Richard D. Lewis's Blog
December 16, 2009
My Reading Chair
When I was a boy, this was my reading chair*. It was big enough and I was small enough for me to prop my legs up, feet on the edge of the seat and knees leaning against the arms, and get lost in a book. I read for hours and hours in this chair, ignoring the breeze calling me to play at the beach or the temple banyan, ignoring whatever my boring parents were doing, ignoring my brothers and sisters.
This chair has survived the years, and is presently in our guest bedroom, where I am typing this because the weather has turned stinking hot and this bedroom has the only air conditioner (we value our guests' comforts more than we do our own). And as I write this, I'm not only writing this, but also intermittently checking email, or looking up the Internet surf report (small to tiny, or flattus maximus as we literate surfers say), or replying to text messages from my son who is in the room right next to me asking me if he can go play with friends.
In short, my life is becoming fractalized. Broken down into jagged segments. Sharp discontinuous turns. And there goes my cell phone text message again. I could keep writing this post, but….
Of course not. I had to read. A friend asking if there was any surf my way. Flattus maximus, dude.
In way, we're retreating to our monkey roots. Have you ever watched a troop of monkeys? They get bored and distracted about as quickly as kids at church. That sort of micro-attention span really is our natural state, I think, and our current technology is allowing us to revert back to it. The ability to sit down and concentrate for hours at a time is a trait we acquired when technology was the Slow Stuff, like long wagon rides and, or even before the invention of the wheel, lazy evenings around the cave fire with nothing to do but flake off spear points and listen to your cave mate tell the story about saving the hot babe from the saber tooth tiger, about the umpteenth time he's told it, not that you're counting, because you can't count beyond ten.
Sometimes I wonder why I bother writing novels. Which, you know, is one long narrative. Continuous flow of words. If it's hard for me to take the chunk of time to sit down and do the writing, which after is what I do to justify my existence even if it isn't exactly a career that pays my bills, who, these days, really has the time to sit down and do the reading? Get lost in another world and linger there with its characters?
For that matter, when was the last time I the writer was really me the reader, the guy who could sit down in this reading chair and read for hours and hours and hours until some exasperated family member told me it was time for dinner?
I've just tried sitting in the chair with a big fat book, Follet's "World without End." Book without end, more like. The chair is cramped, uncomfortable. And my Instant Messaging chimed…
The solution is simple, though. Reacquire the trait. By simply doing it over and over again. Sit down, start reading, dude. The surf is flattus maximus anyway.
* Image viewable at http://www.novelistinparadise.com/?p=7
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
This chair has survived the years, and is presently in our guest bedroom, where I am typing this because the weather has turned stinking hot and this bedroom has the only air conditioner (we value our guests' comforts more than we do our own). And as I write this, I'm not only writing this, but also intermittently checking email, or looking up the Internet surf report (small to tiny, or flattus maximus as we literate surfers say), or replying to text messages from my son who is in the room right next to me asking me if he can go play with friends.
In short, my life is becoming fractalized. Broken down into jagged segments. Sharp discontinuous turns. And there goes my cell phone text message again. I could keep writing this post, but….
Of course not. I had to read. A friend asking if there was any surf my way. Flattus maximus, dude.
In way, we're retreating to our monkey roots. Have you ever watched a troop of monkeys? They get bored and distracted about as quickly as kids at church. That sort of micro-attention span really is our natural state, I think, and our current technology is allowing us to revert back to it. The ability to sit down and concentrate for hours at a time is a trait we acquired when technology was the Slow Stuff, like long wagon rides and, or even before the invention of the wheel, lazy evenings around the cave fire with nothing to do but flake off spear points and listen to your cave mate tell the story about saving the hot babe from the saber tooth tiger, about the umpteenth time he's told it, not that you're counting, because you can't count beyond ten.
Sometimes I wonder why I bother writing novels. Which, you know, is one long narrative. Continuous flow of words. If it's hard for me to take the chunk of time to sit down and do the writing, which after is what I do to justify my existence even if it isn't exactly a career that pays my bills, who, these days, really has the time to sit down and do the reading? Get lost in another world and linger there with its characters?
For that matter, when was the last time I the writer was really me the reader, the guy who could sit down in this reading chair and read for hours and hours and hours until some exasperated family member told me it was time for dinner?
I've just tried sitting in the chair with a big fat book, Follet's "World without End." Book without end, more like. The chair is cramped, uncomfortable. And my Instant Messaging chimed…
The solution is simple, though. Reacquire the trait. By simply doing it over and over again. Sit down, start reading, dude. The surf is flattus maximus anyway.
* Image viewable at http://www.novelistinparadise.com/?p=7
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
August 11, 2009
The Query from Hell
In which all the rules are broken. At the end I have appended a select list of the major rules broken
While I wrote this for fun, agents unfortunately continue to receive queries like this all too often. Do NOT use this as your query model.
THE QUERY FROM HELL
Maximus Bonum
Top o' the Line Literary Agency
Avenue of the Universes
New York
Hi there Maxi,
How would you like to represent a future Noble prize winner in literature? I am sure you would! Actually, I can't promise I would win that prize because of all the politicing involved, but I can promise you that anyone who represents my novels will make a bundle of money and become quite famous in his own write (get the pun?). And that could be you!!!!!!!!
In all seriousness, I have just completed a novelistic work of fiction that not only is going to shatter all box office records, but is going to be a major semenal work in literature. The title is THE GODS OF THE BRIDGES AND THE WOMEN WHO CROSS THEM I am sorry that I am not able to provide a synopsis, because it is too risky. There are idea thieves out there, maybe even in your office. You see, I have surmounted all the genres and created one of my own that I call "fusion fiction". I am in the process of copyrighting this new genre. However, one hint (are you ready for this?): the novel is written entirely in the future indicative tense!
Now, Max, I know your are chomping at the bit, and would like to read the novel right away, but first, please send me a pre-paid DHL postal packet for delivery of about 5 pounds of manuscript. To help you save on your freight expense, I have printed the manuscript singlespace, and on both sides.
Hey Max, here's to mutual fame and fortune!
(signed)
P.S. I'd save this letter for the history files.
P.P.S. Don't worry about that blood splotch smear on the other side of this letter, that's just a squashed mosquitoe
"Hi there, Maxi": Funny how agents like to be addressed respectfully and how fussy they can get about having their names spelled write
"a future Noble prize winner": Spelling counts! For every single word (and part of spelling right is getting the write spelling for the word you want, as in Nobel Prize). Aslo, don't count your prizes before they awarded. Your one and only focus at this point is getting representation, and bragging ain't the way to do it.
a novelistic work of fiction: For some obscure reason, having to do with logic and the common definition of words, agents get really really turned off when you describe your work as "a fiction novel" .
"There are idea thieves out there": Not for novels. Nothing new has been written under the sun for, oh, about 4000 years. Agents aren't going to steal your idea, they want you to execute your idea to perfection. That's an awful lot of hard work. Nobody is interested in stealing hard work, are they? The deal about theft isn't just greed, it's laziness.
"five pounds..singlespaced" I am continually amazed to read on writers' sites so many writers saying, "Yes, I know it should be under 100,000 words and double spaced in 12 point type but my story is just too big and grand and I really can't afford all that paper." Of course, with the Internet and emailing, paper is becoming less of an issue now, but even for an attached manuscript it's still doublespacing and 12 point Courier or TNR all the way, baby.
"blood splotch smear": No no no. Also no coffee mug stains. And no envelope full of little heart cutouts or anything cute that gets all over the carpet or smells.
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
While I wrote this for fun, agents unfortunately continue to receive queries like this all too often. Do NOT use this as your query model.
THE QUERY FROM HELL
Maximus Bonum
Top o' the Line Literary Agency
Avenue of the Universes
New York
Hi there Maxi,
How would you like to represent a future Noble prize winner in literature? I am sure you would! Actually, I can't promise I would win that prize because of all the politicing involved, but I can promise you that anyone who represents my novels will make a bundle of money and become quite famous in his own write (get the pun?). And that could be you!!!!!!!!
In all seriousness, I have just completed a novelistic work of fiction that not only is going to shatter all box office records, but is going to be a major semenal work in literature. The title is THE GODS OF THE BRIDGES AND THE WOMEN WHO CROSS THEM I am sorry that I am not able to provide a synopsis, because it is too risky. There are idea thieves out there, maybe even in your office. You see, I have surmounted all the genres and created one of my own that I call "fusion fiction". I am in the process of copyrighting this new genre. However, one hint (are you ready for this?): the novel is written entirely in the future indicative tense!
Now, Max, I know your are chomping at the bit, and would like to read the novel right away, but first, please send me a pre-paid DHL postal packet for delivery of about 5 pounds of manuscript. To help you save on your freight expense, I have printed the manuscript singlespace, and on both sides.
Hey Max, here's to mutual fame and fortune!
(signed)
P.S. I'd save this letter for the history files.
P.P.S. Don't worry about that blood splotch smear on the other side of this letter, that's just a squashed mosquitoe
"Hi there, Maxi": Funny how agents like to be addressed respectfully and how fussy they can get about having their names spelled write
"a future Noble prize winner": Spelling counts! For every single word (and part of spelling right is getting the write spelling for the word you want, as in Nobel Prize). Aslo, don't count your prizes before they awarded. Your one and only focus at this point is getting representation, and bragging ain't the way to do it.
a novelistic work of fiction: For some obscure reason, having to do with logic and the common definition of words, agents get really really turned off when you describe your work as "a fiction novel" .
"There are idea thieves out there": Not for novels. Nothing new has been written under the sun for, oh, about 4000 years. Agents aren't going to steal your idea, they want you to execute your idea to perfection. That's an awful lot of hard work. Nobody is interested in stealing hard work, are they? The deal about theft isn't just greed, it's laziness.
"five pounds..singlespaced" I am continually amazed to read on writers' sites so many writers saying, "Yes, I know it should be under 100,000 words and double spaced in 12 point type but my story is just too big and grand and I really can't afford all that paper." Of course, with the Internet and emailing, paper is becoming less of an issue now, but even for an attached manuscript it's still doublespacing and 12 point Courier or TNR all the way, baby.
"blood splotch smear": No no no. Also no coffee mug stains. And no envelope full of little heart cutouts or anything cute that gets all over the carpet or smells.
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
May 5, 2009
WHY I WOULD RATHER BE A MATHEMATICIAN THAN A WRITER
Consider Shakespeare.
His name seems immortal. As long as there exist human beings and words, it is almost certain that Shakespeare will remain the bane of every high school student who has to study "Hamlet" in Lit class.
Consider, on the other hand, L. E. J. Brouwer.
Who?
What, you don't know? The Brouwer of the fixed point theorem? This is a very important mathematical theorem that basically says that one point of certain systems is going to stay right where it is regardless of how one transforms the system.
James Bond prefers his martinis shaken, not stirred. He can rest assured that even if shaken, there is a tiny drop of martini that will remain in the exact same place in the glass before and after the shaking*.
Of course, this would not be true if Bond drinks the martini, as all points of the liquid would go from glass down his throat. In which case, he would feel better about Brouwer.
Another example: for every non-bald head of hair, there must be a fixed point from which the hair pattern will radiate. The theorem also means that upon our globe, the wind can't constantly be blowing everywhere—there must at least one place on earth where it is dead calm.
The fixed point theorem is vital in many areas of math. It is one of mathematics' eternal truths.
Thus, as long as there is an intelligent species of life who continue our mathematics, Brouwer's name will forever be known.
This is not necessarily true of Shakespeare. The survival of his name and works depends on many of cultural & global contingencies, which of late look to be increasingly sketchy. Another way to look at it is this: if ten thousand years from now all of Shakespeare's plays are lost, then there would no way to re-write them. None. However, if we lose all knowledge of the fixed point theorem, why, sooner or later some number doodler is going to re-find the exact same thing (proof of which can be stated in several ways). And Brouwer somewhere up there in transfinity can have the satisfaction of having known it first, always and forever.
This is why I would rather be a mathematician rather than a writer. "Ah, yes, the Lewis Proof of the Squared Circle Conjecture," a future scholar of Planet Zeeble will say in her-his two-headed language. "For a terra firma homo sapiens, Lewis was rather clever." But alas, the creature will have no idea of Richard Lewis, the author of MONTER'S PROOF and other novels.
And Shakespeare? Ha. In that distant day and age, Brouwer will pwn Shakespeare.
* As per usual with mathematics, there are fussy little technical qualifications as to how the shaking must occur, but this is the essence.
** This brings to mind an idea for a story, where every person on earth suddenly starts to go bald. Our mathematician protagonist realizes that the balding process is reducing every head of hair to its Brouwer point. Which means something radical and mysterious and spooky is going on. (Hey, I didn't say it was a brilliant story idea)
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
His name seems immortal. As long as there exist human beings and words, it is almost certain that Shakespeare will remain the bane of every high school student who has to study "Hamlet" in Lit class.
Consider, on the other hand, L. E. J. Brouwer.
Who?
What, you don't know? The Brouwer of the fixed point theorem? This is a very important mathematical theorem that basically says that one point of certain systems is going to stay right where it is regardless of how one transforms the system.
James Bond prefers his martinis shaken, not stirred. He can rest assured that even if shaken, there is a tiny drop of martini that will remain in the exact same place in the glass before and after the shaking*.
Of course, this would not be true if Bond drinks the martini, as all points of the liquid would go from glass down his throat. In which case, he would feel better about Brouwer.
Another example: for every non-bald head of hair, there must be a fixed point from which the hair pattern will radiate. The theorem also means that upon our globe, the wind can't constantly be blowing everywhere—there must at least one place on earth where it is dead calm.
The fixed point theorem is vital in many areas of math. It is one of mathematics' eternal truths.
Thus, as long as there is an intelligent species of life who continue our mathematics, Brouwer's name will forever be known.
This is not necessarily true of Shakespeare. The survival of his name and works depends on many of cultural & global contingencies, which of late look to be increasingly sketchy. Another way to look at it is this: if ten thousand years from now all of Shakespeare's plays are lost, then there would no way to re-write them. None. However, if we lose all knowledge of the fixed point theorem, why, sooner or later some number doodler is going to re-find the exact same thing (proof of which can be stated in several ways). And Brouwer somewhere up there in transfinity can have the satisfaction of having known it first, always and forever.
This is why I would rather be a mathematician rather than a writer. "Ah, yes, the Lewis Proof of the Squared Circle Conjecture," a future scholar of Planet Zeeble will say in her-his two-headed language. "For a terra firma homo sapiens, Lewis was rather clever." But alas, the creature will have no idea of Richard Lewis, the author of MONTER'S PROOF and other novels.
And Shakespeare? Ha. In that distant day and age, Brouwer will pwn Shakespeare.
* As per usual with mathematics, there are fussy little technical qualifications as to how the shaking must occur, but this is the essence.
** This brings to mind an idea for a story, where every person on earth suddenly starts to go bald. Our mathematician protagonist realizes that the balding process is reducing every head of hair to its Brouwer point. Which means something radical and mysterious and spooky is going on. (Hey, I didn't say it was a brilliant story idea)
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
April 24, 2009
A Serious Gap in The Vampire Literature
A serious gap exists in the vampire literature.
Where are the born-again evangelical vampires? This oversight bothered me sufficiently last night that I couldn't sleep. Someone really ought to tell their story.
What would such a story entail? I imagine that a vampire evangelical would be similar to a gay evangelical – one must not practice the sin. Plus there would have to be a proper theology of vampirism and a vampire's relationship to his or her savior. Holy Communion would have an added piquancy to a born again vampire. If one kept to traditional vampire lore, night services would be packed.
But this is not yet a story. For a story, one must have an evangelical vampire who wants something badly, seeks to obtain it, and is faced with increasing obstacles. Since I am here a YA author, my vampiric protagonist would be a teen. What would a born-again vampire teen want? So here I wing it…
Why, he would want to be a normal kid, the kind that God originally created. Counseling with his vampire pastor doesn't help. Pray and fasting doesn't help. (Fasting from what?....hmmmm….slaughterhouse blood? Or born again vampires take daily meds that allow them to subsist on a vegetarian diet, as any taste of meat would be too tempting? Or, the salvation process partially redeems them and allows them to eat, if not particularly enjoy, food?) A dentist removes his fangs…and they grow right back in again. He joins an end-of-the-world cult, to hasten the Second Coming, which would transform him, but the cult leads him further astray, and his born again vampire family have to have an intervention and practice tough love to rescue him, sullen and rebellious.
Then of course, there'd have to be an entangling subplot…one of the born again vampires is succumbing to temptation, leaving a string of bodies, which summons the vampire hunters. This provides more interesting characters to play around with, and since it's always a good idea to layer in sources of potential conflict, let's make these vampire hunters…postmodern liberal atheists. Vampires are an evolutionary mistake that (not "who") must be eradicated…especially if they are Christian born-again narrow-minded vampires.
(Before anybody is offended: if I were to write this, I'd have fun but I would most definitely be respectful, okay. This is my own background and extended family I'm talking about, and Christianity is still my faith. I'm not mocking here, just trying to engage with the fantastical and how all this might work out.)
But since I am a Headlight Writer (I write as far as my headlights can see) and not an outliner who knows the story before he writes, this is about as far as my tired brain will take me right now.
But seriously, folks, somebody should step up to the plate and do something about this major gap in the vampire literature.
PS: (So why don't I write it? Because I don't want to be one of a species; I want to write a genus -- which is to say, something fairly more original in concept. One could riff on the vampire species forever -- for example, anthro-paleontologists in Africa find fossils of 1 million old hominid vampires -- in fact a range of species of them over time. For those of you who write original vampire stories, kudos, any creative original writing is both hard and noteworthy)
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
Where are the born-again evangelical vampires? This oversight bothered me sufficiently last night that I couldn't sleep. Someone really ought to tell their story.
What would such a story entail? I imagine that a vampire evangelical would be similar to a gay evangelical – one must not practice the sin. Plus there would have to be a proper theology of vampirism and a vampire's relationship to his or her savior. Holy Communion would have an added piquancy to a born again vampire. If one kept to traditional vampire lore, night services would be packed.
But this is not yet a story. For a story, one must have an evangelical vampire who wants something badly, seeks to obtain it, and is faced with increasing obstacles. Since I am here a YA author, my vampiric protagonist would be a teen. What would a born-again vampire teen want? So here I wing it…
Why, he would want to be a normal kid, the kind that God originally created. Counseling with his vampire pastor doesn't help. Pray and fasting doesn't help. (Fasting from what?....hmmmm….slaughterhouse blood? Or born again vampires take daily meds that allow them to subsist on a vegetarian diet, as any taste of meat would be too tempting? Or, the salvation process partially redeems them and allows them to eat, if not particularly enjoy, food?) A dentist removes his fangs…and they grow right back in again. He joins an end-of-the-world cult, to hasten the Second Coming, which would transform him, but the cult leads him further astray, and his born again vampire family have to have an intervention and practice tough love to rescue him, sullen and rebellious.
Then of course, there'd have to be an entangling subplot…one of the born again vampires is succumbing to temptation, leaving a string of bodies, which summons the vampire hunters. This provides more interesting characters to play around with, and since it's always a good idea to layer in sources of potential conflict, let's make these vampire hunters…postmodern liberal atheists. Vampires are an evolutionary mistake that (not "who") must be eradicated…especially if they are Christian born-again narrow-minded vampires.
(Before anybody is offended: if I were to write this, I'd have fun but I would most definitely be respectful, okay. This is my own background and extended family I'm talking about, and Christianity is still my faith. I'm not mocking here, just trying to engage with the fantastical and how all this might work out.)
But since I am a Headlight Writer (I write as far as my headlights can see) and not an outliner who knows the story before he writes, this is about as far as my tired brain will take me right now.
But seriously, folks, somebody should step up to the plate and do something about this major gap in the vampire literature.
PS: (So why don't I write it? Because I don't want to be one of a species; I want to write a genus -- which is to say, something fairly more original in concept. One could riff on the vampire species forever -- for example, anthro-paleontologists in Africa find fossils of 1 million old hominid vampires -- in fact a range of species of them over time. For those of you who write original vampire stories, kudos, any creative original writing is both hard and noteworthy)
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
FOUR EASTER STORIES -- EASTER SUNDAY
As the son of American missionaries in the 1960s, who went to Christian boarding school, I grew up with devotions, church, Bible study, youth groups as a big part of my family and social life. I had a hard time with Bible studies because I a) I never really liked being told what to I had to believe and b) I was the type who could point out possible different interpretations and possibilities of logic and drive the study leader crazy. (Being polite I rarely did this).
Lately, I've been trying something different. I'm a storyteller—don't necessarily want to be, but that's what I am—so I'm thinking through issues of faith through the lens of this gift, or curse. It's the Easter season, and I'm writing a cycle of four stories. These aren't fully fleshed and polished stories, but more like sketches, driving to get down quickly what it is I'm getting a sense of. Here is the final story. Tough once to sketch, to get the heart without the saccharine.
EASTER SUNDAY
We gathered that bright Easter morning for what was supposed to be joyous ceremony. Instead, we were quiet and somber. Many of us were red-eyed from crying. Miriam sat restlessly at the piano, lifting her hands to the keyboard to play but then lowering them again, clearly at a loss at what to do, what hymn to play.
We were waiting for Pastor Ed, who was late. Finally he appeared at the side door, ushering before him a woman appeared from the passenger side. A stranger, salon-tinted hair, a dress suited for a cocktail party, and manicured nails you only saw in movies. He gestured for her to take a chair in the front row. She looked familiar, but we couldn't place her. Young, but a shellacked air to her, varnished by hard living. She ignored us, not out of contempt or disrespect, but because it was clear that she was in her own world at the moment, somewhere else.
Pastor Ed took the pulpit, decorated in lilies and other Easter flowers. He was rumpled, wearing the same suit he'd worn all night at the hospital. Shadows dug deep into his cheeks. We were expecting haggard eyes, grieving eyes, eyes of a warrior who fought the battle for a child and lost. But his gaze was vibrant, and his smile victorious.
"Christ has risen!" he exclaimed.
We were confused but we responded. "He is risen indeed."
"I'm sure you've all heard the sad news. Jimmy Wrightmore passed away last night. Ida and Steve have formalities to attend to but they ask me to pass on to you their greetings and their regrets they cannot be here to for this celebration of Easter."
He emphasized the phrase. Celebration of Easter.
"It does seem a paradox to be celebrating the Risen Christ when one of us has been so tragically taken from us, especially one so young and full of life. The first I knew of Jimmy Wrightmore was during the second week of my pastorate here. He was, what, six? He asked me if I could baptize his pet frog. I was inexperienced then, and explained why I could not, but the next Sunday, when I baptized Carole Kraft, the frog was in the baptismal." Pastor Ed looked around and spotted Carole's big head of red hair. "You remember that, Carole?"
"I sure do," she said. "He did it on purpose, too, the little rascal. He knew I hated frogs. Boy, did I ever screech and splash! I don't think anybody's been so thoroughly baptized like I was." She was laughing when she said this, and those of us who'd been there and seen the hysterics started laughing, too.
Ed Gagliadi stood up. He's a pharmacist. "I remember when Jimmy came into the store and bought all the hydrogen peroxide we had in stock. He said it was for a science experiment. An hour later I get a call from his dad. Jimmy's experiment was to see what would happen if he flushed all that hydrogen peroxide down the toilet. By what the plumber later told me, the result was quite spectacular."
More laughter rolled through the congregation. The blond woman shook her head and smiled.
Lisa Gardener raised her hand. She's fourteen, same age as Jimmy. "Last year, when the youth group went into the city to see Hamlet? These homeless people there at the theater plaza, asking for money? An old lady came up to Jimmy but he ignored her and then when we're in the foyer getting our snacks and Jimmy looks at his five dollar bill with like this totally stricken look and says he has to go out and find that old lady. I tried to get him to stay and at least watch the show first but you know Jimmy, he gets an idea in his head, that's it. So I go out with him and we go looking for the old lady but don't see her. There's lots of other homeless people and I'm like telling Jimmy, give the money to one of them, but no, it has to be that old lady. Nobody else. We finally did find her and give her the money and she just grumps at us. Not even a thanks. Aaaand we missed the show and I was so ticked off at Jimmy and he looks at me and gives me that smile, you know that grin he has? And he says, 'yeah, but admit it, that was more fun that some boring old play.' And you know what, it was fun."
There were more Jimmy stories. Then the blond woman stood. "I have a story, too. Actually, I have a lot of stories about Jimmy, because he was my kid brother."
You could have heard our eyelids blink. Why, this was Lauren, Lauren the Bad Girl, Lauren the Troublemaker, the Rebel, the Jezebel, the one arrested as a juvenile, the girl who broke her parents' heart, the one who vanished into the maws of Sin.
"I was already a teen when Jimmy was born," Lauren said, "and I didn't want anything to do with him. I wasn't going to be a babysitter or diaper changer or anything like that. I basically ignored him the whole time I was here. I left home, and did my thing, lived my life the way I wanted to live it, and when I thought of this town, it was to think I'll never ever go back there again.
"Then a year ago Jimmy tracked me down on FaceBook and said he'd like to be friends. I thought, what was the harm. We started chatting. Casual at first, and then one day Jimmy asked me advice about a girl he really liked, and you know what? Something clicked. I became his older sister. We chatted more and more on line. A few months he asked me to come visit. He said he'd love to see me. I wouldn't have minded that, but there was no way I was coming back here. There was no way I was going to talk to my parents ever again. I told him some of what I felt, and he said he understood. And he said he loved me."
Lauren paused to blink back tears. She coughed and continued: "I didn't know he was sick, how sick he was, until a few days, when a nurse had to type for him. She said I really should come and see him because I mightn't have another chance.
"I couldn't get away until yesterday morning. I went straight to the hospital. I didn't even say hello to my parents. Jimmy was all tethered up to those machines and he was still conscious and his eyes lit up when he saw me but you could tell right away that he was dying and all I could think about was all the years I didn't know him—" Lauren's voice held steady and strong to this point, but then it hit a wall. She didn't break down or stop sobbing, but you could see the emotions sweeping over her. She couldn't speak.
Pastor Ed gently said, "May I tell the rest of it?"
She nodded.
"A story like this," Pastor Ed said, "you'd think there should be grief, yes, of course that, but love and compassion and reconciliation. To be honest, there was none of that."
We listened as he told us how furious Lauren became—at her folks, at Pastor Ed, at the doctors, but most of all, at God. She was in a rage, cursing Him, the unfairness of it all, right there in the hospital room.
A spectacular fury, as well, eloquent and passionate and real.
Jimmy's reaction was curious. Pastor Ed didn't know whether it was the medication or his physical weakness or the knowledge you get when you're peering into the other side of life. But Jimmy calmly watched his sister, and with quiet gestures he told his parents and the doctors, it's okay, let her be, let her be. She finally quieted down and then said, I can't stay here, I can't watch this, Jimmy, I just can't.
Just wait a little longer, Lauren. His voice barely audible. Please. Sit down and hold my hand.
So there Lauren sits, holding Jimmy's hand. We can all see her. We can see Jimmy's beginning to drift inward and then suddenly, without warning, how his eyes snap wide and his gaze sharpen. He looks at upper corner of the room. We can see the surprised and radiant smile spreading across his face. This boy who's been immobile for days rises up and points. Look, he says to Lauren.
What? Lauren says.
Jimmy whispers something in her ear. He is a younger brother telling his older sister a secret. Family business.
He lies back down, the glow still lingering as he closes his eyes.
And in that hospital room, a stunned wonder beginning to break across Lauren's face…
'In the Easter service, at the church, Pastor Ed said, "I don't know what it was that Jimmy said or what he saw—"
Lauren had found her voice again. She spoke up. "I'll tell you. I'll have to break a little promise but I don't think Jimmy will mind. No, he won't mind at all. What he whispered to me was Look, Lauren, there's Jesus. You see him? He's waiting for me. But don't tell anybody or they'll think I'm crazy." Lauren laughs a little as she says this, and we smile with her. "And what did I see? To be honest, I didn't see anything except the ceiling. But I was looking with my eyes. And then something happened. It was like I was all of a sudden looking through Jimmy's eyes. And I saw what he did."
Lauren turned to face us. The hardness is still there, but we can see the softening, too, the way spring seeps into winter. "I don't know why or how it happened, but I know as truly as I know anything the true meaning of Easter, it's not any of this four spiritual laws born again crap, I'm sorry if that offends you but I don't want the theory, I want the truth, I know the truth, the truth is simple, the tomb is empty and Jesus is risen and my life is going to be change in ways I can't even begin to imagine. Jimmy's gone, and I've cried and I'll be crying lots more, but I tell you, the crying's gonna be different. It's going to be an Easter kind of crying. Thank you."
She sits down. There is a deep silent reaching to the seas and up to heaven and then Pastor Ed spreads his arms and says, "Christ is risen!"
And we say, triumphantly, "He is risen indeed."
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
Lately, I've been trying something different. I'm a storyteller—don't necessarily want to be, but that's what I am—so I'm thinking through issues of faith through the lens of this gift, or curse. It's the Easter season, and I'm writing a cycle of four stories. These aren't fully fleshed and polished stories, but more like sketches, driving to get down quickly what it is I'm getting a sense of. Here is the final story. Tough once to sketch, to get the heart without the saccharine.
EASTER SUNDAY
We gathered that bright Easter morning for what was supposed to be joyous ceremony. Instead, we were quiet and somber. Many of us were red-eyed from crying. Miriam sat restlessly at the piano, lifting her hands to the keyboard to play but then lowering them again, clearly at a loss at what to do, what hymn to play.
We were waiting for Pastor Ed, who was late. Finally he appeared at the side door, ushering before him a woman appeared from the passenger side. A stranger, salon-tinted hair, a dress suited for a cocktail party, and manicured nails you only saw in movies. He gestured for her to take a chair in the front row. She looked familiar, but we couldn't place her. Young, but a shellacked air to her, varnished by hard living. She ignored us, not out of contempt or disrespect, but because it was clear that she was in her own world at the moment, somewhere else.
Pastor Ed took the pulpit, decorated in lilies and other Easter flowers. He was rumpled, wearing the same suit he'd worn all night at the hospital. Shadows dug deep into his cheeks. We were expecting haggard eyes, grieving eyes, eyes of a warrior who fought the battle for a child and lost. But his gaze was vibrant, and his smile victorious.
"Christ has risen!" he exclaimed.
We were confused but we responded. "He is risen indeed."
"I'm sure you've all heard the sad news. Jimmy Wrightmore passed away last night. Ida and Steve have formalities to attend to but they ask me to pass on to you their greetings and their regrets they cannot be here to for this celebration of Easter."
He emphasized the phrase. Celebration of Easter.
"It does seem a paradox to be celebrating the Risen Christ when one of us has been so tragically taken from us, especially one so young and full of life. The first I knew of Jimmy Wrightmore was during the second week of my pastorate here. He was, what, six? He asked me if I could baptize his pet frog. I was inexperienced then, and explained why I could not, but the next Sunday, when I baptized Carole Kraft, the frog was in the baptismal." Pastor Ed looked around and spotted Carole's big head of red hair. "You remember that, Carole?"
"I sure do," she said. "He did it on purpose, too, the little rascal. He knew I hated frogs. Boy, did I ever screech and splash! I don't think anybody's been so thoroughly baptized like I was." She was laughing when she said this, and those of us who'd been there and seen the hysterics started laughing, too.
Ed Gagliadi stood up. He's a pharmacist. "I remember when Jimmy came into the store and bought all the hydrogen peroxide we had in stock. He said it was for a science experiment. An hour later I get a call from his dad. Jimmy's experiment was to see what would happen if he flushed all that hydrogen peroxide down the toilet. By what the plumber later told me, the result was quite spectacular."
More laughter rolled through the congregation. The blond woman shook her head and smiled.
Lisa Gardener raised her hand. She's fourteen, same age as Jimmy. "Last year, when the youth group went into the city to see Hamlet? These homeless people there at the theater plaza, asking for money? An old lady came up to Jimmy but he ignored her and then when we're in the foyer getting our snacks and Jimmy looks at his five dollar bill with like this totally stricken look and says he has to go out and find that old lady. I tried to get him to stay and at least watch the show first but you know Jimmy, he gets an idea in his head, that's it. So I go out with him and we go looking for the old lady but don't see her. There's lots of other homeless people and I'm like telling Jimmy, give the money to one of them, but no, it has to be that old lady. Nobody else. We finally did find her and give her the money and she just grumps at us. Not even a thanks. Aaaand we missed the show and I was so ticked off at Jimmy and he looks at me and gives me that smile, you know that grin he has? And he says, 'yeah, but admit it, that was more fun that some boring old play.' And you know what, it was fun."
There were more Jimmy stories. Then the blond woman stood. "I have a story, too. Actually, I have a lot of stories about Jimmy, because he was my kid brother."
You could have heard our eyelids blink. Why, this was Lauren, Lauren the Bad Girl, Lauren the Troublemaker, the Rebel, the Jezebel, the one arrested as a juvenile, the girl who broke her parents' heart, the one who vanished into the maws of Sin.
"I was already a teen when Jimmy was born," Lauren said, "and I didn't want anything to do with him. I wasn't going to be a babysitter or diaper changer or anything like that. I basically ignored him the whole time I was here. I left home, and did my thing, lived my life the way I wanted to live it, and when I thought of this town, it was to think I'll never ever go back there again.
"Then a year ago Jimmy tracked me down on FaceBook and said he'd like to be friends. I thought, what was the harm. We started chatting. Casual at first, and then one day Jimmy asked me advice about a girl he really liked, and you know what? Something clicked. I became his older sister. We chatted more and more on line. A few months he asked me to come visit. He said he'd love to see me. I wouldn't have minded that, but there was no way I was coming back here. There was no way I was going to talk to my parents ever again. I told him some of what I felt, and he said he understood. And he said he loved me."
Lauren paused to blink back tears. She coughed and continued: "I didn't know he was sick, how sick he was, until a few days, when a nurse had to type for him. She said I really should come and see him because I mightn't have another chance.
"I couldn't get away until yesterday morning. I went straight to the hospital. I didn't even say hello to my parents. Jimmy was all tethered up to those machines and he was still conscious and his eyes lit up when he saw me but you could tell right away that he was dying and all I could think about was all the years I didn't know him—" Lauren's voice held steady and strong to this point, but then it hit a wall. She didn't break down or stop sobbing, but you could see the emotions sweeping over her. She couldn't speak.
Pastor Ed gently said, "May I tell the rest of it?"
She nodded.
"A story like this," Pastor Ed said, "you'd think there should be grief, yes, of course that, but love and compassion and reconciliation. To be honest, there was none of that."
We listened as he told us how furious Lauren became—at her folks, at Pastor Ed, at the doctors, but most of all, at God. She was in a rage, cursing Him, the unfairness of it all, right there in the hospital room.
A spectacular fury, as well, eloquent and passionate and real.
Jimmy's reaction was curious. Pastor Ed didn't know whether it was the medication or his physical weakness or the knowledge you get when you're peering into the other side of life. But Jimmy calmly watched his sister, and with quiet gestures he told his parents and the doctors, it's okay, let her be, let her be. She finally quieted down and then said, I can't stay here, I can't watch this, Jimmy, I just can't.
Just wait a little longer, Lauren. His voice barely audible. Please. Sit down and hold my hand.
So there Lauren sits, holding Jimmy's hand. We can all see her. We can see Jimmy's beginning to drift inward and then suddenly, without warning, how his eyes snap wide and his gaze sharpen. He looks at upper corner of the room. We can see the surprised and radiant smile spreading across his face. This boy who's been immobile for days rises up and points. Look, he says to Lauren.
What? Lauren says.
Jimmy whispers something in her ear. He is a younger brother telling his older sister a secret. Family business.
He lies back down, the glow still lingering as he closes his eyes.
And in that hospital room, a stunned wonder beginning to break across Lauren's face…
'In the Easter service, at the church, Pastor Ed said, "I don't know what it was that Jimmy said or what he saw—"
Lauren had found her voice again. She spoke up. "I'll tell you. I'll have to break a little promise but I don't think Jimmy will mind. No, he won't mind at all. What he whispered to me was Look, Lauren, there's Jesus. You see him? He's waiting for me. But don't tell anybody or they'll think I'm crazy." Lauren laughs a little as she says this, and we smile with her. "And what did I see? To be honest, I didn't see anything except the ceiling. But I was looking with my eyes. And then something happened. It was like I was all of a sudden looking through Jimmy's eyes. And I saw what he did."
Lauren turned to face us. The hardness is still there, but we can see the softening, too, the way spring seeps into winter. "I don't know why or how it happened, but I know as truly as I know anything the true meaning of Easter, it's not any of this four spiritual laws born again crap, I'm sorry if that offends you but I don't want the theory, I want the truth, I know the truth, the truth is simple, the tomb is empty and Jesus is risen and my life is going to be change in ways I can't even begin to imagine. Jimmy's gone, and I've cried and I'll be crying lots more, but I tell you, the crying's gonna be different. It's going to be an Easter kind of crying. Thank you."
She sits down. There is a deep silent reaching to the seas and up to heaven and then Pastor Ed spreads his arms and says, "Christ is risen!"
And we say, triumphantly, "He is risen indeed."
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
April 10, 2009
FOUR EASTER STORIES -- GOOD FRIDAY
As the son of American missionaries in the 1960s, who went to Christian boarding school, I grew up with devotions, church, Bible study, youth groups as a big part of my family and social life. I had a hard time with Bible studies because I a) I never really liked being told what to I had to believe and b) I was the type who could point out possible different interpretations and possibilities of logic and drive the study leader crazy. (Being polite I rarely did this).
Lately, I've been trying something different. I'm a storyteller—don't necessarily want to be, but that's what I am—so I'm thinking through issues of faith through the lens of this gift, or curse. It's the Easter season, and I'm writing a cycle of four stories. These aren't fully fleshed and polished stories, but more like sketches, driving to get down quickly what it is I'm getting a sense of. Here is story three, based on Good Friday. The final one will be in the next post.
FOUR EASTER STORIES
GOOD FRIDAY
Fridays at seven we meet in an empty basement store at the West Wood stripmall. The owner lets us use it for free. One of his kids is the program out east. We're the usual mixed bag, living best we can on the suburb edges of the city. There's Shirley in the same house dress she'd been watching TV soaps all afternoon. Ted, straight from the garage. Moses and Manny, brothers who make a living as handymen, no job too small, a lot of jobs too big. Shivelle and her baby—she runs a home salon and does okay.
Other regulars and some irregulars plus strangers who wander in for meeting, having seen the sign or an ad.
And then there was Mr. Upscale. I didn't know his name, not until the last week, because he never introduced himself, but that's how he was dressed. Fancy clothes, the kind that get chauffeured and not rumpled in the subway. Shoes shined to an inch of glory.
The first week he drove in an old rusty Corolla. I know because I saw it. I was a bit late myself. I knew he was there for the meeting, but when he stepped out of the car I was surprised. It was the clothes. He should have been driving something fancy.
I saw him pause on the stairs and square his shoulders. Like he was making a big decision. His first meeting. Like he was finally squaring up to the demon. We've all been through it. I gave him a pat on the back. He whirled around like I was gonna assault him for his wallet.
"We don't hurry up there ain't gonna be seats left," I said giving him a wink.
That meeting he didn't introduce himself. Sitting in the back row, twitchy, like the folding metal chair wasn't up to his standard of plush seating. But quiet and respectful and attentive. Didn't say a word. Looked at all of us like we hold the secret. Which we don't. It ain't any secret. What it is, we need help. We can't do it ourselves.
When he left he dropped a buck in the basket for coffee he didn't drink.
Second meeting, he walked. Same upscale clothes. Like he was going to church. This time the speaker asks if he has anything to say, and he says, "No, thank you."
The fourth meeting, I finally thought he was gonna break. He had that haggard look. Clothes looked baggy on him. I seen it on some people who think they can do it themselves. They trying cold turkey, thinking they can do it themselves. Their pride good enough. But he leaves in a hurry.
Fifth week, he's still in the same clothes, but he's unshaven and a whole world of worry has cracked his face. This time he stands.
"I'm Nick," he says. "I am not an alcoholic. This is not denial and it's not to say anything about you people except I'm here because you know something important about life that others don't. Just over a year ago I was a highly paid executive at a company. I lived in a very nice home in an exclusive gate community. I and my family—wife and two boys—went to a church more like a cathedral. Then the economy went bust. I was fired. My savings vanished, an operation for one of my boys. We lost the house. We rented. We kept scaling down. Down down down. We're now living in motel out on President."
President. Those roach motels, where the illegals live, the migrants on welfare.
He paused and looked around at us. "You're thinking maybe why I come to these meetings. I've always believed there's a God. Always went to church. This past month, this cellar has been my church, this seven o'clock meeting has been my holy service. You all believe, in one or another. That's why you're here. My old church, they'd spit at me, I think. I lost them a lot of money.
"It's Easter weekend. Friday, today. A lot of folks call it Good Friday. Why Good? Because Sunday is coming. But let me tell you something. When Jesus was on the cross, crying in agony of spirit my god my god why have you forsaken me? what was good about it? It was a black Friday for him. Heaven sealed, the world closed up like a fist against him. We forget that. We know the end of the story. We say, well, Sunday morning, the tomb is empty. Jesus didn't know that. His world was black and dark and breaking him."
Another pause. Nobody said anything. I've never heard it so quiet in there.
Nick gripped the back of the chair in front of him. "It's Friday for me, people. Day after tomorrow, Sunday, is my youngest son's birthday. He's going to be twelve. I promised him that before his birthday we will be moving out of the motel back to home. Any place that's a home. But it isn't going to happen. Tomorrow we're being evicted. I haven't told him. I don't know where we're going. I don't know what we're going to do." He dropped his hands. What he said next, he said quietly, but I still hear the words like it was yesterday. I'll never forget them.
"It's Friday," Nick said. "Jesus is dead on the cross, God is silent, and Sunday is not coming. Thank you for letting me share."
He dropped a buck in the basket for the coffee he didn't drink and disappeared out the door.
That next day I went to the motels, looking for him. I didn't know what I could do, but I went anyway.
"Already gone," the manager of the Eden said. "Couple hours ago, on the bus. Don't know where." He shook his head and sighed. "Damn shame. Good decent people, I let them have a week free but I ain't running a charity."
After that, I kept my eyes open on the trains, around the city, but I never saw Nick again.
But I think a lot about him. Especially Easter time. A lot of us have our black Fridays when God is no longer there. But we always think, not to worry, Sunday's coming. I hope that Sunday came for Nick and his family. But I don't know. I can't be sure. It's not a guarantee. We like happy endings, but that don't mean we get to have them.
I don't tell anybody this, but I think that sometimes for some people, decent people too, Friday is forever, there is no Sunday coming, that heaven is sealed and the world is closed up like a fist against them.
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
Lately, I've been trying something different. I'm a storyteller—don't necessarily want to be, but that's what I am—so I'm thinking through issues of faith through the lens of this gift, or curse. It's the Easter season, and I'm writing a cycle of four stories. These aren't fully fleshed and polished stories, but more like sketches, driving to get down quickly what it is I'm getting a sense of. Here is story three, based on Good Friday. The final one will be in the next post.
FOUR EASTER STORIES
GOOD FRIDAY
Fridays at seven we meet in an empty basement store at the West Wood stripmall. The owner lets us use it for free. One of his kids is the program out east. We're the usual mixed bag, living best we can on the suburb edges of the city. There's Shirley in the same house dress she'd been watching TV soaps all afternoon. Ted, straight from the garage. Moses and Manny, brothers who make a living as handymen, no job too small, a lot of jobs too big. Shivelle and her baby—she runs a home salon and does okay.
Other regulars and some irregulars plus strangers who wander in for meeting, having seen the sign or an ad.
And then there was Mr. Upscale. I didn't know his name, not until the last week, because he never introduced himself, but that's how he was dressed. Fancy clothes, the kind that get chauffeured and not rumpled in the subway. Shoes shined to an inch of glory.
The first week he drove in an old rusty Corolla. I know because I saw it. I was a bit late myself. I knew he was there for the meeting, but when he stepped out of the car I was surprised. It was the clothes. He should have been driving something fancy.
I saw him pause on the stairs and square his shoulders. Like he was making a big decision. His first meeting. Like he was finally squaring up to the demon. We've all been through it. I gave him a pat on the back. He whirled around like I was gonna assault him for his wallet.
"We don't hurry up there ain't gonna be seats left," I said giving him a wink.
That meeting he didn't introduce himself. Sitting in the back row, twitchy, like the folding metal chair wasn't up to his standard of plush seating. But quiet and respectful and attentive. Didn't say a word. Looked at all of us like we hold the secret. Which we don't. It ain't any secret. What it is, we need help. We can't do it ourselves.
When he left he dropped a buck in the basket for coffee he didn't drink.
Second meeting, he walked. Same upscale clothes. Like he was going to church. This time the speaker asks if he has anything to say, and he says, "No, thank you."
The fourth meeting, I finally thought he was gonna break. He had that haggard look. Clothes looked baggy on him. I seen it on some people who think they can do it themselves. They trying cold turkey, thinking they can do it themselves. Their pride good enough. But he leaves in a hurry.
Fifth week, he's still in the same clothes, but he's unshaven and a whole world of worry has cracked his face. This time he stands.
"I'm Nick," he says. "I am not an alcoholic. This is not denial and it's not to say anything about you people except I'm here because you know something important about life that others don't. Just over a year ago I was a highly paid executive at a company. I lived in a very nice home in an exclusive gate community. I and my family—wife and two boys—went to a church more like a cathedral. Then the economy went bust. I was fired. My savings vanished, an operation for one of my boys. We lost the house. We rented. We kept scaling down. Down down down. We're now living in motel out on President."
President. Those roach motels, where the illegals live, the migrants on welfare.
He paused and looked around at us. "You're thinking maybe why I come to these meetings. I've always believed there's a God. Always went to church. This past month, this cellar has been my church, this seven o'clock meeting has been my holy service. You all believe, in one or another. That's why you're here. My old church, they'd spit at me, I think. I lost them a lot of money.
"It's Easter weekend. Friday, today. A lot of folks call it Good Friday. Why Good? Because Sunday is coming. But let me tell you something. When Jesus was on the cross, crying in agony of spirit my god my god why have you forsaken me? what was good about it? It was a black Friday for him. Heaven sealed, the world closed up like a fist against him. We forget that. We know the end of the story. We say, well, Sunday morning, the tomb is empty. Jesus didn't know that. His world was black and dark and breaking him."
Another pause. Nobody said anything. I've never heard it so quiet in there.
Nick gripped the back of the chair in front of him. "It's Friday for me, people. Day after tomorrow, Sunday, is my youngest son's birthday. He's going to be twelve. I promised him that before his birthday we will be moving out of the motel back to home. Any place that's a home. But it isn't going to happen. Tomorrow we're being evicted. I haven't told him. I don't know where we're going. I don't know what we're going to do." He dropped his hands. What he said next, he said quietly, but I still hear the words like it was yesterday. I'll never forget them.
"It's Friday," Nick said. "Jesus is dead on the cross, God is silent, and Sunday is not coming. Thank you for letting me share."
He dropped a buck in the basket for the coffee he didn't drink and disappeared out the door.
That next day I went to the motels, looking for him. I didn't know what I could do, but I went anyway.
"Already gone," the manager of the Eden said. "Couple hours ago, on the bus. Don't know where." He shook his head and sighed. "Damn shame. Good decent people, I let them have a week free but I ain't running a charity."
After that, I kept my eyes open on the trains, around the city, but I never saw Nick again.
But I think a lot about him. Especially Easter time. A lot of us have our black Fridays when God is no longer there. But we always think, not to worry, Sunday's coming. I hope that Sunday came for Nick and his family. But I don't know. I can't be sure. It's not a guarantee. We like happy endings, but that don't mean we get to have them.
I don't tell anybody this, but I think that sometimes for some people, decent people too, Friday is forever, there is no Sunday coming, that heaven is sealed and the world is closed up like a fist against them.
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
April 7, 2009
PALM SUNDAY -- HOMECOMING
As the son of American missionaries in the 1960s, who went to Christian boarding school, I grew up with devotions, church, Bible study, youth groups as a big part of my family and social life. I had a hard time with Bible studies because I a) I never really liked being told what to I had to believe and b) I was the type who could point out possible different interpretations and possibilities of logic and drive the study leader crazy. (Being polite I rarely did this).
Lately, I've been trying something different. I'm a storyteller—don't necessarily want to be, but that's what I am—so I'm thinking through issues of faith through the lens of this gift, or curse. It's the Easter season, and I'm writing a cycle of four stories. These aren't fully fleshed and polished stories, but more like sketches, driving to get down quickly what it is I'm getting a sense of. Here is story two, based on Palm Sunday, the account Jesus's triumphal entry into Jerusalem. The others will follow in other posts.
FOUR EASTER STORIES
PALM SUNDAY – HOMECOMING
After months of captivity, he was heading home. A police escort. Banners draped across the gate, friends crowded and cheering, a heavy sprinkling blossoms. His best friend Andy, as close as a brother, hugged him. But he wanted his family. His son and daughter squeezed out from among the crowd. He gathered them up in his arms, holding them tight. Not once out there did he cry, but now he did. The tears fell away from him as home soaked into his bones. The healing was beginning.
"Where's your mother?" he asked his son.
"You know Mom, she's inside, making sure everything is ready."
He put his daughter on his shoulders and carried her down the driveway. Laughing friends followed, with Andy right behind.
As he entered the living room, his wife stepped out of the kitchen, her hand brushing hair off her forehead. How beautiful she looked! His heart sang praises. Oh, the joys of homecoming!
"I'm making your favorite meal," she said.
He lowered his daughter and opened his arms to his wife. "I could eat oatmeal, to be honest. All I want is just to be with you and the kids."
She stepped into his arms. But as she did so, he caught her flicking a glance to the side. At Andy. An unreadable expression on her face, one that Andy returned. Then she smiled at her husband, and her eyes misted.
"Oh, honey," she said. "You're home."
But he knew then. He knew with awful and terrible clarity that he was back in the place that had once been home, but home was no longer there.
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
Lately, I've been trying something different. I'm a storyteller—don't necessarily want to be, but that's what I am—so I'm thinking through issues of faith through the lens of this gift, or curse. It's the Easter season, and I'm writing a cycle of four stories. These aren't fully fleshed and polished stories, but more like sketches, driving to get down quickly what it is I'm getting a sense of. Here is story two, based on Palm Sunday, the account Jesus's triumphal entry into Jerusalem. The others will follow in other posts.
FOUR EASTER STORIES
PALM SUNDAY – HOMECOMING
After months of captivity, he was heading home. A police escort. Banners draped across the gate, friends crowded and cheering, a heavy sprinkling blossoms. His best friend Andy, as close as a brother, hugged him. But he wanted his family. His son and daughter squeezed out from among the crowd. He gathered them up in his arms, holding them tight. Not once out there did he cry, but now he did. The tears fell away from him as home soaked into his bones. The healing was beginning.
"Where's your mother?" he asked his son.
"You know Mom, she's inside, making sure everything is ready."
He put his daughter on his shoulders and carried her down the driveway. Laughing friends followed, with Andy right behind.
As he entered the living room, his wife stepped out of the kitchen, her hand brushing hair off her forehead. How beautiful she looked! His heart sang praises. Oh, the joys of homecoming!
"I'm making your favorite meal," she said.
He lowered his daughter and opened his arms to his wife. "I could eat oatmeal, to be honest. All I want is just to be with you and the kids."
She stepped into his arms. But as she did so, he caught her flicking a glance to the side. At Andy. An unreadable expression on her face, one that Andy returned. Then she smiled at her husband, and her eyes misted.
"Oh, honey," she said. "You're home."
But he knew then. He knew with awful and terrible clarity that he was back in the place that had once been home, but home was no longer there.
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
April 6, 2009
FOUR EASTER STORIES -- LENT
As the son of American missionaries in the 1960s, who went to Christian boarding school, I grew up with devotions, church, Bible study, youth groups as a big part of my family and social life. I had a hard time with Bible studies because I a) I never really liked being told what to I had to believe and b) I was the type who could point out possible different interpretations and possibilities of logic and drive the study leader crazy.
Lately, I've been trying something different. I'm a storyteller—don't necessarily want to be, but that's what I am—so I'm thinking through issues of faith through the lens of this gift, or curse. It's the Easter season, and I'm writing a cycle of four stories. These aren't fully fleshed and polished stories, but more like sketches, driving to get down quickly what it is I'm getting a sense of. Here is story one. The others will follow in other posts.
FOUR EASTER STORIES
LENT
Our Aunt Betsy was the only Catholic, let alone the only nun, in our Baptist family. That was already scandal enough, but on top of that she also drank wine. When she visited us every year, our mom had to drive clear over to the next county where people wouldn't recognize her to buy the bottle. When our dad became a church deacon, he took over the chore. He would wait until late Friday morning, when the old biddies of the church did their shopping at the Wal-Mart. The old biddies were bosomy front pew stalwarts and prayer warrior gossips. They could start with an innocent public hug in the park and by the time they were done with it and the phone lines all heated up, you'd think the spirit of licentiousness had taken over the town. At the checkout, my dad would slip in front of with the bottle of wine. He'd say a gracious hello and they'd say a gracious hello back but with their eyeballs glued on the bottle.
By Saturday morning, they would have plumbed turned our dad into a drunken sot, and he a deacon to boot!
But everybody else knew the wine was for Aunt Betsy. She wasn't one of those pious nuns with an invisible halo around her head. It wasn't like we had to walk around on tip-toe and watch we said. She liked to drink two glasses of wine at dinner and then play Twister with us. Playing Twister with a nun in her robes sounds about as weird as it gets, but not with Aunt Betsy. She played to win, too. She would also pray for everybody's pets, and so when word got around she was at our place, our front porch soon filled up with neighborhood kids and their dogs and cats and birds and gerbils and piglets.
The visit I remember most was when me and my twin Emma were fifteen. Our younger brother Andy was nine. When my mom brought out the bottle of wine, Aunt Betsy said thanks, but no thanks.
"I'm sorry, I should have told you," she said. "I've given up wine for Lent."
"Who's Lent?" Andy asked.
"It's not a who. It's a remembrance. We prepare for Easter by giving up to God something we enjoy. We sacrifice a little for a short while to remember His greater sacrifice. Andy, if you wanted to give something up for God, what would it be?"
My mother and father glanced at each other. We loved Aunt Betsy, but to good Baptists a Catholic ritual was just a step away from pagan superstitions.
"For how long?" Andy asked suspiciously.
"Forty days is the usual."
Andy frowned in thought. "I think I could give up give up brushing my teeth."
"I don't think that's what Aunt Betsy means," my mother said.
"What about you, Emma?" Aunt Betsy asked my twin sister.
"Me? Forty days? It'd be hard, but I guess it'd be sex."
My dad choked on his iced tea. My mother let the potato dish clatter. "Emma!" she gasped.
Emma's freckles twinkled with her grin. "Gotcha! Just kidding."
My dad felt his chest. "Thank God. My heart's started again. Always a joker in our family."
Aunt Betsy pointed her fork at me. "What about you, Eddy?"
"I'm an atheist," I said. "I don't have to give up anything."
"Oh, my. An atheist? What brought this about?"
"Adolescence," my dad said. "Whatever I am, Eddy isn't about to be."
I glared at him. "Don't trivialize it." I said to Aunt Betsy, "It was just one day about six months ago I watched the news and it fell into my head that things make more sense if there's no God." This was true. I was being completely serious.
"But you still go to church," Aunt Betsy said.
"That's Mom," I said. "It's extortion. It's hypocritical to make me go to church for my allowance."
My mom poured me pour tea. "Whatever works. You don't have to believe in God, but God believes in you."
Like I hadn't heard that a million ties before.
"If you were a real atheist," Emma said, "you wouldn't give up something, you'd pick up a new bad habit, like smoking."
I kicked her under the table. She knew that I was sneaking out to the back woods with Peter and George to puff on cigarettes Peter stole from his dad.
The rest of the meal Emma became thoughtful and quiet. This was typical of her. Sometimes she drifted away into her own world. But I wasn't expecting what she said as Mom dished out the Oreo pie dessert.
"Okay, I'll give up something for Lent," she announced.
"Cheddar cheese popcorn?" I said. That was her one big bad habit. Mom was always yelling at her for spilling kernels everywhere in her bedroom and on the sofa.
"Too easy," she said. "I'll give up my computer."
I laughed, shaking my head. That was too impossible. Back then, computers were already everywhere, and the Internet and IM had hit our small town in a big way. Emma would be awake all hours of the night on her Apple, munching on popcorn and getting her keyboard greasy as she chatted with friends.
"For forty days?" I mocked. "You wouldn't last four hours."
"I will. I'll give it up for Lent."
Aunt Betsy reached out and patted her hand. "You'll be blessed beyond knowing."
"If she breaks it, is she cursed?" I asked. "Because she just won't be able to do it."
Emma gave me look. "I'll make you a bet I can."
Dad cleared his throat. "I think making a bet is against the spirit of what Lent is."
But I was curious. "What kind of bet?"
"If I give up my computer for 40 days, then it will be a miracle and you'll have to believe in God and can't be an atheist anymore."
"Sure," I said, and we hooked our pinkies over the last slice of Oreo pie. I didn't even have to think this over. No way she could do it. Emma would break down, and I could tease her for years about it. Years of teasing material was irresistible. Even if she did do it, I could always cheat on my promise. That was the great thing about being an atheist. You could get away with it without your conscience bothering you.
She started her vow that night. I disconnected and put her Apple in my room just to be sure. She kept her vow for one day, two days, three. She wrote school essays in longhand. By day four her friends were asking her why she was on IM anymore. The word got around school. Her friends declared her weird. She didn't seem to care. The time she used to spend on the computer she spent her time reading. Not the Bible and devotional magazines we had around the house, but tabloids and People magazine and teen novels with sexy cheerleader squabbles. It wasn't like she was getting more spiritual or anything. She watched more TV, too, until I lodged a protest.
"TVs work because of computers," I said, "so you're technically cheating."
"Then I'll stop watching TV," she said, and she did.
By twenty days I was starting to get worried. I tried to sabotage her by moving the Apple back into her room and logging on for her after school. She turned it off. I got a couple of the cutest guys in school to give her their IM addresses. Whatever I could think of.
Easter week, her friends had decided she wasn't weird after all but really cool. They started talking to her in private about family problems they never talked about with each other. Stan Thayerdahl asked her to a dance, breaking the heart of a few dozen girls. Our dad said sure, she could go, and gave her fifty dollars to buy a dress. It was my mom who threw a fit. This was a switch. When we were twelve, my dad taught me how to hit a curve ball, and our mom taught Emma how to use make-up. Dad didn't like that at all. Now he was saying Emma could get all prettied up to go to a dance and it was Mom who fretted.
Parents. What can you do?
By this time, I knew Emma was going to fulfill her vow. She was going to make those forty days. I knew was doomed. I would have to figure a way out of my promise without having Emma all over my back about cheating. I didn't mind the cheating, but Emma would be a real nagging pain about it. She would be worse than a conscience.
Aunt Betsy had said that Emma's vow would be over after the Easter Sunday service. We all went for the sunrise service and had the church brunch and then went home.
I followed Emma into her bedroom. We sat on her bed and stared at her blank Apple..
"I won the bet," she said.
"Because you're stubborn," I said. "That's all it was. You didn't really do it for God."
She sat hunched, her hands clasped in the skirt of her Sunday dress. "You're right, I guess I didn't," she said. "And even though you promised to believe in God if I won, nobody can make you."
She sounded so sad. I wanted her to feel better. "Well, I was baptized same day as you. Nobody can un-baptize me."
She clasped her hands to her face and began crying. I was shocked and alarmed. Emma, crying? Sobbing? She lowered her hands. "Oh, Eddy, I don't want you to go to hell."
I stared at her. What on earth? Then I began to laugh. "That's certainly thinking way into the future. And there isn't any hell anyways."
I was still laughing. She scowled through my tears and hit my shoulder, hard. "Maybe not, but there is a heaven, I know there is, and that's where I'm going to be and you're not. You're my twin. I don't want us to be apart, ever. Don't you see? That's why I made the vow. It wasn't for me. It was for you."
This silenced me. I didn't know what to say. So I gave her an awkward hug and left the room.
We never talked about it again. But what she said, what she did, stayed with me. That was the crack in the wall. In college I kept building the wall higher and thicker, but the crack was always there. And then one day the wall just let go and God came flooding in. That's another story, though.
Aunt Betsy still comes visiting every year. Her bones can't handle Twister any more, but she plays a mean Wii. I'm a first year graduate student in university, studying math. Emma dropped out of college to start up her own computer company. I guess that was to make up for those forty days. She's a good Baptist, but she still observes Lent. These days, though, it's Cheddar cheese popcorn.
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
Lately, I've been trying something different. I'm a storyteller—don't necessarily want to be, but that's what I am—so I'm thinking through issues of faith through the lens of this gift, or curse. It's the Easter season, and I'm writing a cycle of four stories. These aren't fully fleshed and polished stories, but more like sketches, driving to get down quickly what it is I'm getting a sense of. Here is story one. The others will follow in other posts.
FOUR EASTER STORIES
LENT
Our Aunt Betsy was the only Catholic, let alone the only nun, in our Baptist family. That was already scandal enough, but on top of that she also drank wine. When she visited us every year, our mom had to drive clear over to the next county where people wouldn't recognize her to buy the bottle. When our dad became a church deacon, he took over the chore. He would wait until late Friday morning, when the old biddies of the church did their shopping at the Wal-Mart. The old biddies were bosomy front pew stalwarts and prayer warrior gossips. They could start with an innocent public hug in the park and by the time they were done with it and the phone lines all heated up, you'd think the spirit of licentiousness had taken over the town. At the checkout, my dad would slip in front of with the bottle of wine. He'd say a gracious hello and they'd say a gracious hello back but with their eyeballs glued on the bottle.
By Saturday morning, they would have plumbed turned our dad into a drunken sot, and he a deacon to boot!
But everybody else knew the wine was for Aunt Betsy. She wasn't one of those pious nuns with an invisible halo around her head. It wasn't like we had to walk around on tip-toe and watch we said. She liked to drink two glasses of wine at dinner and then play Twister with us. Playing Twister with a nun in her robes sounds about as weird as it gets, but not with Aunt Betsy. She played to win, too. She would also pray for everybody's pets, and so when word got around she was at our place, our front porch soon filled up with neighborhood kids and their dogs and cats and birds and gerbils and piglets.
The visit I remember most was when me and my twin Emma were fifteen. Our younger brother Andy was nine. When my mom brought out the bottle of wine, Aunt Betsy said thanks, but no thanks.
"I'm sorry, I should have told you," she said. "I've given up wine for Lent."
"Who's Lent?" Andy asked.
"It's not a who. It's a remembrance. We prepare for Easter by giving up to God something we enjoy. We sacrifice a little for a short while to remember His greater sacrifice. Andy, if you wanted to give something up for God, what would it be?"
My mother and father glanced at each other. We loved Aunt Betsy, but to good Baptists a Catholic ritual was just a step away from pagan superstitions.
"For how long?" Andy asked suspiciously.
"Forty days is the usual."
Andy frowned in thought. "I think I could give up give up brushing my teeth."
"I don't think that's what Aunt Betsy means," my mother said.
"What about you, Emma?" Aunt Betsy asked my twin sister.
"Me? Forty days? It'd be hard, but I guess it'd be sex."
My dad choked on his iced tea. My mother let the potato dish clatter. "Emma!" she gasped.
Emma's freckles twinkled with her grin. "Gotcha! Just kidding."
My dad felt his chest. "Thank God. My heart's started again. Always a joker in our family."
Aunt Betsy pointed her fork at me. "What about you, Eddy?"
"I'm an atheist," I said. "I don't have to give up anything."
"Oh, my. An atheist? What brought this about?"
"Adolescence," my dad said. "Whatever I am, Eddy isn't about to be."
I glared at him. "Don't trivialize it." I said to Aunt Betsy, "It was just one day about six months ago I watched the news and it fell into my head that things make more sense if there's no God." This was true. I was being completely serious.
"But you still go to church," Aunt Betsy said.
"That's Mom," I said. "It's extortion. It's hypocritical to make me go to church for my allowance."
My mom poured me pour tea. "Whatever works. You don't have to believe in God, but God believes in you."
Like I hadn't heard that a million ties before.
"If you were a real atheist," Emma said, "you wouldn't give up something, you'd pick up a new bad habit, like smoking."
I kicked her under the table. She knew that I was sneaking out to the back woods with Peter and George to puff on cigarettes Peter stole from his dad.
The rest of the meal Emma became thoughtful and quiet. This was typical of her. Sometimes she drifted away into her own world. But I wasn't expecting what she said as Mom dished out the Oreo pie dessert.
"Okay, I'll give up something for Lent," she announced.
"Cheddar cheese popcorn?" I said. That was her one big bad habit. Mom was always yelling at her for spilling kernels everywhere in her bedroom and on the sofa.
"Too easy," she said. "I'll give up my computer."
I laughed, shaking my head. That was too impossible. Back then, computers were already everywhere, and the Internet and IM had hit our small town in a big way. Emma would be awake all hours of the night on her Apple, munching on popcorn and getting her keyboard greasy as she chatted with friends.
"For forty days?" I mocked. "You wouldn't last four hours."
"I will. I'll give it up for Lent."
Aunt Betsy reached out and patted her hand. "You'll be blessed beyond knowing."
"If she breaks it, is she cursed?" I asked. "Because she just won't be able to do it."
Emma gave me look. "I'll make you a bet I can."
Dad cleared his throat. "I think making a bet is against the spirit of what Lent is."
But I was curious. "What kind of bet?"
"If I give up my computer for 40 days, then it will be a miracle and you'll have to believe in God and can't be an atheist anymore."
"Sure," I said, and we hooked our pinkies over the last slice of Oreo pie. I didn't even have to think this over. No way she could do it. Emma would break down, and I could tease her for years about it. Years of teasing material was irresistible. Even if she did do it, I could always cheat on my promise. That was the great thing about being an atheist. You could get away with it without your conscience bothering you.
She started her vow that night. I disconnected and put her Apple in my room just to be sure. She kept her vow for one day, two days, three. She wrote school essays in longhand. By day four her friends were asking her why she was on IM anymore. The word got around school. Her friends declared her weird. She didn't seem to care. The time she used to spend on the computer she spent her time reading. Not the Bible and devotional magazines we had around the house, but tabloids and People magazine and teen novels with sexy cheerleader squabbles. It wasn't like she was getting more spiritual or anything. She watched more TV, too, until I lodged a protest.
"TVs work because of computers," I said, "so you're technically cheating."
"Then I'll stop watching TV," she said, and she did.
By twenty days I was starting to get worried. I tried to sabotage her by moving the Apple back into her room and logging on for her after school. She turned it off. I got a couple of the cutest guys in school to give her their IM addresses. Whatever I could think of.
Easter week, her friends had decided she wasn't weird after all but really cool. They started talking to her in private about family problems they never talked about with each other. Stan Thayerdahl asked her to a dance, breaking the heart of a few dozen girls. Our dad said sure, she could go, and gave her fifty dollars to buy a dress. It was my mom who threw a fit. This was a switch. When we were twelve, my dad taught me how to hit a curve ball, and our mom taught Emma how to use make-up. Dad didn't like that at all. Now he was saying Emma could get all prettied up to go to a dance and it was Mom who fretted.
Parents. What can you do?
By this time, I knew Emma was going to fulfill her vow. She was going to make those forty days. I knew was doomed. I would have to figure a way out of my promise without having Emma all over my back about cheating. I didn't mind the cheating, but Emma would be a real nagging pain about it. She would be worse than a conscience.
Aunt Betsy had said that Emma's vow would be over after the Easter Sunday service. We all went for the sunrise service and had the church brunch and then went home.
I followed Emma into her bedroom. We sat on her bed and stared at her blank Apple..
"I won the bet," she said.
"Because you're stubborn," I said. "That's all it was. You didn't really do it for God."
She sat hunched, her hands clasped in the skirt of her Sunday dress. "You're right, I guess I didn't," she said. "And even though you promised to believe in God if I won, nobody can make you."
She sounded so sad. I wanted her to feel better. "Well, I was baptized same day as you. Nobody can un-baptize me."
She clasped her hands to her face and began crying. I was shocked and alarmed. Emma, crying? Sobbing? She lowered her hands. "Oh, Eddy, I don't want you to go to hell."
I stared at her. What on earth? Then I began to laugh. "That's certainly thinking way into the future. And there isn't any hell anyways."
I was still laughing. She scowled through my tears and hit my shoulder, hard. "Maybe not, but there is a heaven, I know there is, and that's where I'm going to be and you're not. You're my twin. I don't want us to be apart, ever. Don't you see? That's why I made the vow. It wasn't for me. It was for you."
This silenced me. I didn't know what to say. So I gave her an awkward hug and left the room.
We never talked about it again. But what she said, what she did, stayed with me. That was the crack in the wall. In college I kept building the wall higher and thicker, but the crack was always there. And then one day the wall just let go and God came flooding in. That's another story, though.
Aunt Betsy still comes visiting every year. Her bones can't handle Twister any more, but she plays a mean Wii. I'm a first year graduate student in university, studying math. Emma dropped out of college to start up her own computer company. I guess that was to make up for those forty days. She's a good Baptist, but she still observes Lent. These days, though, it's Cheddar cheese popcorn.
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
April 2, 2009
An Island at Rest, Animals Bewildered
Seven am on March 26, and there's something horribly wrong here on the island of Bali. There's the melody of morning songbirds—several different songs that make me wish I knew the difference between a ricepaddy sparrow and a chucklebird—and they sound unusually happy. Ecstatic. There's the droning of bees, a slight rustle of wind, but something's wrong---where's the sound of people? That's it, that's what's wrong, try as I might I don't hear the distant drone of traffic, the crackle of radio, the kid across the lane who thinks he's a great singer has shut up for once. No crying babies. No scooters putt-putting down the lane. I peek out the gate. The lane is deserted, no villager sweeping up leaves, no matron dumping plastic in the irrigation stream.
Good God. Everybody's disappeared. The Rapture has happened! The Balinese have been taken, I've been left behind, and THEY AREN'T EVEN CHRISTIAN! MUCH LESS EVANGELICAL CHRISTIANS!
Oh, wait. It's Nyepi. That's a Holy Day. The word means quiet, silence and the day is exactly that, a day of silence, when evil is cleansed from the island. The day falls sometime in March, and marks the end of the rainy season, which is the season of illness, when the Fanged Lord and his minions stalk the land.
On Nyepi, everybody stays indoors. Lights are not supposed to be on, or at least should not be visible from outside. Nobody is allowed out of their homes. No traffic, no business, nothing. Even the airport is shut. I am pretty sure that the island's creatures experience a little bit of dissonance. What, says the songbird, no boy armed with air rifle? What, says the cobra, I can brazenly cross this path? What, says the dog, nobody around to beg food from?
Balinese are supposed to meditate and contemplate. I'm sure many are just sleeping.
Hotel guests are not allowed off properties, their windows are taped with black light.
The silence truly is remarkable. In years past, you used to be able to go and wander around, stroll along the beach, and if a surfer paddle out for a session all to yourself in empty waves, but the Balinese have become far stricter. It's a way of letting all the arrivistes and villa builders and business people and powerful Jakarta overlords and arrogant Westerners know this is still their island.
This poor overdeveloped overstrained island gets a breather. It's a concept that should be applied world wide. For one day a year, people just leaving the earth alone.
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
Good God. Everybody's disappeared. The Rapture has happened! The Balinese have been taken, I've been left behind, and THEY AREN'T EVEN CHRISTIAN! MUCH LESS EVANGELICAL CHRISTIANS!
Oh, wait. It's Nyepi. That's a Holy Day. The word means quiet, silence and the day is exactly that, a day of silence, when evil is cleansed from the island. The day falls sometime in March, and marks the end of the rainy season, which is the season of illness, when the Fanged Lord and his minions stalk the land.
On Nyepi, everybody stays indoors. Lights are not supposed to be on, or at least should not be visible from outside. Nobody is allowed out of their homes. No traffic, no business, nothing. Even the airport is shut. I am pretty sure that the island's creatures experience a little bit of dissonance. What, says the songbird, no boy armed with air rifle? What, says the cobra, I can brazenly cross this path? What, says the dog, nobody around to beg food from?
Balinese are supposed to meditate and contemplate. I'm sure many are just sleeping.
Hotel guests are not allowed off properties, their windows are taped with black light.
The silence truly is remarkable. In years past, you used to be able to go and wander around, stroll along the beach, and if a surfer paddle out for a session all to yourself in empty waves, but the Balinese have become far stricter. It's a way of letting all the arrivistes and villa builders and business people and powerful Jakarta overlords and arrogant Westerners know this is still their island.
This poor overdeveloped overstrained island gets a breather. It's a concept that should be applied world wide. For one day a year, people just leaving the earth alone.
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
TWITTER versions of four famous novels
In case you don’t know, Twitter is this new icon of our technological age wherein we can tell the whole world, in 140 characters, what we are doing at any instant.
All religions have their Anti-Figure (the most famous example being the Anti-Christ). Twitter is the antithesis of Zen. I mean, instead of enjoying the Zen moment of a subway ride, you decide to twitchily Twitter to the world about the strange man clinging to the window outside and trying to attract your attention. Twitter is a tool of the Anti-Buddha.
Several colleagues have taken to twitterizing their novels.
I, on the other hand, have decided to write Twitter versions of famous novels. Remember, I have only 140 characters in which to do this.
****
GREAT GATSBY
Nick: Jay, you have all I want. J: True, old sport. Let’s party! J has affair, Daisy’s husband kills him. N: Lesson learned.
HARRY POTTER series:
H: I’ll kill you, Voldemort! V: Tis you who’ll die! (Stuff happens. Harry dies). V: Oh joy! H: Not so fast fool, take that! (The end)
****
ULYSSES
Bloom: Awake, dear! Molly: Letter from Boylan! Bloom, eating liver: Damn that Boylan. Molly, in bed again: All I ever said was yes.
******
TWILIGHT
Bella: Oh Edward you’re so irresistible! E: Get away, I want to eat you. B: I love you! E: Me too, but I still want to eat you
****
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
All religions have their Anti-Figure (the most famous example being the Anti-Christ). Twitter is the antithesis of Zen. I mean, instead of enjoying the Zen moment of a subway ride, you decide to twitchily Twitter to the world about the strange man clinging to the window outside and trying to attract your attention. Twitter is a tool of the Anti-Buddha.
Several colleagues have taken to twitterizing their novels.
I, on the other hand, have decided to write Twitter versions of famous novels. Remember, I have only 140 characters in which to do this.
****
GREAT GATSBY
Nick: Jay, you have all I want. J: True, old sport. Let’s party! J has affair, Daisy’s husband kills him. N: Lesson learned.
HARRY POTTER series:
H: I’ll kill you, Voldemort! V: Tis you who’ll die! (Stuff happens. Harry dies). V: Oh joy! H: Not so fast fool, take that! (The end)
****
ULYSSES
Bloom: Awake, dear! Molly: Letter from Boylan! Bloom, eating liver: Damn that Boylan. Molly, in bed again: All I ever said was yes.
******
TWILIGHT
Bella: Oh Edward you’re so irresistible! E: Get away, I want to eat you. B: I love you! E: Me too, but I still want to eat you
****
Get more on Richard Lewis at SimonandSchuster.com
