Adriel.'s Blog

I assume, as of now, you have not read my first book, Illyadra. A compartmentalization story of fantastical category. One that has taken me fifteen years to conceive, daydream, write, edit, and publish. A piece that has commandeered my life.

Kairo, our main character, has followed me through many journeys. I’ve taken him through puberty, overseas, through relationships, and even deaths. He’s grown, too. When I first imagined his presence, he was a whinny eleven-year-old boy just like I was. For years we grew up in unison, acquiring age and experience together. Then, around twenty, we started to drift apart. He stopped getting older and wiser. His likes and dislikes became much more his own—heck, even his own fears and flaws. And by now, Kairo has his own type of thinking, totally foreign to my own.

When it came time to search for an agent (you need one of those for publishers to even look at your manuscript) I started feeling uneasy. Not a “what if they don’t like it” type. Rather a “what if they ruin it” type. And from there I began listing all the other future titles that I have in the daydream-inator (hopefully they don’t take fifteen years each).

Then God laid upon me an idea I hadn’t had before: just make your own publishing company.

Well, hold on now. That sounds like a lot of work. You listen here, God, I like to make up people—give them personalities and names and cultures and what not—and make them fight. You seem to be suggesting quite the amount of work in the world external to the one in my head.

But the more I thought about it, the more I began to see what He was dreaming.

Oh Father, Almighty Wonderer, Dreamer Infinite, All-Knowing Inquisitor, if you would wish me to ask even the smallest of your questions, I would imagine instances of cosmic consequences.

There are a lot of Christian books already. I wouldn’t say too many, but uhm, there’s a lot. From memoirs, to commentaries, to devotionals, to I-died-and-dreamed-heaven books. And, from my perspective, I feel there is a great absence of devote, practicing Christian authors that don’t write about God. People who just write entertaining pieces. I want more Jesus-followers who tell jokes that don’t make me sin for laughing.

I’ve got a great many more thoughts on God in the entertainment industry. But that’s one of them tangent things where the current conversation bleeds into a new one. I will eventually write a blog all about God and Entertainment to link into this here sentence, but for now I will spare you.

Adriel means “of God’s flock” in Hebrew. Adriel House Publishing isn’t just a company name, it’s a promise. It’s a promise that our work will be aligned to the system of values Biblically prescribed. If there’s greed or gore or other vices hopelessly entertaining, they would not be glorified, but a result of real imaginary characters doing really imaginative things. War isn’t some single-hour event to be consumed mindlessly and moved on from, but a result of things going sour on a continental scale.

Here, I’ll make another promise while I have you: There are sixty-six originating intersections on the bird of our logo. They’re dots. Without all of them, there would be no bird. And without one of them, the bird would have less detail. Like resolution on a TV screen, if there were many more dots, the bird could be picturesque. But there’s only sixty-six.

God gave us sixty-six canonical books of the Bible (at least in my neck of the woods, some of y'all are still reading Enoch). Each one is an art-student painting the assigned man in the middle of the room. They all have different perspectives—many of their authors have wildly opposite backgrounds, social classes, technological advancements, ecological diversifications, or roles within an emotional system with which their world views originate. Sixty-six different angles of the same God. Without any one of them, our resolution of God’s character would suffer significantly. We would have much less of an idea of what he ‘looks’ like.

Adriel House is a publication to imagine the relationship between God and creation through artistic production. It’s a promise. Or a dare. Hold me to it. And have grace where I fall short of His glory.

The question I get most frequently is this, “What’s your target market, then? Christians? Non-Christians?” And I get it. I’m starting a Christian publishing company, it would make sense that my audience’s beliefs would be aligned, rather intentionally, on my half, one way or another. Or, with Illyadra’s hidden biblical themes, it might make sense that my target market would be not Christian. A sort of influential sneak attack.

But to be frank, it’s not that deep. I will, in time, publish many more books of my own, each with their own set of topics and themes and target audiences. And I will publish other works by other authors, each still having their own ideal demographic. So you see then, the common denominator of books I’m willing to publish is not based upon a singular target market.

The job of a publisher is rarely chasing audiences—that’s the author’s job. And while in this case I’m both of these people, author me and publisher me don’t communicate too frequently.

You then. Blog Reader. If you find that you’re neither of these people, my target audience or a new author, that’s okay. You’ve done so much already. You’ve invested in me something far grander: your perspective. I hold it dear. Without it, I wouldn’t have stories worth telling—especially since some of y'all are crazy.

Love ya!

adriel.

To my Future Children, for when you find that the cares of this world fit uncomfortably upon you,

I was in Kathmandu, Nepal, riding around town in a taxi. My missionary team and I have come from the city’s most unprosperous outskirts, running a vpk system for families with two working parents. And on this day, after five weeks, we were quite hungry for something touristy. Sightseeing and foods. Longing for the familiar.

We hopped out in a busy, dusty mall district, chasing a fantastically foretold restaurant called the Lazy Gringo. Those enchiladas, quite seriously, might’ve been the best I’ve ever had. The Lazy Gringo even had Dr. Pepper, which prompted a noticeable, previous absence of of that sweet, cherry, throat scalping drink from any eatery or grocer prior.

It was at this time that I realized, I don’t have my backpack. I looked around quickly. There were no other parties taking joy in a gringo’s laziness. I left it in the cab. I took the narrow, winding alley, black iron stair down three at a time, back out through the dusty mall district, hoping the taxi would be waiting, smiling pitifully, backpack raised in-hand. Of course, he was no where to be found. I looked up on my phone how to retrieve such a lost item from such a circumstance at such a time, and the internet provided less than ideal results.

See, at this point, it might be worth noting that my backpack contained only two items: my in-case-of-emergency-frisbee, and my laptop (containing an unrecoverable breath of primitive Illyadra). Two very important items. And my next course of action, given all factors, was a prompt scoop of my hand in a downward motion followed by a mental, “screw it.”

I stopped caring. The thing was gone. No sense fretting over the uncontrollable. The irreparable. The unrecoverable.

Among my fellow, devout Christian missionaries, I was praised for my quick detachment of love for personal belongings. “This guy gets it.” And, “He would sell all of his things and fit through a needle.” But I’m not so certain.

Looking back, thoroughly throughout my life, there is this series of moments when something is lost, or I’ve been hurt, or disappointed, and I flip this switch. The Caring Switch. The control panel which maneuvers my emotional attachment to a given scenario or person. This switch is worn with use. It’s axel is oiled, a mere prompting of the wind might coax its off position. Not one of those rusty, unused attic switches which might take a firm press of the finger, or an incessant re-flipping in either direction to spark reaction.

I’ve flipped this switch on school and her projects; on love interests, deeming their unimportance to my proximity. I’ve flipped this switch on my parents, painting the detachment as forgiveness. As if, digging a chasm between the dramatic and myself might cease influence, or affect, upon me.

And perhaps it does. Certainly, this coping mechanism would be well documented and tested and noted upon by psychologists smarter than I. But I find the switch to be more nuanced than disassociation, there is no day-dreaming, spaciness, or fog coming about at such a flipping.

My concern, primarily, is the morality of this switch.

I suppose, my first inclination to dealing with the Switch’s goodness, would be to dwell on my affections since practicing it’s un-use.

Photo creds to Kole Purdy, for hauling his heavy camera equipment and exceptional talents with us through Nepal.

Hey Dad,

You used to ask me, “how does it feel to want?”

It was always after I communicated my desire for something. Like ice cream. Or, going to Universal Studios. You’d laugh, and pop the question. You were probably expressing your inability or unwillingness to make my want happen, alongside your acute nature to ask silly, profound questions.

I’m older now; I can see my graduation of answers over the years.

The first: obvious confusion. Young me was unsure how to navigate the question. I mean, isn’t want already a feeling? Like, how’s it feel to feel mad?

As I got a little older, my answer changed to a simple, “good, I guess.” My uncertainty still reverberating through my response. Looking back, I can see that I didn’t realize you were asking this question to signify your denial of my request. In my mind, wanting something was a good thing. If you want chocolate, then you get to have some chocolate.

I got older again, it was among the last times I heard you ask this question. How does it feel to want? The obvious conclusion: not good. Wanting, without its reward of getting, is a pretty frustrating emotion. Dissatisfying. Disappointing. Left without.

I continued to get older, left the country for missions, came back, started college and began dabbling in self medication. A route of recreation I had looked down on you for taking, for years. How does it feel to want? Here, in this season, I began to notice that I had severe impulse control malfunctions. I wanted what I wanted. And for the first time in my life, the things that I wanted undermined my relationship with the Lord. I felt close with you this season. Of similar curses. Scriptures of appetites and holding fast stood out to me. I heard your mantra whisper in my mind, repetitious demands that I hadn’t previously taken note of: “I am content. I am content. I am content.” I devoured Timothy’s, “God gives me strength to do all things.” And pastors’ wise take on the chapter being of contentment (contrary to its popular use). Denying yourself is of the most basic, primary, initial steps into chasing after Jesus - as he said to anyone that asked to follow him. Sell all your things. Take up your cross. Be born again.

I’ve gotten older still, and my answer has changed. Perhaps it will again in years to come, but for now, here is where I find myself: Wanting is good. But, wanting good things is of the utmost importance. I’ve gotten married. I’ve practiced lent. I’ve fasted. I’ve sabbath’ed. I’ve loved and been loved. God has ruptured the heavens for my blessings in this time. I’ve admired John piper’s, “~the only way, that I have found, to truly get rid of a sin, is to grow a distaste for it.” I’ve prayed and repented of my more self-destructive wants. While maintaining a healthy fear that, if I whined hard enough to God for a king, he would hand me over to a Saul. Or an idol. Or some other thing on the throne that infects my day to day steering through life. But, to want the Lord, or any derivative function, is (in my mind) the most powerful thing a human can feel. For example, the deepest of my heart's aches is for those who are raised, being taught, to value what the Lord hates. The mountains I will move, the stories I will write, the people I will touch in order to restrain this lawlessness is an undeniable, irresistible, potent spiritual want.

All the writer people say that when making a character, and weaving them through a story, their motivations are essential. Their wants. Their flaws or obstacles (the things that get in the way of what they want), is what makes a story. Any story. To want is our most woven biological, environmental, and spiritual mechanic with which we navigate this world. Every one of us is given an inherent set of desires. And we spend the rest of our lives figuring out what to do with them.

The Jesus story is where a nation of people wrestle with God, they pray and repent, they meditate daily on the heart of the Lord, and they’re revealed what it is He wants and align themselves with a holy, supernatural ability. A generation passes. And this people group decide that, the wants of the nations around them are the more satisfying chases. They fall, give into destruction, and God hands them over (as he has done to you in your mantra’s failing). Eventually, after three or even four generations, they repent, and the story takes place with a new generation all over again.

So when I write, instead of making a man heroic or villainous, I instead take account the allegiance of their desires. How does it feel to want? What are they willing to sacrifice to capture it? Would they dethrone God?

Thank you, Dad. For your teachings. You struggled to control what you wanted and in the end, you never were able to conquer them. God forgives you, even now, and notes the deepest manifestations of your heartfelt attempts year in and year out. You will never feel an unrighteous want again.