When bad reviews happen to aspiring writers: a pep talk

It's finally happened...every writer's worst nightmare. The time when someone who doesn't know you has something negative to say about your book. Or, in my case, gives a 1-star rating without a review (yet) that affects the overall star average on Goodreads. For those of us who have spent our entire lives dreaming of becoming writers, this can be tragic.

Or is it? On the one hand, negative book reviews can provide opportunities for growth. If something about my plot really was weak, a constructive critique can help me improve as a writer. But sometimes there is nothing helpful to be gleaned, and that is a time when I need to realize that I can't please everyone. What some readers hate about my book(s), others may love the most about them. There are negative reviews for JK Rowling, Stephen King, Jane Austen, and other writers that the majority of society considers "great." But then there are books that many bibliophiles admit are not very well-written, yet they still sell in droves (even Snooki from Jersey Shore is a "best-selling" author now).

So this raises a valid question...what is good writing, and how can I learn it?

The answer to that question is highly subjective, and always will be. But part of solving that mystery lies in what genre you choose to write about. Certain genres demand certain expectations. As a YA writer, that's not easy to pin down, as young adults can find themselves in mysteries, romances, fantasy, etc. I know what I like, and it's rare for me to read a book in a genre I enjoy and hate everything about it. But clearly, not every enjoyable book is classified as a favorite.

For me, "good writing" is more about the author than the structure. If the author really enjoys what they do, it will show up in their work. Guaranteed. It's the difference between having a teacher who truly loves her students, and an older, tenured professor who keeps showing up just to collect his retirement. Writers see the world differently, and hopefully our books will attest to that fact.

There's no such thing as a truly original plot; only repeated plots with unique twists. I enjoy those books, but I also enjoy books that are more focused on character development than plot, and affirm the human experience...books that expertly capture love, loneliness, anger, and personal growth as only someone who has been there can. A book doesn't have to be "original" for me to enjoy it; if I can relate to a character, and close the book with a comforting sense that I'm not alone, the author has done his/her job well.

It's easier for me to characterize "good books" over "bad books." Obviously I'm biased when it comes to my own. I write about what's important to me, which is all I can do. All books have traits that are quirky and interesting to some readers, and complete turn-offs to others...just like people do.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 4

Enjoy chapter 4 of "Public Displays of Convention"! Catch up on previous chapters here.

     Spring-cleaning has come early this year. It felt so liberating to take down all the pictures, delete all the emails, and erase Jared’s contact information from my phone. However, there are still the contents of my “memento box” to deal with. Much more personal than photographs and text messages, this is a box that contains artifacts from every person who has ever meant something special to me: birthday and Christmas cards from Tess, the collar that belonged to my first pet, even the ticket stub from the movie I saw with my first boyfriend back in ninth grade.

     The majority of the contents in this box actually aren’t from Jared, but there are enough birthday cards and pictures of him to keep me away for now. I don’t trust myself to throw those things away without reliving the way I felt when I first received them. Doing so would crush me all over again, even though he’s been nothing like the person who sent them for a long, long time.

     After another tiring day of class, I come back to the dorm with the intent of going to bed early. My plans are thwarted by an unexpected distraction: Collin is in the lounge, talking to a guy who lives down the hall. To say I’m shocked is quite an understatement. I wait in the stairwell for a few minutes, but it doesn’t seem like he’s leaving any time soon. There is no choice but to walk briskly past him, and pray I’m not recognized.

     Just when I think I sneaked by unnoticed, I hear him call out “Hey, AK-47! What are you doing here?”

     I grit my teeth and stiffly reply, “I live here.”

     “Oh yeah? Well I live here too, three floors up! I was just visiting my buddy Eric here.”

     The guy I presume to be Eric stands up, informing Collin he’s stepping outside for a smoke. How convenient. Once he leaves, it’s just the two of us alone in the lounge. I can’t explain how or why, but I think I’m starting to smell trouble.

     “Nice pin” Collin tells me, pointing to the mockingjay on my bag. “Big Hunger Games fan, huh? That’s cute.”

     I’m about to defend my strong devotion to the series, but decide against it at the last second. Now that we are out of the cold, he’s wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt. “Says the guy with Lion King characters tattooed on his arm,” I retort.

     “Well I’ll have you know that Lion King was the last movie I got to watch with my grandpa before he died. Mufasa reminds me of him.”

     Holy crap. “I…wow, I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry –”

     “Psyche! My grandpa is still alive. I just wanted to see your reaction.”

     “You’re an ass-hat.”

     “Aww, come on now. Can you at least admit I’m a cute ass-hat?”

     “Well,” I stumble. “I guess, since you said my pin was cute…”

     Wait wait wait – am I flirting with this guy? Someone I only met two days ago? And is he flirting with me? What am I doing?

     It’s quite shameless, open flirting. There is no way to deny otherwise. I am completely without excuse, other than having my heart blasted to smithereens by the man I loved for the last four years, rendering me temporarily senseless. I’m not the sort of girl who goes looking for rebounds, but I can’t stop myself from feeling oddly flattered by Collin’s unexpected attention. Dangerously, dangerously flattered.

     Having stood up and moved closer to me during this exchange, I realize Collin is close enough to kiss me. Something in his manner tells me if I were to look up at him the right way, it could happen. If I were truly calculating and shameless, I could play this so we end up not only making out, but going back to his room or mine, for God knows what.

     With a clearer mind now than when we first met, I notice he is attractive, in a nerdy sort of way. The giant Mufasa tattoo on his bicep is kind of a turn-off, simply because it’s too big for my taste; the thought of what that will look like in twenty years makes me cringe. This banter has been amusing, but something in my gut is telling me Collin is more of a charmer than a serious dater. I don’t need any charmers right now.

     Clearing my throat, I tell him “We should go to bed.” His eyes widen, and I instantly realize my idiot mistake. “Go to bed separately,” I clarify. “It’s almost ten o’clock.” Good grief, could I sound dumber if I tried?

     “Right, right,” he replies, laughing. Honestly, I don’t get the impression that he would have objected if I meant what I’d originally said.

     Reaching out with both hands, he holds my arms like he’s about to pull me toward him. My breath quickens, and I keep my gaze focused on the floor so there’s no temptation to kiss him. Before I can say anything else, he folds me into a quick hug that almost turns me to Jello. He breaks away just as quickly with an abrupt “Goodnight!” and disappears down the hall, toward the elevator. I do the same, to my end of the hall, not allowing myself to think too deeply on what just happened, or could have happened.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 3

Catch up on previous chapters under the "Books by Sarahbeth" tab. 

After two weeks of sulking, I resolve to start positive today. I think I cried more during those two weeks than I did in the last year. At first it felt good to let out that pent-up, overdue grief, but after a while my body ached, and I actually began to crave productivity.

     Or at least I thought I did. I made the mistake of checking my email before class this morning, something I don’t usually do because it ends up making me late. My heart leapt into my throat when I saw a new message from Jared, and without Tess there to hold me accountable, I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to delete it without reading it.

     My day had barely started, but these words have now been seared into my mind: “You’re just going to act like a child and delete me from your life, is that how it’s going to be?” I can’t imagine what more he has to gain by keeping me around. He has someone else now, what does he need me for? Does he really think I’ll be fine with simply being “friends”? Or, more likely, does he enjoy the hold he knows he still has over me?

     I won’t respond to his message now, if at all. Not when my emotions are all stirred up again. Turning off my computer, I grab my bag and head to class, but at the end of the lecture, I barely remember any of it. I’m angry all over again; just when I thought the worst part of the grieving had passed.

     This is how I know just how deeply I am wounded: after changing into sweatpants and an old T-shirt, I walk briskly toward the campus track and start jogging. I hate jogging; Jared knew this. The only thing that can propel me to move faster than speed walking is someone chasing me with a sharp object.

     I probably look like a crazed idiot, but adrenaline compels me to keep pounding against the pavement, not caring who sees. I imagine fleeing from every dark moment with Jared that made me question my worth, and I imagine that I’m running him over.

     Actually, I do succeed in running someone over. It must not be a great idea to run when your heart is splintering, when all you see in front of you is pure red. The unexpected thud of my face meeting someone else’s chest happens so suddenly, we both collapse on the ground in an ungraceful heap. Wind bursts out of my lungs so painfully I can’t respond for several minutes when a male voice asks, “Are you okay?”

     Completely embarrassed, I fervently nod yes. “I – I’m all right. Just a…a little shocked.”

     How sad that this man should know I’m a terrible liar before even knowing my name. “You don’t look all right. You look upset.”

     His concern is not unwarranted, but it irks me anyway. “I’m just not used to jogging.”

     “Yeah, well I’m not used to running into pretty girls who look like they’re about to implode. What’s your name?”

     Did he just call me pretty? “I’m Anna-Kate.”                               

     “Nice to meet you, Anna. I’m Collin.”

     I sigh heavily, having to correct someone yet again for not understanding my double-barreled first name, the bane of my miserable existence. “No, it’s Anna-Kate. It’s hyphenated.”

     “Ahh, one of those girls. Okay, Anna-Kate. Is it okay if I call you AK? No, wait.” A menacing twinkle sparkles in his eyes. “I think I’ll call you AK-47 for the way you clobbered me.”

     On a better day, under completely different circumstances, I might have found this amusing. But not today. “Umm, yeah, whatever.” Not like it matters. After this confrontation, the most awkward, literal confrontation of my life, it doesn’t matter what he calls me since I’m highly unlikely to ever see him again.

     Reluctantly, I allow Collin to help me up. “Shoot straight next time,” he says, and with a strange wink he proceeds to sprint away, leaving me to hobble on a scraped knee back to my dorm. I hope I never run into – I mean, see him, again. It’s a decent-sized campus, so I suppose the odds of that are in my favor.

     After I’ve showered and made myself a cup of tea, I sit down to tackle Jared’s email. After careful consideration, I type, “We both know that what we had wasn’t healthy, and I need to get over you. So if you love me like you say you do, please just leave me alone.” Without any hesitation, I click the “send” button. Still, I wonder now if I said too much, or perhaps not enough to accurately convey the hurt I feel. As furious as I am, I don’t want to appear scathing or vindictive. I can’t let him think that I’ll wither into a bitter, shriveled excuse for a woman because I don’t have him anymore. I should be done caring what he thinks.

     Perhaps I should have been clearer that this separation is meant to be permanent. I should have left no doubt that he is not welcome in my life anymore, with or without a new girlfriend in the picture. But even if he tries to crawl back into my good graces, hopefully by then I will reach a point where the thought of taking him back is not the slightest bit tempting.

No heritage left behind? Post-"conversion" thoughts

My first book "Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter" has undergone a slight makeover recently. I finally got around to correcting the grammatical errors that aren't uncommon for a first-time, self-published author's debut. This meant re-reading the entire manuscript with fresher eyes, and as I did so, I realized a few things. Mainly, I don't quite have the same strong beliefs as I did when I first wrote it. I'm also more confident in other beliefs that I was still unsure about at publication time.

Considering the book is barely two years old, it surprises me how much has changed since then. But living at seminary will do that to you. As a "baby Christian" explaining how my spiritual turnabout happened, I wrote as if I was trying to convince myself that Christianity was the ultimate fulfillment of Judaism. This is what my new Christian friends told me, and it made me feel slightly better about myself. I didn't have to compromise as much as I thought. Christianity and Judaism cross paths with each other in history: no one can argue that. The change would not be as radical if, say, I was going from Judaism to Hinduism.

But the "Jewish Christian" or "Hebrew Christian" label never sat well with me. In fact, I didn't really understand why it was so important to hold on to something -- anything -- Jewish in the first place. Never in my life have I ever been a "religious Jew." I suppose it had more to do with appeasing my family and remaining Jewish friends; I didn't want them thinking I went completely off the deep end.

Then seminary happened. My immersion into Christian culture has been, shall we say, not so graceful. "Christian-ese" language, and pretty much everything having to do with Christian culture, drove me nuts. And that makes sense, considering I spent most of my life making fun of it. Now I'm a Christian, and I'm supposed to forget how it made me feel to hear people talk about me being a "non-believer," as if I didn't believe in anything, and hearing phrases like "bathed in the blood," which just sounds cult-ish and creepy to people outside the church? This language was so off-putting to me then, and it still is now. In addition to not knowing what any of it meant, it also implied an air of exclusivity: "First you join our club, then we'll let you know what we're talking about."

Okay, so it's not like Jewish culture doesn't have its own "air of exclusivity," with words like "kvetch" that sound like a sneeze to gentile ears. What can I say? I know I'm biased.

I started to long for my Jewish culture again -- because there's more spice and history in words like "chutzpah" than in any other "ism" I've heard in church (personal opinion). Quite honestly, I miss having Jewish friends: to joke with, to commiserate with, to bond with. But to miss the culture is to ultimately miss the religion itself: something I didn't completely internalize until my father got really sick this summer, and I had to fly back to Ohio. It felt like a metaphorical return to my roots: something I owed to myself after trying to assimilate in foreign territory for so long.

Long story short: it just isn't that easy.

Some of my Christian friends at seminary will still try to convince me I can have it both ways: they try to tell me I'm a "completed Jew." I've been called a heretic for strongly disagreeing with that wording. Only those who have grown up Jewish, or studied the religion immensely, can understand just how much one gives up when they decide to embrace Christianity. I don't regret this decision at all, because I love the Christian theology of God becoming man so he can relate to me on my level. I love that so much, I am now willing to accept that such a theology is incompatible with Jewish theology. Maintaining a love for Jewish culture and being a descendant of Jewish heritage are one thing, but spiritually speaking, I know I cut myself off.

It's irrelevant to me that Jesus didn't intend to create another religion when he started his ministry. Judaism and Christianity evolved in separate directions anyway, and that is the reality we must work with.

It's not enough to convince a Jewish person that Jesus is the real Messiah: the Jewish teachings about sin are different from Christianity's, as are the doctrines about the afterlife, suffering, etc. It makes me angry how "Messianic Jews" (in my experience, the people who use this title are actually full-blooded gentiles who "have a heart" for Judaism) dismiss all that, as if it's all so simple. It's not. Theology -- any theology -- is already messy, but combining two religions as one is even messier. Not to mention impossible.

Of course, people who disagree are free to believe what they want. I just have to put my foot down when it comes to the evangelism tactic that Jews can become Christian and not lose Judaism. Yes, talk about Jesus' Jewish ancestry and what he set out to do, but couching Christianity in Jewish terms is deceptive, plain and simple.

I still wonder about the "What is a Jew" debate, and how much of Judaism, if anything, I can still claim as my own. But that doesn't mean I can't still appreciate it for what it is, and "visit" my roots by rereading my collection of Jewish books. It feels good to be somewhat more at peace with what I believe, even if complete contentment is highly unlikely in this life. Such is the summary of every conversion story: you can't ever leave your heritage behind.

"Public Displays of Convention" chapter 2

The paperback version of "Public Displays of Convention" is undergoing some maintenance, but the ebook version is up and running on Amazon. Here's chapter 2 (all previous chapters will be posted under the "Books by Sarahbeth" tab).

     I crashed on Tess’ couch that night. After only three hours of sleep, my appearance in the morning matched the way I felt. I would have slept longer, skipping my morning class, if only there wasn’t a quiz.

     My day is miserable. I wander absent-mindedly through campus, ducking into every restroom I pass when I can’t maintain a straight face. I wish I could be the kind of woman who may be going through hell, but is able to put on a façade of complacency so no one suspects a thing. But there is no way I can ever be that person.

     Back at Tess’ apartment, she has prepared an evening of sappy chick flicks and not one, but two cartons of Ben and Jerry’s. I wear my designated “fat pants” for this night of unabashedly consuming my feelings. I also haven’t showered in two days, so now I know I look as gross on the outside as I feel on the inside.

     Nonetheless, I’m surprised I can actually laugh at the movie we’re watching. Tess’ roommate brings over a small group of friends later that evening, and I am instantly embarrassed. Had I known that more people would be coming, I would have made more of an effort to look somewhat presentable. I think, judging by some of the looks I got, they are able to see that something isn’t right. Thankfully, no one asked or said anything to me.

     When the movie ends, I’m still stuffing my face with Doritos, which Tess has to forcefully pry from me – “Enough, Anna-Kate!” She then has to literally pull me up off the couch. “You and I have something we need to do.”

     “I can’t move,” I tell her. “I think I gained ten pounds in the last two hours.” Surprisingly, the other guests laugh, though somewhat cautiously.

     “Glad to see your sense of humor is back,” quips Tess. “Now up!”

     Reluctantly I stand, and a pile of crumbs fall from my lap (which I promise to clean up later). We leave our friends in the living and go to Tess’ room, where she closes the door and pulls out her laptop. “You ready for this?” she asks as it boots up.

     “No, but what choice do I have?” We sit on the floor, and I draw my knees up to my chest, trying in vain not to start up the tears again.

     “Do you want me to do it?” she asks gently.

     “Please.”

     The most I do is log in to my Facebook account, praying Jared is not online and hasn’t left me any messages that will cause me to lose my nerve – but I don’t think Tess will allow that to happen. Once that’s done – no messages waiting in my inbox – the rest is up to her, and I turn away so as not to catch any unwanted but curious glimpses of recently uploaded pictures of this new woman of his. With just a few clicks, Tess has ceremoniously removed him from my friend’s list, and un-sarcastically tells me “All done. I’m proud of you.”

     “I didn’t exactly do anything,” I say.

     “Well, you provided your account information, so if nothing else, that makes you an enabler of long-anticipated closure.”

     “Long-anticipated” is an understatement. Breaking up with Jared should have been done years ago. There are so many regretful “should have” thoughts swirling in my head that I decide against contacting him by other means to speak my final piece; some kind of well-scripted monologue about how I’ll be a better woman without him, after which I saunter off with unmistakable confidence. That’s not the woman I feel like right now. I doubt I could even pretend to pull it off.

     It helps to have friends like Tess – friends who aren’t afraid to tell you that the man you loved for four years really was a scumbag; that the woman he’s with now is probably a ditzy airhead blonde with a ditzy, airhead name like Candy, who never graduated college and works part-time at a tanning salon. More than that, the now-nameless man I used to love has damned himself to a lifetime of grief with this new woman, who has undoubtedly trapped him into a relationship by getting knocked-up accidentally-on-purpose.

     It’s nice to have friends like Tess, who draw up these ridiculous stories to make you feel better, even if you think the real reason the love of your life left you is because you aren’t good enough.

Free Preview Friday: Public Displays of Convention, chapter 1

Starting this new idea to advertise my third book, Public Displays of Convention: now available on Amazon! Every Friday will be a "Free preview Friday," where I'll post a chapter excerpt -- first half of the book only. Enjoy chapter one this week for free!

Today marks the beginning of my New Normal.

     Today, my worst nightmare is confirmed. The bottom half of my world drops instantly after reading the following message, barely an hour old on my phone: “Just wanted to tell you I’m seeing someone else now. Still care about you, though. Jared.”

     I stare at the message for a full ten minutes, thinking over and over, is this real? Our conversation from the previous afternoon is still fresh in my mind. If he cares about me as much as he claims to, how could he not have told me about this then? How could he drop this revelation on me in such a flippant, undignified way? The humiliation of this – the lack of an honorable face-to-face explanation – is more painful than the breakup itself. Anger simmers in my gut; boils into my lungs. Four years, wasted. My entire college experience.

     It’s late, but sleep is completely out of the question tonight, and there’s only one person to call.

     “Tess?” I say when she answers.  “Can I come over? I – I need to talk.”

     In best-friend-speak, this clearly means “I’m in the middle of an emergency.” Never mind that it’s barely been a few hours since we last saw each other. I feel terrible for imposing like this, but am not surprised when she says, “Of course you can, honey. You can even stay over if you want.”

     She’s a godsend, Tess Olsen – my best friend since fourth grade, and the only person I know who talks about Jesus the way most people talk about their crushes. Under her photo in our senior yearbook, where students shared their career goals, all she wrote was her ambition to become a “Proverbs 31 Woman,” with a husband and football team of children. She still has a box of letters to her future husband underneath her bed, per our teenage youth group assignment. I did that too for a while, but then gave up because…well, I had Jared.

     As her devotion deepened with age, mine seemed to waver, but she’s never judged or condemned me for it. So, somehow, our friendship still works.

     I can’t stop shaking as I pack my school bag with some overnight necessities and a change of clothes. With uneven breath, I dive straight into snowy oblivion.

     Tess’ apartment would only be a five-minute walk in normal weather, but the thick wall of snow – unusual for the end of March – makes each step heavy, and I’m a little disoriented with the wind whipping brutally at my face. Still, adrenaline keeps me trudging on.

     As tears begin to freeze on my cheeks, only one thought repeats: Why couldn’t I be the one to move on first? It sounds shamefully petty, but it’s devastatingly true. I knew Jared could never be “The One,” but I clung to him anyway, thinking it was such an honor to be chosen by a visually stunning, impossibly charming, seemingly genuine man like him. Yet, there was never a time I felt secure enough to believe I was good enough; the thought of being cast off for a woman who could match his allures was always imminent. What a self-fulfilling prophecy that was.

     Finally, I see Tess through the glass windows of her apartment lobby, and that’s when I officially lose it. Once inside her apartment, she places a box of Kleenex and a glass of water in front of me on the kitchen table, and waits for the story to begin.

     Once I start talking, the words come out in such a sloppy, tangled mess. I’m amazed she can comprehend any of it. She knows the basic story: how we met at the party of a mutual friend early in my freshman year. I was barely legal; he had just turned twenty-one, and it was love (infatuation? lust?) immediately after “Nice to meet you.”

     But there is much that she doesn’t know; much I made sure she’d never know: the way he’d tell me my opinions were ridiculous; my clothes were either too loose or too tight, revealing too much of a tempting figure, or too much of a too-fat one. The way he refused to introduce me to his other friends, or tell me anything about his family.

     I expect Tess to be angry for withholding all this from her. For a while she’d had inklings that something “wasn’t right,” but I was so careful about keeping his dark side a secret, I don’t think she had enough evidence to stage an intervention with me. By the time I finish speaking, she looks very near tears herself.

     “I feel so worthless,” I whisper.

     She shakes her head. “If only you could see what I see, Anna-Kate” she whispers back. Like a child I lay my head against her shoulder, tears still gushing. I can’t believe it’s happening like this. I knew the end had to happen sometime, and soon – but not like this. I always thought I would handle it with tact and grace. This is just pathetic.

     “Does anyone else know about this?” Tess asks.

     I don’t quite know how to answer without sounding like a fool. There were other friends, like Carrie and Liv, who knew bits and pieces of this anti-love story as it tragically unfolded, but not any more than Tess knows. I rarely talk to Carrie since she transferred schools, and I stopped mentioning Jared to Liv when, sensing my love for him was greater than his ever was for me, she told me “You’re such a smart girl, AK. But you’re acting really dumb right now.”

     Actually, that comment was enough for me to distance myself from her entirely. Now I realize how true it was, but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

     I shake my head at Tess to say “No.”

     “I know you’re feeling worthless right now,” she says. “But your worth does not depend on him. Please believe that.”

     I want to. I really, really want to. But Liv was right – I was a smart girl acting very, very stupid. Every date, every kiss with a man I knew all along was not “The One” was all to feel a little less lonely, a little more secure. And it worked for nearly four years, most of the time. I disgusted myself then; I’m more disgusted now.

Check back next week for Chapter 2!

Someday this will count for something

I'm a fairly typical twenty-something woman with a not-so-average dream: I want to talk to high school and college-aged kids about consent and rape.

If you've met me recently, one of the introductory questions you probably asked me is what I'm going to grad school for, and why. Maybe my response startled you. In some cases, people have gotten really uncomfortable and left the conversation entirely, choosing instead to talk to someone with a more "conventional" career choice. I'm not offended when that happens; I expect it. My standard responses to strangers who are ballsy enough to ask why I chose this avenue are "Personal experiences" and "Somebody has to."

You can probably imagine that this is not the career I dreamed of as a little girl. But I take the "Choose Joy" moniker inked on my ankle very seriously (obviously, since it's permanent). This odd career choice has a lot to do with that way of thinking.

The last few months have been difficult, culminating into a long and agonizing summer filled with unexpected trials, grievous mistakes, moments of "What the hell was I thinking?" and mountains of grief. I'm glad it's almost over. But now I have this issue of what to do with the grief that's left. The easiest thing in the world to do would be allowing it to fester and grow into a heinous, life-eating disease that cripples not only myself, but everyone I care about.
 

Maybe you know someone like that: someone who survived something horrible, and is forever crippled by it. The aftermath of their tragedy influences every decision they make, and ultimately their very character.

"Choosing Joy" isn't putting on a happy face, and masking the pain. Choosing joy is accepting that the pain is real, it sucks, and making use of it. Some people may take up a self-defensive sport like kick-boxing. I decided to write a book about it.

Choosing Joy isn't quoting some well-intentioned but misguided bumper sticker that says "Everything happens for a reason." That may or may not be true, but who cares what the "reason" was? Does it make you hurt less? Does it make you glad the incident happened, whatever it was? It doesn't matter to me anymore what the "reason" was; what matters, is that IT MATTERED.

I've heard it said that success is the best form of revenge. I agree, minus the part about revenge. I can't say I've never fantasized about it: the things I could do to ensure that the person who made my life hell experiences hell for himself. But even that doesn't undo the suffering that was inflicted. What I'm more interested in is preventing irrelevant suffering. I don't want to play the role of a helpless victim, a broken woman, or an irredeemable hot mess. I want to be someone with a cause. The way of choosing joy is using suffering to ignite the need for a cause.

It would be easier to do nothing. It would be easy to sit in therapy for the rest of my life wondering what I can do to "get over it" without actually doing anything. Waiting for grief to pass is never going to happen. Sometimes you have to act in spite of what you feel. If I sit back and do nothing, he wins. Hands down.

Lately I've come to believe that no true form of justice exists in this world. But if the only alternative is to give up on pursuing justice altogether, well, I can't do that.

I refuse to settle for that.

Choosing joy = choosing action.

Let your words be anything but empty

Sometimes healing means doing things that make you uncomfortable. I never thought speaking in front of crowds would ever make me uncomfortable, as someone who used to make her home on ice rinks and high school auditorium stages. But tonight, I was nervous. I think I was nervous not because of the people, but the subject matter. Because it's a subject so close to my heart, I knew I'd take it personally if people responded negatively. But ultimately, other people's opinions don't matter. So I got up there and read a chapter from my book; a chapter that shows (I hope) how big my brave is.

And hey, I even sold a book afterwards. Yep, just one. Luckily I don't measure success in numbers. Success was being able to write it down in the first place.

I couldn't have done it without you, Sara Bareilles.

And my GOODNESS do I make weird faces when I talk.

Why has no one pointed this out to me before??? ;)

Conservative vs. Liberal: a mid-faith crisis

I can't believe I've been doing this Christian thing for almost five years, and am just now hearing about Rachel Held Evans. I can't believe I'm trying to figure out how to integrate Christianity with feminism and am just now discovering her blog. She's the kind of influential writer I hope to be one day...a mover and a shaker who may have to stir up a bit of controversy to make positive change happen, but at the same time isn't stirring things up just to cause trouble.

This blog, in particular, really speaks to where I am right now, almost-halfway through seminary. After becoming a Christian at a liberal party school, my parents joked that seminary would turn me into an atheist. That hasn't happened (and I don't see it happening any time soon), but something else I never expected has...I think seminary is turning me into a liberal.

Then again, my definition of "liberal" is probably quite different from the way most of America defines it (though I'm not entirely certain what that exact definition is). Quite possibly, I haven't changed all that much; it just feels that way because my environment has. The beliefs that caused readers of my column in The Daily Kent Stater to hurl "fanatical conservative" at me are quite normal at seminary (surprise, surprise). But the beliefs I have that would actually make me normal by Kent State standards make me somewhat of an anomaly in seminary.

Like Evans, I don't fit a standard "evangelical package." I don't even like the term "evangelical." I'm not your typical conservative evangelical because:

I really don't mind if homosexuals are allowed to have legalized relationships.

I believe God created the world, but not in seven literal 24-hour days, and I don't think Darwin was a heretic.

I enjoy a good drink every now and then. I agree with Ben Franklin that beer is proof (well, one of many) that God loves us.

I can't stand most worship music, and when a large body of "believers" raise their hands to the music, the first thought that pops into my head is "Is this church, or a Nazi rally?"

I really can't stand the expressions "believer" and "non-believer" (does that mean non-Christians don't believe anything?).

What Jon Acuff calls "prayer right there" (group prayer that, literally, happens just about anywhere, usually in coffee shops) makes me extremely uncomfortable...and I secretly hate anyone who asks me, an introvert, to lead that sort of prayer (okay, I don't *actually* hate them, but you know what I mean).

I believe women should have leadership positions in church.

But at the same time, I'm far from being a "liberal Christian" because:

I do believe in sin. And hell.

I may be a little lax in my attitudes toward gay marriage, but I'm one of the fiercest pro-lifers you will ever meet.

I believe in the Bible. I believe in a literal bodily resurrection. I believe prayer works...but not always the way we want it to.

For all my many mistakes, I still passionately believe in the Gospel, and "being a good person" is not the goal of Christianity. In fact, that's impossible.

So where does that leave me? Am I two different people among the "liberal" and "conservative" camps? Are those my only options to belong?

I like how Evans says "Unity is not the same as uniformity." Too often I look around a church, or a Bible study, see people who appear to have more faith than me, or who express it in ways I'm not used to, and think "How in the world am I supposed to fit in with these people?" They probably think the same about me...or maybe they don't. I realize that I'm far too judgmental for my own good. My goal for next semester will be to force my mind open as much as possible, while not being afraid to censor myself.

I'll let you know how that goes.

The new naked normal?

On the heels of my last post on modesty, this article was just published on Focus on the Family's entertainment review site (yes, I am unafraid to say that I enjoy a lot of FOTF's stuff, even if I don't agree with all of it). It's about society's ever-changing perspective on nudity, and whether it's too risque for entertainment. Should it be censored on TV and Youtube? Or is it time to stop being prudes about our bodies already?

Nowhere in the article is it mentioned that nudity is not inherently a bad thing; we were born naked, after all. To me, the issue isn't nudity itself, but the exploitation of it. The definition of what qualifies as "art" is rather subjective, but somehow I don't think that's Justin Timberlake's intent. Exploiting nudity means taking away one's personhood, and reducing him or her to a sex object. Art, on the other hand, says "I am more than a pair of breasts." There is an exponential difference between celebrating the body and cheapening it. I have to consider Timberlake's new music video to fall into the latter category, but I'm open to any arguments suggesting otherwise.

One of the comments on the article fell into the timeless Christian stereotype: the one that suggests our bodies are somehow shameful. "Adam and Eve covered up after they ate the fruit," this person says. Yes, they did...but my amateur attempt at biblical exegesis suggests that Adam and Eve covered up because they were vulnerable, not because they were naked. Physical vulnerability is connected to emotional vulnerability: if we were never insecure, if we never struggled with lust, if we never had a tendency to take something intended for beauty and wreck it for selfish purposes, there would never be anything wrong with nakedness.

I think American culture's biggest problem with nudity is not knowing how to appreciate and value it well. Our bodies were made for more than just sex. At the same time, Youtube should maintain its policy that one must be 18 or older to view certain videos, and movies should still keep their ratings in check. For the safety of those who don't know how to see the human body as anything but a means to a self-gratifying end.