Orthodox Writers, Readers, and Artists: Grace Brooks

My mother tells me that one of the real benefits that I offered to a weary parent (I was the last of four children) was that if you put me in a room with a pencil and paper, I could amuse myself for hours and could even be heard laughing at what I had created.

I can appreciate what a boon that must’ve been, even though as an adult, I’ve got some reservations (Um, just how long were we leaving little Gracie in a room by herself? Couldn’t we have spent just a little of that time working on her social skills?).

But I can see that the signs were there that I was going to be one of those oddballs that the world sometimes celebrates and sometimes frets over. I was going to be someone who beheld a wonderful world full of airplanes, bumblebees, ice cream, cuckoo clocks and other delights and then felt an irrepressible urge to capture it, futile though that was. My heart would nearly burst with it: How do you draw sunshine? How do you spell the sound a hummingbird’s wings make? What notes sound like a day in October?

And, more importantly, how did everything fit together — what was the Story? What was the point of Life and what were the rules? As you grow, you get some tantalizing clues, and you get to see other people’s answers on the subject. And you encounter the engine of all our guesswork — our culture — and that can be a wonderful and terrible thing in its storytelling. I had no reason to believe that I had any really vital part of the story to relate, but there’s nothing for it, for the ones whose hearts lead them that way. I wanted to re-tell that Great Narrative, or at least as much of it as my life expressed. I still do.
 

Great expectations

I wish I could say my creative life as an adult was one big happy story, but it’s been rather bittersweet. At the same time that I converted to Orthodoxy and began one of the best times of my spiritual life, I started a series of frustrating attempts to find the creative outlet that would give me work to do that was close to my heart. I appreciate my years as a graphic artist, and I hope that I’ve helped others tell their stories, but it hasn’t helped me tell mine.

About 15 years ago, I got bitten by the bug to create a comic strip. After a couple lukewarm attempts, I got an idea out of the blue that put me on one of those roller coaster rides that every prospective artist and writer knows too well. Initial interest from a major syndicate made me think I was on my way to a life that seemed like a dream come true. But the syndicate dropped me, and after a year of self-syndicating (for the princely sum of $6 a week), I had to admit defeat. I think I still grieve sometimes for what I thought it would lead to, though I can see a lot of reasons why it might have been better in the long run that I failed.

I could skip this unhappy episode, but I think there’s value in expressing the part of being both creatively-inclined and Orthodox that we like the least– that is to say, the reality of wanting what is difficult (arguably impossible) to acquire. Failure is a distinct possibility and success can be very elusive. Struggling makes for a good narrative if victory is assured, but the Church has known its share of sorrows, and each of us has our own to reflect upon as well. I would’ve liked easy success in both my creative and spiritual labors; instead, I have to deal with reality … and I struggle.
 

Creativity 2.0

Not that I’ve given up on writing and drawing. Blogging doesn’t pay, of course, but it does allow me to work on some skills with words and images. I get some design assignments from time to time that indulge my sense of whimsy (as with a superhero potato character I’m doing right now for a storage facility) (don’t ask). And all the while, my church life has kept me grounded and helped me to break out of the confines of my five senses, my narrow aesthetics and my enslavement to the realms of imagination.

As for my next trick, who knows? I start to wonder if, as Melinda says, I’ll find that the next project is more of a joint endeavor. It would seem to reflect more about who I am now if it was less of a one-woman show and more of a team effort.

I’m interested in a lot more of our popular culture than I used to be, and I see a lot of opportunity for Orthodoxy to find expression there. Cultural offerings have certainly gotten more vulgar and secular in my lifetime, but suddenly the opportunities to create mini-cultures have exploded. I would like to see a flowering of Orthodox themes in self-publication (as Barbara Shukin did), and also in videocasts, CD recordings, graphic novels, computer games–who can say? Technology is increasing the number of people who get to tell a story, and Orthodox have a voice in the Christian narrative that has been sorely lacking. We’re more earthy, but still attached to the sacred. We’re less sentimental, less rationalistic, more scientific and fully invested in the mystery of the Church. I’d love to hear more stories offered from an Orthodox-informed perspective.

But I haven’t won the lottery this week, so I suppose I can’t be a patron of all the change I’d like to see. I’ll have to dust off whatever skills I have and see where I can start.

Where did I leave those crayons? And does anyone have an extra blue one?

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Grace Brooks is a freelance graphic artist and cartoonist living in Phoenix, Arizona, with her gracious husband Greg and a coonhound named Clementine. She has a BA in Fine Arts from UC Irvine, and has been a graphic artist for 28 years. She hosts a blog at www.this-side-of-glory.com

Orthodox Writers, Readers, and Artists: Sheena Hisiro

Admittedly, when Melinda first contacted me about writing a piece for her blog, I was a little hesitant.  After all, I didn’t major in writing.  Rather, I went to school for illustration, to learn to bring stories to life via pictures, not words.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I can do this.  While a writing degree may not be in my background, the subject matter of this piece is something I am very familiar with–my artwork.

This summer I was fortunate enough to work with Conciliar Press illustrating a new children’s book, written by Kelly Lardin, being released early next year.  The book, entitled Josiah and Julia Go to Church: A Young Child’s Guide to Church Etiquette, is a playful story for children teaching them what they should (and shouldn’t) do in church.

Obviously, with the book being set in a church, I needed to draw a church.  Rather than create a fictitious one, a concept that came immediately to mind was to depict the church I grew up in, Christ the Saviour Orthodox Church, where I spent many a childhood day.  For a number of the images, I drew from memory, having spent many hours over the course of my life studying every visual detail of the church–the pattern of the floor, the pews, the intricate wood carvings decorating the iconostasis, the decorative and very colorful garments worn by the priest and altar boys, the parishioners, the beautiful icons, the different candles burning, and once they were finished, the very large icons adorning almost every wall in the church.  These in particular fascinated me as
a child and continue to do so as an adult, with all the detail and care with which they were painted, as well as how each tells a different story.  For someone with a passion for anything visual, the church is a feast for the eyes.

The priest in the story is again my priest from childhood, Fr. Daniel Ressetar.  Up until the last couple of years when he retired, Fr. Dan was the priest at Christ the Saviour. That is to say, he “officially” retired; if you go on Sunday, you’re very likely to see him helping out with the current priest, Fr. Stephen.  Fr. Dan was then, and continues to be, an influential part of my life.  Many times when I go home to visit family, I have some news clipping or other compliments of Fr. Dan, be it an article he thought of interest to me, news about Orthodoxy, Church Bulletins, and occasionally, a book that he thought I might like.  He was there for many big events in my life, church-related and non-church related alike–my baptism, first communion (and many communions after that), first confession, high school graduation, the release of my first children’s book and subsequent one, and would have attended the most recent if not for a previous engagement.  Including him in the story was my way of paying tribute, of saying thank you, to Fr. Dan for everything he has done and continues to do for me.

Over the course of my life, many people have said, “You have a gift from God,” or “You have been truly blessed with artistic talent.”  I am very grateful to have this gift and pray that I am able to continue to utilize my talent for a very long time.

Sheena Hisiro has been drawing since she could hold a pencil. She currently lives in Brooklyn, NY where she is still drawing and loving every minute of it. Sheena is currently illustrating children’s books, designing greeting cards, and drawing cupcakes.

Orthodox Writers, Readers, and…Artists!

Paint!

I am delighted to announce that the “Orthodox Writers and Readers” series is expanding to include Orthodox artists, iconographers, and, with a bit of luck, an Orthodox composer I met at church last Sunday! You may also have noticed that the original goal of two guests each month has been expanded to “however many guests we can fit” each month.

I love the series as it is, but I decided that if some is good (and it has been so good!), more is better! The more facets of the gem we consider, the more beauty we permit ourselves to experience. What does writing words have in common with “writing” icons? What does verbal description share with oil painting? What spiritual journey is unique to each kind of art? I want to know!

I hope we can explore every area of the creative life through the eyes of Orthodox Christians who are living it. I suspect each form of art brings its own visions and temptations, and its own gifts.

Orthodox Writers and Readers Series: Jonathan Kotinek, “One thing is needful.”

On a recent Saturday morning, I was riding through dusty-brown rural Texas with the priest from a neighboring Orthodox parish; we were on our way to look at a piece of land to see if it might be a good spot for an Orthodox eco-village (it turned out not to be). We shared small bits of news with each other along the way: new members, new catechumens, new visitors. He told me about a young man, an avowed athiest, who had started attending Divine Liturgy intermittently. The reason the young man gave was that he loved the beauty of our prayers.

I was quiet for a moment, captured by the simple and powerful testimony of this man I did not know. I responded, halfway meaning the comment as a prayer, that given our cultural milieu in 21st-century America, perhaps that love of the Liturgy would prove to be somehow salvific. Reflecting on the conversation later, I realized that I was drawing on a few key perspectives to inform my hope:

•  The content of our prayers in the Eastern Orthodox tradition gives direct insight to our theology; we pray what we believe.
•  The certainty expressed by Dostoyevsky in his bold statement, “Beauty will save the world.”
•  St. Seraphim of Sarov’s saying that if we acquire peace, thousands around us will be saved.

I was reminded, too, of a statement given by Met. Kallistos Ware in Sobornost and quoted in Madeleine L’Engle’s Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art: “…an abstract composition by Kandinsky or Van Gogh’s landscape of the cornfield with birds…is a real instance of divine transfiguration, in which we see matter rendered spiritual and entering into the ‘glorious liberty of the children of God.’ This remains true, even when the artist does not personally believe in God. Provided he is an artist of integrity, he is a genuine servant of the glory which he does not recognize, and unknown to himself there is ‘something divine’ about his work. We may rest confident that at the last judgment the angels will produce his works of art as testimony on his behalf.”

A link on Facebook last week led me to read Melinda Johnson’s post “Poets and artists…” at St. Lydia’s Book Club, where I found a similar quote from St. Barsanuphius: “Poets and artists who are satisfied only by the delights experienced through art are like people who arrive at the doors of the Royal Palace, but do not go into the bridal feast, although they are invited to do so.”

I wrote to Melinda, thanking her for the post and inviting her to read a blog post I had written recently about my experience working with a group of university students who were exploring the idea of transcendence in art. That interaction led to Melinda’s invitation for this guest blog.

Before anyone else has the opportunity to do so, I should accuse myself of being a dilettante. I have not given enough time or effort to be considered an artist, though I enjoy photography, painting, and singing. Perhaps the athiest asthete mentioned earlier felt a little like I do in engaging these things: that I might apprehend some truth serendipitously by doing what little I can.

As an adult convert to the Eastern Orthodox faith, I’ve discovered that I want a faith perspective that provides a robust and coherent explanatory framework for my subjective experience. The Orthodox emphasis on the coherence of the faith, of engaging all the senses in experiential worship and understanding that theology is something lived, not just contemplated, underscores for me that the feeling of belonging and completeness I feel when moved by a particularly well-written piece of literature or well-composed piece of art may just be part of the Divine plan.

The genius of art, I think, is that it distills a particular person’s perspective and renders it in language accessible to and resonant with others. Following Met. Kallistos and St. Barnasuphius, when this art points toward the source of all beauty it becomes a vector for grace. I think this is true for secular art in the same way (though perhaps not in the same intensity) as it is for icons of Christ and the Saints. These icons which intentionally represent a spiritual and physical reality simultaneously give us some insight to all of our sacraments by demonstrating “matter rendered spiritual.” In this sense, we who have the privilege of worshipping in the Eastern Orthodox tradition are not only surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses when we sing the Divine Liturgy, we are also immersed in a spiritual treasure trove.

I wonder if I don’t sometimes become so habituated to the beauty of Christian worship that I fail to see the treasure in front of me. I read a story recently about the discovery of a $22 billion treasure in a temple vault in India. There are 500 million people living in poverty in India, many of them passing right by this temple, or even adding to the treasure through their offerings. There is some talk of accounting for the treasure, but no apparent plans to use it to alleviate the poverty outside the walls of the temple. Clearly, proximity is not enough for treasure to have an affect. Likewise, the treasure of our faith will not enliven me through osmosis. Every Sunday I have the opportunity (and the obligation) to approach the chalice with fear and trembling, having prepared myself for the most mind-boggling of all transcendent events: the soul-quickening, evil-vanquishing, illuminating, healing, sanctifying entrance of the body and blood of Christ into my person. And I fail, every time.

Christ told Martha, “One thing is needful.” If I took this to heart I would arrange my whole life around this weekly judgment. I would live a coherently Christian faith. I would order my thoughts, my actions, my interactions with others so that I would prepare prayerfully and fully, instead of distractedly and in haste. God, in His grace, grants me to grow a little in this manner every week, every month, every year. The Church is not only a spiritual hospital, it is also a school of repentance. I am learning how to want and need that one thing: communion with God.

I determined last year that I have been working in education too long when I decided I needed learning objectives for parenting my two boys, now aged four and two. I decided that I would feel successful as a parent if they learned to love, to trust, and to wonder. The first, love, seems to me to be the groundwork for all of Christian living: seeing and loving Christ in the face of every person we see. Trust is an exercise of faith: trusting that God will bless that love with a protecting hand. The last, wonder, is an act of living gratitude: as the Psalmist says, “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” In this endeavor, I am hoping to establish for my whole family a coherence between the life we live and the faith we profess, despite the daily distractions of television, toys, and video games.

I am an early-adopter of technology and I fear that my boys will have to struggle past their genetics in this respect. I am fond of Arthur C. Clarke’s statement that “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” However wonderful technology might be, though, I hope that my children are more often in awe of their direct experience of God’s creation. I hope, too, that they will find ways to share that wonder by developing talents to distill their experience through a lens, or a paintbrush, or a pen and let the love, trust, and wonder they cultivate in church permeate their whole lives.

Jonathan Kotinek is a convert to Orthodoxy, father of two, and constantly in awe of his veterinarian wife. An educator, amateur artist, and writer who likes to ponder the intersection of faith, social issues, and education, Jonathan blogs occasionally at http://jkotinek.blogspot.com.

“Poets and artists…”

Our friend Bill gave us a beautiful little book called Living Without Hypocrisy: Spiritual Counsels of the Holy Elders of Optina.  It is full of the words of saints, organized by topic. Tonight I went looking in this book for anything the fathers might have to say about writers or writing. Here is what I found.

St. Barsanuphius says, “Poets and artists who are satisfied only by the delights experienced through art are like people who arrive at the doors of the Royal Palace, but do not go into the bridal feast, although they are invited to do so.”

At first, I saw this statement in the negative sense. Those who remain in the physical or intellectual delights of art and writing are missing the soul of the experience. By extension, those who seek to create beauty that takes no notice of its own spiritual life or death are also falling short.

But then the other side of the statement struck me. The ”delights experienced through art” bring us to the “doors of the Royal Palace.” By these miracles, we are “invited” to go in to the “bridal feast.” We have only to recognize the source of the beauty. Our invitation will bring us through the doors as soon as we realize that it is an invitation and begin to seek the real beauty, the feast to which we are being invited.

Last week, the Orthodox Writers and Readers series launched with Molly Sabourin’s thoughtful reflection on why and how she writes. Responding to her post, Keith Massey (who will be a guest poster later in this series) noted that Molly’s words contained the seeds of a “theology of writing.” Molly’s “theology” centers on the experience of writing as “a means of communion with the living God.” In my opinion, this sense of the written art helps foster the union of the “delights experienced” and their divine origin. Perhaps the human urge to create is one of those glimmers of the divine image that remain visible to us through the tarnish of life in the fallen world. Something of the writer’s quest for communion remains in the final product, the written record of the journey and its findings.

Next week, we will begin exploring the other side of the equation, the Orthodox “reading life.” Our guest, Christy Pessemier, is a freelance journalist who will share her experience with an Orthodox book that touched her life. This is the other side of the coin, the relationship of the reader and the book when the writer and his or her journey are no longer physically present.  With so much spiritual life present in the creation of the book, what remains in the finished product, the story itself?

UPDATE on Orthodox Writers and Readers Series

Tree waiting to blossom

This week, I received the first submissions for the Orthodox Writers and Readers series, which will launch at the start of the Orthodox church year in September.

I can’t wait till you can read them, too!

There is so much meaning packed into a few hundred words, so many things that could be said in response, so much food for thought. As I finished reading one guest writer’s post, I imagined hearing it read aloud, to a group of friends drinking tea in a comfortable room. There would be that respectful silence we offer to someone sharing her personal thoughts, and it would linger in the air for a minute after she finished speaking. Then would come the burst of conversation as everyone in the room tried to share an idea at the same moment. I love that moment, the symphony of voices, the glowing faces, the clatter of china cups against the table, the hands moving to illustrate a point.

I am happy to announce that there are so many Orthodox writers and readers who want to participate in this series that I will be hosting two guests each month, instead of one. The series will run through next summer. Or maybe longer. I keep finding another great writer, and then another!

Upcoming Launch of “Orthodox Writers and Readers”

Coming to the circle

Starting September 1, Saint Lydia’s Book Club will be opening its virtual doors to a wonderful group of Orthodox Christian writers and readers who will share their stories and their work with us as guest posters on this blog. Our writer guests come from around the United States and outside its borders, and their work ranges from books on theology to children’s fiction. Each one is special for a different reason, and I am very happy to be granted the opportunity to host them as they talk about living the Orthodox writing life. We will also be hearing from readers, people who genuinely love to read and who make books a part of their inner lives and their daily lives. Readers and writers are essential to each other, and the conversation is only complete when both are present.

The “Orthodox Writers and Readers” series will feature a new guest each month. Comments on and responses to guests posts are welcomed and encouraged and will be passed on to the guest writer so that we keep the conversation going. And if you know a wonderful Orthodox writer whom you’d like to see featured in the series, speak up! I’m always open to suggestions.

My Writing Life

Signing Letters to Saint Lydia

People talk about living “the writing life.” What do you imagine that is? For me, the phrase conjures images of lyrical sentences flowing onto clean paper from a wooden pencil. Long hours in a hammock reading thick books and meditating on them. Fervent discussion of the finer points with intelligent, coherent people. But in real life, my hammock is stored in the garage because it rains all the time where I live. And I’m most likely to be drawing farm animals with that wooden pencil. Just this afternoon, I drew a goat on command.

But there is one change I have noticed in myself, one characteristic that has become the hallmark of my personal writing life. It’s a sort of inward eye that gazes at unsuspecting people and makes novels out of them. This inward eye has a mouth attached to it, and it mutters constantly to itself. “Look at that man walking his dog on the sidewalk. That woman must be his mother. He’s way too old to be living with his mother. And why does he have such a prissy little dog? It’s her dog, that’s why, and he doesn’t want to be out here walking it, but he lost his job. That’s why he lives with his mother. No, actually, look at his shirt. I think he likes living with his mother. I think he’s too shy for ordinary life. But he’s feeling a little trapped. Maybe he wishes he could escape his shirt and his mother’s prissy dog. But how would he do that? Hmmmm….”

And what am I doing while the inward eye and its inward mouth are raving on like this? Standing stock still wherever I happened to be when they started up, staring at the man and his prissy dog, unconscious of passing time or oncoming traffic.

I never know when it’s going to hit me. The other day I was at the pool watching swim lessons when my inward eye suddenly veered over to the lifeguard stand. There sat a pretty brunette swim instructor, doing her stint as a lifeguard between classes. A second swim instructor, just arrived from his other job as a paramedic, stood next to her, talking confidentially. In fact, he was leaning against her chair. “It’s that uniform,” squeaked my inward mouth. “Look how he’s got it all starched and pressed. He’s so proud of it that he just accidentally forgot to change before he came here so he could accidentally show it off to her. Look at her dimples. Look at her eyelashes. He’s so darn charmed he’s ready to fall into the pool so she can save him. Oh, now it’s time to go change into swim trunks so he can teach the Turtle Class. Oooo! Look at that blonde girl bounding after him, grabbing his arm. Flirty, flirty. She likes him. He doesn’t mind all this attention, does he. But it’s the brunette he likes. His eyes didn’t wander when she was talking. See? He’s walking away. Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call a SWAGGER.”

I’ve always been a bit like this, absent-minded, a people-watcher. But something is different now. I’m not just daydreaming. I’m staring at total strangers wondering if I’m going to write about them. If I write about them, I can find out who they are and what happened to them after they turned the corner and passed out of my physical sight. In real life, I will never know what happened. But in my writing life, I can find out. I can set the point of my pencil on the exact spot where I couldn’t see any more, and I can write the rest of the story.

Writing Around the Ten Commandments

Tangled branches

Consider the following plot (a real plot, from a novel I’ve read, but with names changed to prevent a spoiler). Abigail is engaged to Bert, and Christopher is engaged to Danielle. Abigail and Christopher meet at a house party at a country estate, and of course, they fall in love. But because they live in a bygone era, honor takes precedence over emotion. Abigail returns home and marries Bert. Christopher returns home and marries Danielle. Years pass, events conspire. Bert suffers a terminal illness that terminates him. Danielle has the misfortune to be directly under a German bomb.

Drum roll, swelling tide of romantic orchestral music. Abigail and Christopher meet again, and to the great delight of all their friends and relations (who never liked either Bert or Danielle very much), Abigail and Christopher marry.

Is something wrong with this picture? What’s going on here for the reader? What about the writer?

As the reader, I’m being urged to hope for the breakdown of two marriages, and when Bert and Danielle die, I’m encouraged to heave a sigh of relief and urge on Abigail and Christopher as they move toward their reunion.

As the writer, what am I doing? The writer of this novel happens to be long dead, so there’s no way of knowing what she was thinking as she wrote the novel. But it is fair to state that she arranged her novel in such a way that the eventual marriage of Abigail and Christopher is what every right-thinking character (and reader?) hopes will occur.

One voice in my head says, “Oh, come on already. It’s just a story, and at least they didn’t commit adultery.” But the other voice says, “Isn’t there something faintly adulterous about being the writer of this story? The writer who deliberately kills off their deliberately unappealing spouses so the two attractive people can marry?”

I wonder at what point our fictional acts as writers touch on our real-life morality as human beings. At what point could a fictional creation become a real-life trespass, a figurative breaking of the commandments? Or is there no moral connection between fiction writing and real life?

What do you think?

A Reply to T.S. Eliot

T.S. Eliot

I belong to a Goodreads (www.goodreads.com) group called “Christian Fiction Devourers.” This rapacious title belongs to more than 200 people, mostly women, who love to read and talk about Christian fiction. As part of an ongoing discussion on what makes fiction “Christian,” a member of the group recently posted a quote from T.S. Eliot’s essay on “Religion and Literature,” written in 1935. “It is our business, as readers of literature, to know what we like,” says Eliot. “It is our business, as Christians, as well as readers of literature, to know what we ought to like. It is our business as honest men not to assume that whatever we like is what we ought to like; and it is our business as honest Christians not to assume that we do like what we ought to like. And the last thing I would wish for would be the existence of two literatures, one for Christian consumption and the other for the pagan world.”

Eliot’s words provide material for at least five discussions (I counted). I’d like to focus now on his wish to avoid “the existence of two literatures, one for Christian consumption and the other for the pagan world.” Here in the United States, I’d say we have exactly that. “Christian fiction” is a recognized genre, accorded separate shelving in major bookstores. It’s produced by Christian publishers, and it’s the business of the Christian Booksellers Association, a separate entity from the American Booksellers Association.

Plenty of Christians read plenty of books, fiction and non-fiction, that are not stamped with the “Christian” genre label. But does the secular world return the favor? Not usually. Penelope Stokes, author of The Complete Guide to Writing and Selling the Christian Novel, notes that nearly all the readers of a Christian novel are already Christian themselves. “People don’t read fiction primarily to have their values challenged or to seek out new directions in their lives,” she observes. “They read fiction that makes them comfortable, that entertains them or that relates in some way to their own life experiences.”

This is undoubtedly a disappointing reality to authors who possess that genuine, evangelical zeal. It would also be disappointing to Mr. Eliot, were he still able to participate in this discussion, because it shows there is a point on the literary spectrum where the division into “two literatures” takes place. But it is not disappointing to me. Very likely I’m about to expose a flaw in my zeal, but I think there is another way of looking at this problem, if it is a problem.

The women I’ve known in my life often read for comfort and companionship. They read when they are tired or let down, when they need a blissful moment to ease the pressures of a difficult reality. Sometimes the characters in a good book become real to them, like old friends they can visit again and again. The journey of a well-written character can provide encouragement or inspiration for the real-life journey of the reader. This is a good thing. It is not only the “un-saved” who stand in need of ministry.

Good Christian fiction can serve another purpose for Christian readers. It can give us a detailed view of how someone else, either the character or the author, applies Christian faith in daily life. Without being truly nosey, we often can’t see how our friends and neighbors are using their faith to make choices in their lives. We don’t know what they say to themselves when they get mad at their husbands or give in to their manipulative in-laws for the hundredth time. It’s not our business, frankly, but we might be able to learn from it if it was. A well-written book gives us this chance. If it’s good fiction, it’s true to life without being a factual account of real people (i.e., gossip). It’s our chance to see different ways of handling a situation, to try them out in our minds and see where they lead.

So, while I see your point, Mr. Eliot, I’m not dismayed.