Here’s the thing I’m feeling iffy about. Madras is a nonprofit, and the website explains that all net proceeds from books sales are donated to a charity of the author’s choosing. Now, I come to you as a woman who has spent the better part of her life trying to be of service — giving away my 8th grade field trip spending money to a homeless man in D.C., volunteering in high school, college & after, and ultimately settling into a career as a nonprofit fundraiser & manager. I am all about supporting nonprofits of all shapes and sizes. BUT, I don’t understand why the writers can’t make a little money off their writing?

Now, I don’t know what exactly Madras means by “net proceeds” — maybe they have built in some compensation to the writer — but it seems to me that writers can raise their voices and use their work to support nonprofits, without sacrificing themselves. We need to be able to leverage our art to get money from those who really have it to spare, rather than just giving up what little we might earn.

And this isn’t the first I’ve heard of this… the Poetic Arts Performance Project here in Philly that aims to “use our poetic gifts and those of artists from around the country and globe to help other charitable organizations in the Philadelphia area.” That’s commendable… and yet, I often wonder about arts organizations (which are hobbled to begin with) trying to help other organizations. Why can’t it be enough to raise up the arts, to focus on raising up the arts, and let the art have the powerful social effect that art can have. Keep what little money you might make and put it back into your own organization, so you can spread more art, whether that’s through publishing more stories that won’t find a home any other way, or putting on kick ass readings & educational events. I wonder… do these organizations think that they need to bribe potential patrons with the promise of a tax write off? Do they think it somehow makes it okay to pay for art by not really paying for art by giving to something “more worthy”?  Honestly, I suspect these organizations recognize that they aren’t going to get rich off their books and events, and they altruistically believe that what little they raise can make a difference to another struggling organization. And they may be right.

But I’m not convinced… I’m not sure that doing this doesn’t just reinforce the idea of writing as folly, hobby, something readers can & should get for free… unless its by someone a major publishing house has told them they should pay for.  I know that no one goes into writing for money… but why must writers always be hobbyists, why must we exhaust ourselves at full-time jobs so that we can pay the bills, so that we can live, so that we can write. Why can’t we try to get a least a little compensation for all the hours, heartache, tears, and papercuts we endure as artists.

Everyone else does it. I know its hard for some of us to understand that people who are scientists, engineers, and technologists are really passionate artists in the work they do. Only they make medicines and machines, and they don’t give them away for free just because they loved the process of creating and because they are so impressed with what they made. Hells no. If that was the case, everyone would have a car, a computer, and an iPod.

Maybe that’s over-simplified. And maybe not. All I know is when I buy a book or go to an event, when I’m really impressed by a writer, I feel great knowing that writer is going to get a little compensation for a job well done. A writer who needs that money to keep doing the best damn job she can. Making art. Putting it out there, in people’s faces, saying I am worth something. I am valuable. Listen to me.

The first time I read this was almost 10 years ago at the urging of the Little Mister (long before he was the Little Mister), who had read it at the urging of his good friend and college roommate Uncle John.

The first sentence definitely gave me pause:

I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice–not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.

It’s a rather daunting opener, especially for a recovering Catholic, religiously ambivalent college student, as I was at the time. The last thing I wanted was to be preached at by some peice of Christian propoganda masquerading as a regular ole novel. (I hadn’t yet read any John Irving, so for all I knew he was the Christians’ answer to L. Ron Hubbard.) Alas, I read on, and I’m so glad I did. I loved it. It immediately became my favorite book.

Last week, I decided to re-read it, to see if it still held up to my self-induced hype. I wasn’t really surprised to find that it did.

I remembered the first 100-150 pages being slow. In fact, I’d tried to re-read it a few times over the past 9 or 10 years and just hadn’t been able to plow through the beginning. But this is John Irving. His novels are expansive — and Owen Meany is one of the broadest (at least of those I’ve read). The novel’s fodder includes at least four religions, a small town’s history, the Vietnam War, and the Iran-Contra affair — to name a few of its biggest elements. There’s questionable parentage, there’s martyrdom, there’s Irving’s characteristic inclusion of some odd and uncomfortable sexuality… there’s ALOT going on. So, sometimes the base-building for all of that requires a bit of patience from the reader… but the reason I allow it, and even applaud it, is that all of that foundation pays off in the end. Irving chooses every detail, every word with precision — and although there are many words, many many details, none are wasteful or unnecessary.

The thing about this book that gets me every time is how it makes me feel when I’m finished. I’m more than satisfied. I feel changed. Despite that first sentence, the book is not Christian propoganda. But it is a close consideration of faith, hope, belief. Owen Meany believes he is an instrument of God. He believes he knows when he’s going to die, and how, and his unwavering faith in God gives him the “knowledge” that his death is going to be important and heroic. Although noone really believes Owen, they respect and admire him. Despite his diminutive size, Owen is an extraordinarily charismatic and commanding presence. But, despite the Christ-Owen connections that are drawn throughout the novel, Owen is neither inhuman nor infallible. There are several times in the book when I just didn’t *understand* why or how Owen could do what he’s doing. He’s smarter than that. He’s got more at stake, he should know better, I would think to myself. Or else he would just act in a way that was mean, just plain mean. But Owen’s a kid. And kid’s do stupid things. They make mistakes. And that’s what makes Owen so real.

But ultimately, this isn’t a story about Owen Meany. It’s about Johnny Wheelwright, Owen’s best friend and the novel’s narrator, who unlike Owen doesn’t believe in much of anything. Johnny lacks any real religious, ethical, or moral conviction. In one of the book’s most hilarious and important passages, Johnny is cast (by Owen, no less) as Joseph in the Episcopal Church’s annual Christmas pageant. And Johnny says of himself, “I am only a Joseph. It’s all I’ve ever been and all I ever will be.” Meaning, he is a bystander. He is not a major player. He doesn’t make the important decisions, but he goes along with what happens, with those decisions that are made for him. Whether you take issue with this view of the Biblical Joseph, it shouldn’t really matter. The point is that Johnny is vanilla. He is everyman. He is critical of Americans and American policy, but despite spending a great many years in Canada, he’s as American as they come. He’s a devout Anglican, but he’s still as faithless as ever. He believes in one thing: Owen Meany. He believes in Owen’s miracle and that miracle gives him faith, or so he says, in God.

For me, that’s the real meat of the book. What is faith? What does it mean to have faith? This book demands of its reader that you believe miracles are possible. That’s what Owen demands of his friends. But just as its hard for us to suspend our disbelief, it is near impossible for Owen’s friends to believe that he’s not a little crazy. Until he proves them wrong. Then they believe, then they are faithful… and I wonder, how valid is that faith if it is only based on having some proof? But we are all Johnny Wheelwrights — all waiting for some proof. Otherwise, why would be so worried about whether or not there are remains of Jesus in some cave somewhere? Why would we be so concerned about Jesus’ secrets? Why would the Da Vinci Code still be selling like hotcakes? We all want something tangible. And we’re usually willing to take what we can get. And we’ll stand around with our thumbs hooked into our belts, staring mutely off into nowhere, till we get it.

And what about Owen? What makes Owen’s faith so strong? Visions, dreams and stories that he’s held onto since he was a boy. Owen believes he’s going to be a hero. He doesn’t have any tangible proof — and so his faith seems stronger. But does that make faith easier — believing your pre-ordained for greatness? Or is that the story that a physically unfortunate boy needs to believe? And does it matter, either way, if that belief leads a person to lead a life of purpose with great conviction?

Either way, when I finish this book, I am reminded of the importance of faith, of the need to hope for miracles — and of how difficult both of those are to really achieve. The first time I read it, I just came away feeling moved. Reading it a second time revealed these layers of questions. Ultimately, I believe that what Owen Meany teaches is that is less important what you believe, but that you believe something — and that you live your life as if it has a consequence beyond yourself. It is a lesson that so many of us could stand to have repeated.

But a few weeks ago, a line of dialogue popped into my head — the opening of a short story. Now, I’ve had ideas for short stories, but they usually come and go. The fascination fades after I realize that I’m only vaguely masking some incidents out of my own life and that I can’t sustain a story (or my own interest) beyond a few paragraphs. So, with this history, I didn’t even bother to write down the line of dialogue that popped into my head. I figured if I didn’t bother it, it wouldn’t bother me and we’d both go peaceably in our separate directions.

Not so. The dialogue kept coming back… and with it came a few characters, and they brought along all their baggage and personality quirks. They begged for attention — I would find myself thinking about them in the shower, talking about them (to myself) while I drove. They live in the 90s, so they forced me to start listening grunge & garage rock, circa 95-97. (Hello again, Weezer.)

After two weeks of relentless dogging, a few days ago I gave in and started actually writing the story. All told, I spent about 7 hours on it, in that one day, writing into the wee hours. It kicked my ass. I was so exhausted yesterday that I didn’t even attempt to go back to it and finish. That’s for today.

Wish me luck. If I actually get it done, it will be the first story I’ve written and finished since grade school. Phew!

Some folks may be familiar with PoetryClass, an old blog that I’ve kinda abandoned. This blog won’t be quite as thematically focused, but I’m sure to climb up on my soapbox every once in a while.

Otherwise, you can expect event notices and reviews, news about where and what I’m publishing, and general ramblings about what I’m doing, reading, listening to, watching. You should also keep your eyes out for photographic examples of my domestic prowess, including my knitting and baking exploits. Woohoo. Hold onto your hair!