The secret of joy in work is contained in one word – excellence. To know how to do something well is to enjoy it.

Pearl Buck, The Joy of Children, 1964

From politics to economics to religion. From publishing to the arts to culture. From one topic to the next, it seems to me that more time was spent in 2008 talking about what is not rather than what is. More time talking about what’s wrong with the world than what’s right. More time focusing on our doom than our hope, which ought to be everlasting, by the way.

I watched online communities fill with hate and vitriol as people whom I respect proselytized without context or community and reduced and demonized the views of others. In horror, I watched myself get caught up in a few of those conversations and do the same. As a result, I walked away with diminished respect for quite a few people, including myself.

I watched my workplace, a place where some of my views and opinions seem to be part of a minority of one, become a veritable barroom of men who all shared the same opinion about the world, complaining about how any who doesn’t agree with them must be of a lower class of intelligence.

I had my sensibilies insulted this year, as I invariably insulted the sensibilities of others.

2008 was far too much about what’s wrong. What’s wrong with the economy. What’s wrong with society. What’s wrong with the other guy.

This guy is wrong because he believes in God. That guy is wrong because he chose not to vote. This guy is wrong because, even though he claims to be a Christian, I don’t really think he is because he doesn’t share my exact same faith. That guy is wrong because he believes that there is more than one way to solve a moral issue. That guy is wrong because he wants to pray about every decision he makes.

Even in fiction–in art–2008 seemed to be more about negativity than anything else. I watched this year in shock as people derided a wildly popular and accessible Christian book that was reaching people most Christian authors could only dream of reaching simply because the book didn’t align to the theological viewpoint of a few outspoken Calvinists. I watched lives and hearts change in response to the emotional message of true intimacy with God, while others told their congregations not to read it because of how God was depicted.

Of course, I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that this very post is quite negative itself. All I’ve done so far, by pointing all of this negativity out, is add to it.

As I sit here early on a Saturday morning and write this, I can feel the crushing weight of negativity pressing down upon me, forcing my shoulders down into my chest. Forcing my eyes to become heavy and my mind to become numb. And the negativity, through the true voice behind it, is whispering to me. Telling me to see the validity of everything that I’ve written above and to embrace it. Telling me to accept this as the state of the world and to retreat into my corner, or to emerge and throw that negativity back into the faces of others.

And I could. At times in 2008, I certainly wanted to. At times, nothing was more tempting than the desire to raise my voice to the sky and shout out the sins of others with all I could muster. A few times I did, though not from the rooftops. Instead, my sweet and compassionate wife would listen as I engaged in the very thing I was deriding.

But another voice is stronger, albeit gentler. It’s one voice, rather than the voice of thousands, begging me to join in. It’s the only voice that matters.

That voice asks, “What about you?”

“What about your own anger and ignorance and negativity?”

“What about your own sins?”

And I hang my head, because I realize, in the grace and gentleness of that true voice, that I AM THE PROBLEM. Not the person on the other side of the political or moral spectrum who doesn’t see things my way. Not the person who seems to “have it in” for me and I can’t understand why. Not the guy in the other lane who doesn’t seem to be paying attention, or the guy clearly standing with his shopping cart on the wrong side of the aisle blocking my path and I really don’t like the grocery store in the first place so I wish he would get a clue and stop being so oblivious and MOVE HIS DAMN CART!

Nope. The problem starts and ends with me.

For me, 2008 was about negativity because I allowed myself to spend far too much time paying attention to the words and actions of others, and not enough to my own. Far too much time pointing out the flaws in the arguments of others, and not nearly enough eradicating the flaws in my own. Far too much time praying for others to be changed, and not enough for myself to be transformed.

That will not be 2009. And that is how I will answer the question that heads this post.

The way I will change the world in 2009 is the same way anyone who’s ever changed anything does: I will change myself. If I can do that, if I can submit to that gentle voice of infinite power, doesn’t the world become a better place because I am better in it?

That is redemption for me and for the world I affect.

Now multiply that by 6 Billion. And have a great year.

Today that issue is poverty.

For my post on this blog, I’ve chosen to re-post a story I wrote for the Compassion Blog about the first time I met Ana Maria, a little girl from the Dominican Republic who I met while leading a men’s retreat with friends.

We sponsor Ana through Compassion International, a global child development ministry with the mission of releasing children from poverty in Jesus’ name.

The truth is that while poverty affects millions across the world, it is the children who are often the most helpless and the most harmed. As you navigate through posts on poverty, and as you feel the call to do something about poverty in this world, please consider what you can do to help those who cannot help themselves.

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I knew that she was a sweet little girl, but it wasn’t her face that told me so. Her face had a hard look, as if smiling was an indulgence; something reserved for close friends and family only. But the hardness in her face wasn’t a frown. It wasn’t unhappiness I saw there. It might have simply been shyness and uncertainty.

After all, who was I? Some American who swooped in to pass around the good feelings before returning to vast shelters of wood, composite and stone? Someone who wanted to “do a little good” and make himself feel better before returning home to his consumer Christianity?

It’s possible all of this was on her face and in her four-year-old mind. Children are, after all, very perceptive.

But maybe I was projecting. Maybe my mind was simply painting my own guilt on her stoic face.

I stood in the courtyard playground of that child development center in Bonao, hours outside of Santo Domingo and less than a day after arriving in the Dominican Republic (DR), and the sun’s heat felt more like that given off by an interrogation lamp than life-giving warmth.

Why was I really here anyway?

I came to the DR to lead a men’s retreat with three others. Two other Compassion employees and one elder of a local church. Our host was an employee of the DR country office. The next day, we were to begin speaking at his church and leading what we hoped would be a revival for the men of Santo Domingo.

So I was there to speak. To challenge, encourage and uplift.

But even more, I discovered that I was there to listen. And to be challenged, encouraged and uplifted myself.

Our first day in the country was a Compassion day. A chance for three of us to see, for the first time, the results of the work of thousands around the globe working to further the cause of Christ.

It was a holiday in the Dominican Republic, so we didn’t receive the 300-child welcoming party I’d heard is often customary when visiting a Compassion child development center.

Instead, we were greeted by a handful of children. Several boys and, as I remember it, one little girl with a hard face, but who radiated sweetness nonetheless.

But from where? I wonder now what drew me so strongly to this sweet child, only present that day because her mother, Rosa, is their volunteer cook.

Perhaps it was the English.

Shortly after meeting Ana Maria, I knelt down to speak with her, with our friend and translator, David, at my right.

“Hello Ana. My name is Brandon.”

And before David could translate, she spoke.

“Hello,” she said, in English. There was a softness in her voice, one that smoothed her features and melted my heart.

“God bless you, Ana,” I said.

“God bless you,” she replied, again without waiting for David to translate. The center facilitator, who was sitting nearby, smiled.

“She wants to learn English.”

“That’s wonderful.” I looked back at Ana Maria and smiled at her.

She didn’t smile back, but the hardness I had seen at first was gone. Better yet, the image of hardness I projected on her face at the first was replaced with hope.

Cautious hope. And a desire to smile, but maybe not just yet.

Ana didn’t have a sponsor before that day. But by the time I left, she did.

I wonder sometimes if she remembers meeting me. If she recalls meeting an American man who would return home in days and slide unwittingly back into Western and indulgent living, but who now had a lifeline to need, reality and truth. A lifeline that somehow sustains both the giver and receiver.

I hope she does remember. Two years from now, my wife and I plan to return to the DR to visit Ana Maria and her mother. My wife will meet them for the first time, and I will see them once again. We’ll hug, pray, play and speak English and Spanish to each other.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll smile.

“I have the impression that many of the debates within the Church around such issues as the papacy, the ordination of women, the marriage of priests, homosexuality, birth control, abortion and euthanasia take place on a primarily moral level. On that level, different parties battle about right or wrong. But that battle is often removed from the experience of God’s first love which lies at the base of all human relationships. Words like right-wing, reactionary, conservative, liberal, and left-wing are used to describe people’s opinions, and many discussions then seem more like political battles for power than spiritual searches for the truth.” – Henri J.M. Nouwen, In the Name of Jesus

So, what is this election year about for you?

But here we are, nearly into August, and it’s time for another round of image-triggered storytelling.

Last month, I was pleased to get a few takers. The submitted stories were all unique, creative and funny.

This month, I hope you’ll consider joining in as well.

Click here for a lengthier description of this bit of fun.

The rules are simple: I post a picture each month, along with some prompt¹ to get you started.

All you have to do is write a short, short story, using that photo as inspiration.

Your story can be six words (seriously, it’s been done) or six hundred.

In the next week, post your story on your blog. Next Thursday, I’ll post mine, along with a form you can use to link back to your own story so that we can all read and enjoy one another’s stories.

If you don’t have a blog, you can leave your story in the comment section here, or in the post I’ll put up next week.

Okay, here we go.

This month, at least one character in this story should find themselves in this place. As far as where “this place” is, that’s up to you.

If you prefer not to invent the place in this picture, click here to find out its true location.

One week. Are you in?

1. or no prompt

“But the new rebel is a Sceptic, and will not entirely trust anything. He has no loyalty; therefore he can never be really a revolutionist. And the fact that he doubts everything really gets in his way when he wants to denounce anything. For all denunciation implies a moral doctrine of some kind; and the modern revolutionist doubts not only the institution he denounces, but the doctrine by which he denounces it. Thus he writes one book complaining that imperial oppression insults the purity of women, and then he writes another book (about the sex problem) in which he insults it himself. He curses the Sultan because Christian girls lose their virginity, and then curses Mrs. Grundy because they keep it. As a politician, he will cry out that war is a waste of life, and then, as a philosopher, that all life is waste of time. A Russian pessimist will denounce a policeman for killing a peasant, and then prove by the highest philosophical principles that the peasant ought to have killed himself. A man denounces marriage as a lie, and then denounces aristocratic profligates for treating it as a lie. He calls a flag a bauble, and then blames the oppressors of Poland or Ireland because they take away that bauble. The man of this school goes first to a political meeting, where he complains that savages are treated as if they were beasts; then he takes his hat and umbrella and goes on to a scientific meeting, where he proves that they practically are beasts. In short, the modern revolutionist, being an infinite sceptic, is always engaged in undermining his own mines. In his book on politics he attacks men for trampling on morality; in his book on ethics he attacks morality for trampling on men. Therefore the modern man in revolt has become practically useless for all purposes of revolt. By rebelling against everything he has lost his right to rebel against anything.”

- GK Chesterton, Orthodoxy (Emphasis mine)

This is not just beautiful prose. Today it gives me pause, and encourages me to analyze my own rebellion.

I do consider myself more than a bit of a rebel within the circles I run².

But I’m also more mystic³ than skeptic, which means my insurgency must have a cause, lest it become insurgency for its own sake.

So I protest war because I believe in the value of all human life, including those who want nothing more than to end mine.

I protect the environment around me because I do not believe that subduing the earth is the same as rendering it uninhabitable.

And I fight poverty, not to justify my undeserved wealth, but because dignity is a birthright of all human beings.

I am not, as Chesterton describes, a rebel in search of any cause. Rather, I rebel because of what I uphold to be true.

1. or, in this case, on a digital screen fashioned to look as much like paper as possible without actually being paper.
2. of course, perhaps I’m being melodramatic
3. as some would define it, this means that my faith is wholly knowable, but that I can not know it within myself completely. Or more simply put, God has all the answers, while I do not.

Click on the link above to catch the details and the general idea if you missed it.

Or, I can give you a brief summary here:

Each month, for WWYS, I’m going to post an image and (maybe) some background information to get you started.

Your job, then, is to take the picture and write a short, short story about it.

And I do mean short. Like 100 words will work. You can write more, but don’t feel like you have to. That’s easy, right?

Here’s the picture for the inaugural WWYS:

Click on the picture for a larger version… if you dare.

Some details: This picture was taken by my lovely wife in Vernazza, a small Italian coastal village, in September of 2007.

Your assignment: Write a story about this picture. The sky’s the limit. You can make the paper-wearing gentlemen your main character, or you can use the photo merely as a jumping-off point. It’s your story. There are no rules.

You have until Friday. Write your story and post it and a link here to your blog on Friday morning. Once you’ve done that, return here and enter your name in the form I’ll have up for results.

If you don’t have a blog, you can email me your story and I’ll post it. Or you can post it in the comment section on Friday.

Happy Writing!

]]> http://brandonsatrom.com/2008/06/23/write-what-you-see-june-2008/feed/ 14 http://brandonsatrom.com/2008/06/11/memory-and-storytelling-part-2-places/ http://brandonsatrom.com/2008/06/11/memory-and-storytelling-part-2-places/#comments Wed, 11 Jun 2008 14:06:21 +0000 Brandon Satrom http://brandonsatrom.com/2008/06/11/memory-and-storytelling-part-2-places/

Every man’s memory is his private literature. – Aldous Huxley

This is part two of a series on memory and storytelling. For part 1, click here.

I was born in Medford, Oregon in 1978. When I was two months old, my parents moved to Bellevue, Washington, a small town minutes east of Seattle. In the spring of 1980, Mount St. Helens erupted. In the fall, my sister was born in a Bellevue hospital¹.

In 1983², we left behind the Pacific Northwest and moved to San Antonio, Texas.

When we moved from Washington to Texas, I was too young to have a rich catalogue of memories about our home, the near-constant rain, or the rich beauty of the place we lived. In fact, I only have one concrete memory of the time we lived there. It was my fourth birthday, and I was crossing the street in our neighborhood and singing. The song? A Brandon Satrom original entitled “I’m four!” Lyrics are:

I’m four!

{Pause}

I’m four!

{Repeat}

Even then, I think it was obvious to all that I was destined for great things.

Thankfully, my time in Seattle didn’t end when we moved to Texas. A few years later, my sister and I started spending a week each summer in Seattle with my Father and my Grandparents.

It is from those visits that most of my memories have been drawn.

Seattle has always been a mystical place to me. One that I remember with more fondness than almost any place on earth, and one that I never seem to visit enough.

It should be no surprise, then, that much of my first novel is set in Seattle.

When I wrote the first draft last November, I weaved my memories of people and places into the story almost without realizing how much “remembered” detail I was inserting.

These were places I hadn’t seen in years. I thought they were long forgotten.

And yet, writing about them was remembering them, and my memories started to land on the page fully formed and vivid.

I remembered Pike Place market: The smell of fish, flowers and fresh bread; the crowds packed into narrow hallways; endless browsing through stalls selling every imaginable collectable, good or trinket; the creaky wooden floorboards that line the maze of shops below the market; the wonderful smell of incense in every nook and cranny, in every store and market; the magic shop with its giant posters of Carter the Great outside and its promise of magical apprenticeship within.

I remembered the Seattle Ferry: The size of the boats and the seemingly limitless number of people they could hold; the calm of the Puget Sound, and the beauty of Mt. Rainier on a clear day, perhaps more often in my memory than in reality; the smell of the water and the gentle rocking of the giant ferry as it slowly moved across the Sound.

I remembered the forest near my Grandparents house and the grove of trees in their backyard. I remember the pure smell of pine and the feeling of a cool breeze from the Sound. I remember picking blackberries for my Grandmother. I was with my sister, and we would always eat our fill before returning home.

Perhaps it was the mystery of the place combined with the frequency of my visits.

Perhaps my memory was mostly the fanciful fiction of a child experiencing things that do not exist in his world.

Perhaps it was a helping of both.

Before Sarah and I traveled to Seattle last month, I wondered how the reality of this place would measure up to my memories and the ways I had transferred them to the page.

I worried that I’d be crushed by the reality of a place not like the Narnia in my head.

I worried that my novel would suddenly shift from Literary Fiction to Fantasy with the cold blast of fact that covers the warmth and fire of fiction.

The truth, of course, is that my memory of the place wasn’t perfect. I remembered things that weren’t true, and I had forgotten things worth remembering.

But overall, I was amazed with how much I hadn’t forgotten. About How much I had gotten right when I wrote about this place.

Even after years and countless other memories held firmly and countless long forgotten, this place lives in my mind.

And after our visit, the mystery remains.

The memories are sharper, and new ones have been added, but the mystery will always weave itself into the fabric of the sounds, smells and sights of this place.

And when I write about it again–when I work on my novel or write about it in my stories–the mystery and the memory will weave itself onto the page.

And hopefully, upon reading, that mystery and those memories will capture the reader and catapult him there.

A childhood is what anyone wants to remember of it. It leaves behind no fossils, except perhaps in fiction. – Carol Shields

1. These two things are in no way related
2. Or thereabouts, I’m not 100% on the date

“Despite a lack of natural ability, I did have the one element necessary to all early creativity: naïveté, that fabulous quality that keeps you from knowing just how unsuited you are for what you are about to do.” – Steve Martin, Born Standing Up.

What’s keeping you from your art today?

Looking back on that now as a wiser, two-week-older person, I think that what I was trying to remind myself¹ was that the presence of a rejection letter in my writing life doesn’t, in any way, change my writing ability from one moment to the next. How I react to the letter can, but the letter itself doesn’t magically change my ability to write.

The same should be true of acceptance.

Not an easy lesson to learn, but I think I have in the last two weeks. I’ve kept on writing, learned a lesson or two and generally am back on track.

So imagine my surprise when acceptance came so quickly on the heels of rejection.

It was Sunday morning. I was just getting up from the dining room table when I saw this tweet on my phone:

“sometimes I read something and it just gets me right in the gut. @TheSatch is an awesome writer.” – Trula on Twitter

@TheSatch is my username on Twitter.

Now this made me feel pretty good. Partly because I, like all of us, don’t mind a compliment every now and again. But it also felt pretty good because of what it meant. More on that in a moment…

I took my phone into the bathroom where Sarah was brushing her teeth and held the phone up in front of her face so that she could read the tweet as well. Probably jarring to have a cell phone shoved in your face minutes after waking up, but Sarah was really excited. She’s my first-round editor after all.

After I shared the tweet with Sarah, I walked into the office and sat down at the computer, suspecting I might find a related email.

And I did. Also from Trula, the email informed me that my Short Story, “A Person of No Consequence,” has been accepted for publication in an upcoming anthology.

I was speechless. Well, maybe not. I think I was just grinning like a kid and saying wow to Sarah over and over again.

What can I say? I was, and still am, really, really excited.

I’m going to have a story published. And if it isn’t obvious by my reaction, this will be my first published short story…

That feels pretty cool.

What adds to the coolness of it is that this is the very story I was referring to in my last post when I mentioned that after reading it, Sarah said, “I can really tell that you’re becoming a better writer.”

What’s more, this story was an exercise in doing something new and different. Let me explain:

Trula Breckenridge is an indie writer that I’ve been following on Twitter for a while now. Several weeks ago, Trula mentioned that she was putting together a Sci-FI anthology. Intrigued, I took a look at the link she shared and saw that the theme of the anthology was “Futuristic Motherhood.” Basically, a book of speculative stories about motherhood. Culture, technology, etc.

I’ve never been an advocate of the “write what you know” adage, but this was a challenge beyond any story I’d written so far.

For one thing, I am not, nor will I ever be, a mother.

What’s more, Sarah and I don’t have any kids… yet.²

And yet I came up with an idea minutes later about a young couple dealing with a pre-parenting decision 100 years from now. It was fun, challenging, different (my first sci-fi story) and exciting.

And apparently, it was a decent story.

So, the book will be released in August and I expect everyone reading this to buy a copy. It would be cool to support this project and indie publishing in general, but I would love it if you’d read my story (and all the others of course) and let me know what you think about it. Mark, you said yourself that life is to short for anything but good sci-fi and fantasy, so I certainly hope you’ll check the book out.

If you want to pre-order, go here now. It’s a steal at $10.

Otherwise, I’ll remind you. Often.

So here’s to acceptance. And to allowing success to have the same positive impact that rejection does. That is, just like rejection, not allowing success to distort the lives we lead.

- Brandon

1. and also offer to others
2. Not yet mom. Soon enough