I would like like to address those Bahá’ís who wish to write stories and novels, and to some extent, plays (poetry is an altogether different matter), caution against some pitfalls, and offer some words of encouragement.
The worst mistake and the one to avoid the most is to be didactic, to make the story an excuse for teaching the Faith. As all Bahá’ís are exhorted to teach the Faith and are in varying degrees eager to do so, it may seem only natural to think of fiction as a way of reaching a wide public for disseminating Bahá’í ideas. There are already a number of science fiction books in circulation written by Bahá’ís which examine Bahá’í principles in futuristic settings, and there is certainly a large market out there for inspirational books, either of purely Christian ideals or the pseudo-mystical exoticism of writers such as Paulo Coelho, but here I wish to deal with books with higher artistic aspirations, those that attempt to plumb the depths of the human soul, to express the inexpressible, make others see what they themselves are searching for, to find the truly beautiful.
Another mistake would be to make the Bahá’í characters in a story paragons of virtue, perfect exemplars of an ideal Bahá’í life, better than anyone else, holier-than-thou; worse still, mouthpieces for the teachings of the Faith, for not only would that be poor fiction, but who would want to read it? Virtually any story you can name is in large part about the consequences of breaking one or more of the Ten Commandments or succumbing to one of the Seven Deadly Sins, and the staple of television fare is people lying and misrepresenting themselves in seeking fame, fortune, and other objects of their desires, or simply trying to save face. No, the arts have various rules of their own, which are not above spiritual principles, but are different in nature. Characters themselves may and must hold to certain beliefs, but as soon as they are puppets to an author’s agenda, readers can sniff it out and lose interest. They accuse the author of preaching rather than telling a real human drama. So if, for instance, you wish to show the superiority of consultation in solving the problems of everything from family crises to international conflagrations, you must find a way to make it part and parcel of a human drama that really grabs people’s attention and can hold it.
A story, among other things, needs suspense, conflict, moral ambiguities/dilemmas, temptation, ghosts, mistaken identity, sexual tension, betrayals, class struggle, greed, aggression, longing and the perils of romance to grip the reader and move the plot, all of which and more are absent or unequivocal in Divine Revelation but which consume the inner and outer lives of humans. Spiritual teachings are the antidote to the fires raging within, but oddly resist being the denouement even in a voyage of self-discovery. Witness the drama of Raskolnikov’s purgatory in the aftermath of the murder he committed in Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and the flat and unsatisfying redemption and revivification in the arms of Sophie, the soulful prostitute, in Siberia. There are many instructional manuals on how to write fiction, among the best being those of Eudora Welty and Jack Hodgins, and above and beyond that one must read many good books, dissect them to find their inner workings, and then transmogrify one’s experiences and perceptions into stories that will delight, astonish, and challenge others.
The very best model I know of a writer who weaves religion into his work in a meaningful and artistic way, making faith, religious principles, and the moral and ethical struggles of breathing human beings the warp and woof of the fabric of narrative and plot is Isaac Bashevis Singer, a Jew from Poland who moved to New York and wrote in Yiddish, but whose works are all available in English. Almost any of his many novels and stories are a clinic in how to do this, perhaps most notably Satan in Goray or The Slave. There are a handful of others, of course, such as Tolstoy, and I would particularly like to mention Canadian author Miriam Toews’ novel A Complicated Kindness, in a Mennonite setting, quirky and hilarious – how about a shunning booth at the local fair?
And herein is a particularly Bahá’í quandary: at present any book with Bahá’í content written by a Bahá’í must pass a review for accuracy of content before it can be published. The irony of this, of course, is that a non- Bahá’í can write anything about the Faith with impunity, while a believer cannot. (I shall refrain here from examining the very important question of the fate of such a writer in the next world.) And National Review Committees have up until now received only a small number of submissions of literary fiction dealing with the Faith – the overwhelming majority of them are non-fiction. Therefore these committees need the challenge of more experience, for it is a relatively simple matter to review a non-fiction work for Bahá’í accuracy compared to the snake pits of the ways people, even in fiction, are compelled to live in this world. The committees’ roles are complicated when there are Bahá’ís in the stories lead lives that are not in line with the Teachings of the Faith, and since the majority of the world’s population are yet to be familiar with these Teachings, the author must make clear the difference between the principles and laws on the one hand, and the characters’ behaviour on the other. If the author fails on this point, it is likely to be rejected by the committee, for at this juncture, a bestseller featuring a swashbuckling Bahá’í character who loves wine, gambling, making war and whoopee and then raises up trade unions and runs for Governor of the state would be injurious to the profile of the Faith. There are Bahá’í artists that cry “censorship!” and their views on artistic freedom put them to a mighty test of obedience.
One last piece of advice: read The Saddlebag by Bahiyyih Nakhjavání, a very fine piece of literature by a Bahá’í author.
The worst mistake and the one to avoid the most is to be didactic, to make the story an excuse for teaching the Faith. As all Bahá’ís are exhorted to teach the Faith and are in varying degrees eager to do so, it may seem only natural to think of fiction as a way of reaching a wide public for disseminating Bahá’í ideas. There are already a number of science fiction books in circulation written by Bahá’ís which examine Bahá’í principles in futuristic settings, and there is certainly a large market out there for inspirational books, either of purely Christian ideals or the pseudo-mystical exoticism of writers such as Paulo Coelho, but here I wish to deal with books with higher artistic aspirations, those that attempt to plumb the depths of the human soul, to express the inexpressible, make others see what they themselves are searching for, to find the truly beautiful.
Another mistake would be to make the Bahá’í characters in a story paragons of virtue, perfect exemplars of an ideal Bahá’í life, better than anyone else, holier-than-thou; worse still, mouthpieces for the teachings of the Faith, for not only would that be poor fiction, but who would want to read it? Virtually any story you can name is in large part about the consequences of breaking one or more of the Ten Commandments or succumbing to one of the Seven Deadly Sins, and the staple of television fare is people lying and misrepresenting themselves in seeking fame, fortune, and other objects of their desires, or simply trying to save face. No, the arts have various rules of their own, which are not above spiritual principles, but are different in nature. Characters themselves may and must hold to certain beliefs, but as soon as they are puppets to an author’s agenda, readers can sniff it out and lose interest. They accuse the author of preaching rather than telling a real human drama. So if, for instance, you wish to show the superiority of consultation in solving the problems of everything from family crises to international conflagrations, you must find a way to make it part and parcel of a human drama that really grabs people’s attention and can hold it.
A story, among other things, needs suspense, conflict, moral ambiguities/dilemmas, temptation, ghosts, mistaken identity, sexual tension, betrayals, class struggle, greed, aggression, longing and the perils of romance to grip the reader and move the plot, all of which and more are absent or unequivocal in Divine Revelation but which consume the inner and outer lives of humans. Spiritual teachings are the antidote to the fires raging within, but oddly resist being the denouement even in a voyage of self-discovery. Witness the drama of Raskolnikov’s purgatory in the aftermath of the murder he committed in Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and the flat and unsatisfying redemption and revivification in the arms of Sophie, the soulful prostitute, in Siberia. There are many instructional manuals on how to write fiction, among the best being those of Eudora Welty and Jack Hodgins, and above and beyond that one must read many good books, dissect them to find their inner workings, and then transmogrify one’s experiences and perceptions into stories that will delight, astonish, and challenge others.
The very best model I know of a writer who weaves religion into his work in a meaningful and artistic way, making faith, religious principles, and the moral and ethical struggles of breathing human beings the warp and woof of the fabric of narrative and plot is Isaac Bashevis Singer, a Jew from Poland who moved to New York and wrote in Yiddish, but whose works are all available in English. Almost any of his many novels and stories are a clinic in how to do this, perhaps most notably Satan in Goray or The Slave. There are a handful of others, of course, such as Tolstoy, and I would particularly like to mention Canadian author Miriam Toews’ novel A Complicated Kindness, in a Mennonite setting, quirky and hilarious – how about a shunning booth at the local fair?
And herein is a particularly Bahá’í quandary: at present any book with Bahá’í content written by a Bahá’í must pass a review for accuracy of content before it can be published. The irony of this, of course, is that a non- Bahá’í can write anything about the Faith with impunity, while a believer cannot. (I shall refrain here from examining the very important question of the fate of such a writer in the next world.) And National Review Committees have up until now received only a small number of submissions of literary fiction dealing with the Faith – the overwhelming majority of them are non-fiction. Therefore these committees need the challenge of more experience, for it is a relatively simple matter to review a non-fiction work for Bahá’í accuracy compared to the snake pits of the ways people, even in fiction, are compelled to live in this world. The committees’ roles are complicated when there are Bahá’ís in the stories lead lives that are not in line with the Teachings of the Faith, and since the majority of the world’s population are yet to be familiar with these Teachings, the author must make clear the difference between the principles and laws on the one hand, and the characters’ behaviour on the other. If the author fails on this point, it is likely to be rejected by the committee, for at this juncture, a bestseller featuring a swashbuckling Bahá’í character who loves wine, gambling, making war and whoopee and then raises up trade unions and runs for Governor of the state would be injurious to the profile of the Faith. There are Bahá’í artists that cry “censorship!” and their views on artistic freedom put them to a mighty test of obedience.
One last piece of advice: read The Saddlebag by Bahiyyih Nakhjavání, a very fine piece of literature by a Bahá’í author.
2 comments:
Hi Geza,
Very good advise to Baha'i writers. You are a very good writer. I look forward to your work of fiction.
Happy New Year, Gord Britton
I was floored when my book passed review because it is a fantasy adventure with a lot of Baha'i underpinnings rather than a book about Baha'is. I had really done everything I could to tell the review people they didn't want to look at it (sort of anti-marketing on my part), and the more I said, the more interested they were. They said the reason we didn't see more fiction through either the public or the to-Baha'is section of the Distribution Service is that they just don't see that much good fiction. So I would encourage people to try! They were extremely kind, not only OKing this one but saying they were excited to see where this quest fantasy goes next.
One of the things I was hesitant about was that there is some fantasy-type violence, although very minimal (more like Tolkien than like Robert Jordan) and a smattering of romantic drivel (I've seen it characterized by adult reviewers as "sensual elements" but younger readers typically haven't commented on it. So, yes, I guess the characters don't have to be iconic and squeaky clean for material to pass review (although, again, this is a matter of fantasy characters rather than they-could-be-real Baha'is being represented, so that might make a difference).
As is suggested here, I tried not to be preachy, and tried to do a lot of the showing-not-telling thing where I was trying to get a point across. An underlying theme is the forging of bonds amongst disparate people (these guys are all strangers from different cultures when the goddess who sees to such things tags them for the quest). A part of the spiritual texture that a lot of people have commented favorably upon is that I really tried hard to develop the cultures, and for me a big part of that is developing theology. In the case of the primary world here, magic is very tied up with theology (sort of a misuse-it-and-lose-it thing), and magic really only came about as a result of civilization maturing (so what this culture is is a fantasy-tweaked fully realized civilization of the future as envisioned by Baha'u'llah. I'm getting the next volume ready, and (deep breath on this one and hoping the publisher doesn't flip out and refer me to someone like Bethany House) have had a lot of fun brushing up the conversation between two of the characters in which one is talking about his belief that he is living in his own world's "end times" and that he believes his world's Promised One has been born. He hopes his vision will be clear enough that he will find and embrace this figure when he returns after this quest (which spans quite a bit of time and space) is complete.
Again, hoping it's not preachy, but I'm so sick of the post-Apocalyptic genre where plots and characters are twisted beyond belief and you want to commit suicide by the time you're done reading that I wanted to do anti-dark fiction. There have to be dark moments and tension or you don't have a plot, but I wanted to end each adventure with a feeling of hope in a brighter tomorrow.
Happy to cough up at least electronic copy if anyone wants a looks. I'd be happy for constructive criticism on preachiness now that the second one is about to go to editorial!
Karen/minissa
(You can read the prologue and first two chapters at the book's site at www.chaliceoflife.com; book is called The Chalice of Life, a term that may be familiar from the Kitab-i-Ahd.
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