who has survived childhood has enough material to write about for the rest of his life.

Since our lives as children revolve around our parents, present or absent, this means (quoting myself):

Sooner or later, directly or indirectly, you’re going to write about your parents.

The question is whether you’ll do it honestly.

Here’s where we run headlong into the fifth commandment on a real-world level. If your parents listed toward the dysfunctional end of the spectrum, is it dishonoring them to write about them honestly?

This is a thorny question, one with a lot of facets and considerations. For one thing, it could make a big difference whether your parents are alive and what kind of relationship you have with them. It matters, too, whether they’re still the same kind of people they were when you were growing up. And it matters whether they’re likely to come after you with either a lawsuit or a shotgun if you write the truth.

But if you’re going to write about them at all—as I believe you inevitably will—it’s my belief you have to do it honestly. Because if writing is not honest, it doesn’t deserve to exist.

That doesn’t mean you have to create characters that precisely echo your own family of origin and depict what really happened there. In fact, I think it’s probably better if you don’t—both for the sake of keeping the fifth commandment and for the sake of writing your best fiction.

Unadulterated reality seldom makes the best fiction. It’s too messy, too full of contradictions. It doesn’t follow a neat plot arc. If the events of real life are translated into fiction, they’re generally either boring or unbelievable. And the ending is rarely as satisfying as we want our novel endings to be.

If you feel the need to write the true story of your childhood exactly as you remember it (which is probably not exactly as it happened), go ahead and do it. Get it out of your system. Share it with your spouse and your siblings if you want. Then burn it.

What I do suggest for writing about your parents is this:

  • Wait until you have a little distance, a little understanding, some measure of forgiveness. You’ll probably have to write your way to full understanding and forgiveness; but it’s best to get there before you write “The End.”
  • Write indirectly. Write about characters who struggle with their parents, but make them different from yourself and your parents. Give their story a proper plot arc and a satisfying conclusion. Don’t write the picture-perfect childhood you wish you’d had; but you can end with a reconciliation that may or may not ever happen in your own life.
  • Be honest about your own struggles as the child of your parents. But be honest about your parents as people, too. Put yourself inside their skin. Live their struggles and challenges. Get a grip on what made them tick. Cut them some slack—chances are you’re not perfect yourself. And if they’ve repented, let that knowledge inform what you write as well. Be truthful—but also be gracious. Be kind.

If you still feel you can’t write about your parents, even following these guidelines, without dishonoring them, you could always wait until they’ve passed on. I promise you they’ll have more perspective then.

An imperfect, or even a tragic, childhood can be a great gift for a writer. It can give you compassion and empathy, crucial qualities for a writer. It can give you the deep emotional experience you need to connect with your readers on an intimate level. And, of course, it gives you lots of material.

So if you can’t think of anything else to thank your parents for, thank them for that. Honor them by becoming the best writer you can be.

Writers’ Ten Commandments #4: Keep the Sabbath

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This series is about breaking the Ten Commandments in your writing—doing to your characters, or having them do, things you’d never want anyone to do to you.

Commandment #4: Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.

On the face of it, breaking this commandment doesn’t have a huge potential for improving your fiction. True, unless all your characters are faithful Christians—and maybe even if they are—some of them will probably be Sabbath-breakers. But that’s not interesting enough to justify a blog post.

I’d like to depart from my formula for this series here. Instead of showing you how to break a commandment in your fiction, I’m going to exhort you to keep this commandment in your life as a writer.

I’ve read a lot of advice to writers that says “write every day.” As in seven days a week. Usually these advisers want you to produce a standard word count, typically 1000 words per day. They want you to be a writing machine.

I want you to be a human being. And human beings need rest.

Write six days a week if you want to. (I personally do five as a rule; Saturdays are crazy at my house.) Fulfill a daily word count if you want to. But even if you don’t honor Sunday as the Lord’s day, for the sake of your writing and your sanity, take one day in seven off.

The fact is, the Lord created us to need rest, recharging, a break from our daily routine. We need this not only for our physical and spiritual health, but for our creative health as well. If you keep pouring out and out without ever putting in, the well will eventually run dry.

So give yourself a break. Take a day to worship God, be with your family and friends, enjoy nature or a favorite recreation. Let the world pour its goodness into your soul, so that you have something to pour out when you return to your writing.

Give Your Characters a Rest Too

I also think it’s a good idea to give your characters a break once in a while. Here again, I’m contradicting a lot of common writing advice, which says to get your characters into more and more trouble, keep up the pace and never slacken, never give your reader a place to put the book down.

Yes, your characters need to have plenty of trouble, whether internal or external. No, you don’t want the reader to get bored. But think about it: When you read a book that leaps from one crisis to another with never a moment to breathe, don’t you feel exhausted by the end of it? or even halfway through?

To my mind, the best books are those that slow the pace every once in a while and give both the characters and the reader a chance to reflect on what’s happening. Let your characters have time to get to know each other, reveal their hidden conflicts, their deep motivations, their hopes for the future. Otherwise all you have is one long adrenaline rush.

Think of Harry Potter. Lots of action there. Even critics of the HP books have never (to my knowledge) accused them of being boring. But are the kids actively fighting evil every single day? Of course not. They’re in school. They’re going to classes, developing relationships, goofing around in their spare time. And Rowling lets us see this.

Toward the end of each book, of course, things start to heat up. We don’t get a break again until the climax is past. And if you take the series overall, things get darker and tougher from book to book. But even in Deathly Hallows, you have a moment when Harry and Hermione dance together to the radio. You have a lengthy respite at Bill and Fleur’s house when the characters are mourning Dobby and planning the raid on Gringott’s. You have a chance to breathe, and to remember why everything the kids are doing is so all-fired important.

Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” I say, “The unexamined novel is not worth reading.” Take the time, and give your readers the time, to examine the deeper underpinnings of your story.

Too much work, too much adrenaline rush, makes you old before your time. Remember the Sabbath, that your days may be long on the earth.

Writer’s Ten Commandments #3: Taking God’s Name in Vain

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In case you missed the first post in the series, this series is about breaking the Ten Commandments in your writing—doing to your characters, or having them do, things you’d never want anyone to do to you.

Commandment #3: You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.

We usually think of this commandment as applying simply to the casual use of God’s name as, more or less, a swear word. OMG spelled out would be perhaps its mildest form—using the form of words that denotes calling on God when, in fact, that is not the speaker’s true intention.

In this sense, we could have a nice little debate about whether it’s okay to have your characters say things you as a Christian (if you happen to be one) would never dream of saying yourself. I’ve talked about this elsewhere, so I’ll just say briefly: I think profanity of any sort should be used in fiction very sparingly. When I come across profanity in a book, it feels like a slap in the face. So I only use it when I want to slap my readers in the face (in the nicest possible way). And then only in dialogue or first-person narration—when a character is in such extremity that any milder language just wouldn’t sound realistic. But that’s my personal take. Every writer has his or her own approach.

But there’s another way to look at this commandment. You could regard it as taking God’s name in vain when a person, or character, claims to be acting for the glory of God, while his or her true motives are in fact selfish. Think of Luke 6:46, where Christ says, “But why do you call Me ‘Lord, Lord,’ and not do the things which I say?”

Now we’re getting into some fertile ground for great characters. Maybe not your protagonist, but quite possibly your villain or a secondary character. Pecksniff in Dickens’ Martin Chuzzlewit is this sort of hypocrite—a man we love to hate, who uses everyone around him in his quest for money and social position while claiming to be oh-so-disinterested. Bleak House has several examples of characters who claim to be doing good—even sincerely believe they’re doing good—while in fact they are wreaking havoc in all the lives they touch.

To use a more contemporary example, Meg Moseley’s fine novel When Sparrows Fall
includes a character who abuses his position of authority in a congregation to steal from his parishioners, manipulate their lives, and occasionally seduce them, all the while proclaiming himself a holy and prophetic man of God. This novel has generated some controversy, but I feel it is greatly enriched by this realistic depiction of a spiritual predator.

I can think of a third way of taking the Lord’s name in vain in fiction, and it’s something I hope you’ll never do. This way would be to depict God, or His action in the world (aka Providence), in a way that is not true to His character. To depict God as unloving, or His universe as fundamentally flawed, chaotic, and irredeemable, is to take His name in vain in the worst possible way.

This perspective is common in post-modern fiction, but it makes for bad fiction and even worse theology. Far better, as we said last time, to depict a universe radiant with the glory of the Resurrection.

Writer’s Ten Commandments #2: No Graven Image

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In case you missed the first post in the series, this series is about breaking the Ten Commandments in your writing—doing to your characters, or having them do, things you’d never want anyone to do to you.

Commandment #2: You shall not make any graven image, bow down to it or serve it.

I’m going to cheat a bit on this one. To the best of my limited understanding, the original intention of this commandment was pretty much an extension of #1, “have no other gods before Me.” The Lord specifically did not want people worshiping images of anything He had created in place of worshiping Himself.

But we already talked about idolizing people or things other than God in the previous post, so I’m going to address only the first phrase of the commandment: “You shall not make any graven image.”

Well, if you extend that to apply to arts other than sculpture, making images is pretty much what fiction writing is all about, right? We’re creating our own little worlds, which may or may not be made up of the same elements as the world God made. It’s our job to make those worlds, those images, as convincing, as moving, as emotionally involving as possible.

It’s our job to be mini-creators.

It sounds a little presumptuous when you put it this way. But I don’t think it is, really. God created us in His image and likeness, and one crucial element of that likeness surely is creativity. When we create our own fictional worlds, we’re just expressing the image of God latent in all of us.

There’s another sense, a subtler, deeper sense, I’d like to bring out here, too. At fiction’s best, the writer is not only creating a little world; he is creating a world that images God. Not a world to be worshiped in place of God—a world to lead the reader closer to God.

A skillful writer who is also a believer can infuse a bit of grace into any element of any story: a character, a setting, a plot line, a metaphor, the choice of just the right word. Whatever is beautiful, whatever is true, whatever is noble in a story carries the image of God, even if His name is never mentioned. In fact, the stories in which His presence is imaged rather than directly stated are often the most powerfully redemptive of all.

Think of Lord of the Rings: The trilogy itself makes no mention of any God-figure. There are no believers or unbelievers. But good and evil are there; courage, love, mercy, forgiveness, and self-sacrifice are there; redemption is there in spades. God breathes through every line.

Go forth and make your graven images—graven with a pen on paper (or a keyboard on silicon). Make them beautiful, make them true, and they will be graven on your readers’ hearts forever.

Writer’s Ten Commandments, #1: No Other Gods

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Before you panic, let me explain: In this series of posts, I’m going to be talking about breaking the Ten Commandments in your writing. In other words, doing to your characters, or having them do to each other and themselves, things you certainly wouldn’t want anyone to do to you.

The plan is to write about each commandment. I cheated by starting with #6, “You shall not kill,” which gave me the idea of doing a series. And I may end up skipping a commandment or two, as some are less relevant than others.

The First Commandment: You shall have no other gods before Me.

Here’s what I hope you won’t do to break this commandment: Don’t make a god of your writing. Or of yourself as a writer, or of other writers (or agents or editors), or even of your characters. By all means, keep God in His rightful place in your life and your career.

But within your novels, if all your primary characters have God firmly in the center of their hearts and lives, you might not have much of a story.

The truth is, most people—even well-intentioned, pious people—functionally worship someone or something other than God. It may be another person—lover, spouse, child. It may be a career, an addiction, a goal such as money or power. It may even be a false idea of God, or a vision of themselves as good pious people. The enemy can get awfully subtle in the ways he encourages us to break the first commandment.

Whatever it is, your characters will probably begin their stories by having some false god. To be compelling, a character has to want something very badly. It could be God—great stories have been written about people passionately seeking God—but in the beginning, at least, it probably won’t be. It will probably be something along the lines of human love, acceptance, success, or maybe just survival.

Plot happens when someone or something gets in the way of the characters’ attempts to achieve their goals. If you don’t have a goal, or you don’t have obstacles, you probably don’t have much of a plot.

If you’re writing from a Christian point of view, your characters may discover that they can only attain their goals with God’s help, or that the goals are ultimately not as important as they thought they were. Or they may attain their goals and find they aren’t as happy and satisfied as they thought they would be—in which case they may turn to God to fill that hole in the heart that only He can fill.

That can be a great way to end a novel. But it’s probably not a great place to start.

 

When Good Characters Die

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What are we really mourning when we mourn a character’s death?

When we mourn for a real person, we’re usually grieving for ourselves, because we will miss having that person in our lives. If the person’s life, or our relationship with him, wasn’t what it ought to have been, our mourning may be embittered by regret. If the person dies at the natural end of a good life, our grief (if we believe in the resurrection) is tempered by the confidence that she is at peace.

But when we mourn a fictional character, it isn’t quite the same thing. If we miss the character, we can always go back and read the book again. She will live forever in the pages that precede her demise.

Also, our relationships with the characters are not really an issue—unless you get into books a lot more deeply than I do. For Meggie in Inkheart that might have been a concern, but then Meggie  herself is a fictional character. Let’s keep these things in perspective.

We do sometimes mourn characters who have died as a result of their own poor choices. Hamlet, for instance. But think about it: When you look back at the whole play of Hamlet—not immediately after watching or reading it, but at some distance—is it his death you focus on? It isn’t for me. You might say Hamlet died because he had nothing left to live for. It’s everything that happens before his death that causes us to mourn for a wasted life.

A Death Most Moving

When I think about the deaths in literature that have affected me most deeply, I realize they touch me for one (or both) of two reasons:

  1. The character has sacrificed himself to save others.
  2. The character will be deeply mourned by other characters with whom I identify.

Dumbledore. Fred Weasley. Jean Valjean. Gandalf (apparent death). Beth March. Matthew Cuthbert. Bambi’s mother. Jeremiah Land.

It also makes a difference how well we know the character himself and how lovable we find him. I didn’t cry as much over Sirius Black, even though his sacrificial death devastated Harry, because I hadn’t had as much time to get to know and love Sirius—and neither had Harry.

For Those Left Behind

The point I’m trying to make here is that when we mourn for fictional characters, just as when we mourn for real people, our mourning is not so much for the one departed as for the ones left behind. We project ourselves into the characters of Harry, or George, or Frodo, or Jo, or Anne, or Bambi, and feel the same devastation they feel.

Of all the deaths I’ve mentioned, the one that tears at my heart most painfully is that of Fred Weasley—because I can’t imagine how George will go on without him. He won’t even be able to finish a sentence, let alone run Weasley’s Wheezes, without his twin to bounce his thoughts off of, to be the ever-present echo of himself. I can see why some Weasley or other had to die, but I really wonder what J. K. Rowling was thinking when she chose one of the twins. (Note that she didn’t dwell on George’s reaction—it must have been too painful even for her.)

Ultimately, though, we have to forgive her, because Fred died, as one of many, to save his world from Voldemort. His death had meaning, as did his life.

As a reader, then, if you mourn for fictional characters, don’t feel badly about it. You’re exercising your compassion muscles for when you need them in real life.

And as a writer, if you feel compelled to kill someone off and want that death to have the maximum impact, choose someone the main characters will be devastated to lose—but make sure his death means something. Let your readers’ grief be permeated with the light of resurrection.

What characters have you mourned for most? Do you agree with my conclusions?