Today we pick up the tale of “How I Became R. A. Nelson” in high school.
I was beginning to explore my identity as a poet, and I was still writing stories, mostly for school. My academic years proved a fruitful time for me as a writer, providing me opportunities to write both for school assignments and extracurricular contests, some of which I won. (Yay, recognition!) Most of my stories were a) longer than the assignment (or contest deadlines) called for; and b) overtly Christian in theme.
At that point in my artistic and spiritual development, I believed it was my responsibility as a Christian writer to declare my faith overtly every time I put pen to paper. Example: in middle school, I had a fabulous language arts teacher (blessings upon Mrs. Stark, wherever she is!) for two years who firmly believed in the importance of creative writing and worked it into our literature response assignments. For our unit on Edgar Allan Poe, she had us re-write his stories from a different character’s point of view.
I chose to re-write The Tell-Tale Heart from the point of view of a character of my own creation: the demon Self-Ruination.
I even began and ended the story with letters from his demon general. The opening letter assigned him the Tell-Tale Heart narrator as a victim; the closing letter congratulated him on his success and told him his new assignment was a writer named Edgar Allan Poe.
I hadn’t even read Screwtape Letters yet, but I was a big Frank Peretti fan. Maybe that explains it.
For a while, I thought my first novel would come from one of the stories I wrote for that class. I forget the exact assignment, but I wrote – and read aloud for my fellow thirteen-year-olds – a long story based on my imagining of the events in Revelation 13. (The Book of Revelation, the last book of the Bible, concerns apocalyptic events and contains pages of vivid imagery that have provided inspiration for artists of all sorts for centuries.) The story was called Revealed (note the subtle and clever reference to “Revelation”), and I was rather attached to it. It felt dark and gritty and grown-up, and it contained a really cool chase scene of which I was (somewhat justifiably) proud.
I planned for years to turn it into a novel called The Sign of the Lamb; and, one summer during high school, I decided to go for it. I actually sketched an outline and wrote a few chapters before realizing that I was both far out of my depth and in way over my head. I vividly remember the moment when sixteen-year-old Ruth, sitting at her desk in her room in Massachusetts, had her own revelation:
This is a global-scale story, about governments and armies and the end of the world. I don’t think I can do this.
And, moments later:
I don’t think I want to do this.
I abandoned The Sign of the Lamb, comforting myself with the knowledge that Tim LaHaye, Jerry Jenkins, and their Left Behind folk had left very little literary territory uncovered on that subject anyway. (I still might use that chase scene in some future novel, though.)
Shortly after this, the Lord of the Rings films were released.
I have tried many times in speech and writing to express the depth of what these stories mean to me, and I always end by feeling anew the inability of words to capture the inexpressible. The books have my first love, of course – I read them for the first time in middle school and have been searching the woods for Elves ever since – but the films brought the stories to life in a vibrant way that utterly captured my heart and bewitched my senses.
It is not an overstatement to declare that, during the three years of the trilogy’s release, part of my mind was always – ALWAYS – in Middle Earth. I read and re-read the books, feverishly and compulsively watched teasers and trailers as they appeared, visited fan sites daily, and attended midnight releases in costume. And, somehow, throughout that heady time, another revelation – a much slower and deeper one than my Sign of the Lamb epiphany – was occurring.
I realized that the stories that meant the most to me – the tales that gripped me and would not let go, and from which I did not want ever to be free – were not explicitly “Christian” in subject matter. They were often written by Christians, but these authors did not seem to feel the same burden of necessary declamation that I did. Rather than blazing down on the tale as a glaring spotlight, the faith of these writers seemed to be an exquisite stained glass window through which the stories shone, illuminating and informing every word and conveying truth and beauty far more wondrously and winsomely than I had ever been able to.
I would not be able to articulate it for years, but I believe this was the beginning of my artistic awakening – a crucial step in discovering “R. A. Nelson” and what I hope she will become.
You see, Tolkien taught me what Beauty is. His stories both exalted and grounded my soul, showing me that it is important to wander through the woods singing with the Elves and also – equally – important to enjoy a hearty meal and a simple laugh with friends. He gave me a whole world to explore and through which to see the “real” world more truly and fully. This is similar to how I feel about Narnia, but it has always been deeper and richer with Tolkien, somehow. Some quotes from The Hobbit have served as foundational themes for my adult life, particularly in these past few years:
“‘If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.'”
“‘You are a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all!’
‘Thank goodness!’ said Bilbo laughing, and handed him the tobacco jar.”
Furthermore, Tolkien never mentions the gospel explicitly in his works. He does not even use thinly veiled allegory, as Lewis does so masterfully in The Chronicles of Narnia. Instead, I believe Tolkien thought fairy tales a means of “clearing the way” – preparing people’s hearts and minds to think and feel these deep, exalted themes, and thus to be more ready and open when the gospel comes along. Lewis described his own work as “praeparatio evangelica” – preparation for the gospel, not the gospel itself. I believe this applies to Tolkien also, and I want my work to be like this.
Finally, as Tolkien taught me what Beauty is, he also inspired me to seek it and translate it for others. I want to be a Storyteller – a Gatekeeper into Truth and Beauty and Mystery and Delight, just as he was for me. To this day, I judge artistic work based on how The Lord of the Rings makes me feel; a quote from Return of the King says it best:
“…their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness.”
If, someday, some work of R. A. Nelson’s makes even one person feel like that, I will consider my goal met and my lifelong dream fulfilled.
Until then, I shall keep putting pen to paper, praying all the while that my faith will be a clear and colourful lens through which each story’s light can shine.
Thank you, as always, dear reader, for joining me on this tricksy and transformative journey.
I have waited eagerly for your next blog. You have given me more than even I had hoped. Tears, again. Tears of joy!!L
I am heart-glad. 🙂
Love you and your heart and your celebration of beauty!!
Love. 🙂
I recognize some of those thoughts on the glory of Tolkien. 😉 But, in all seriousness, this blog touched me in many different ways. Your journey as a writer is something that I both relate to and aspire towards. If I achieve even a bit of your author-awesomeness, I will be a happy ‘gal.
That interview did prove useful…:-)
there are many journeys we take as we travel along this life, and catching these glimpses into this journey of yours has been truly inspirational.