Fiction writers: If you’re at Pikes Peak Writers Conference this weekend, come say hi! Here’s what I will be up to and where you can find me (other than the hotel bar):
Friday, April 28:
- 10:50-11:50 a.m. Class: Bring Your Characters to Life on the Page (Salon A)
- 5:20-5:50 p.m. Book Signing in hotel lobby
Saturday, April 29
- 4:30-5:30 p.m. Class: Beating Writer’s Block (Salon A)
- 5:40-6:10 p.m. Book Signing in hotel lobby
Sunday, April 30
- 9-10 a.m. Class: Delving Into Your Character’s History (Salon GH)
- 11:20-12:20. Panel: Short Stories: Good for the Novelist, Career and Soul (Aspen Leaf) (with Fleur Bradley, Sam Knight, and Shannon Lawrence)
See you there, fellow writers!
It is Good Friday. This is a day that resonates powerfully for me as a storyteller. Here are two things about the Good Friday story that sink into my heart today:
1. No matter who you are, no matter how the world has treated you, no matter how alone you feel, you matter so much – both in your uniqueness and in your identity as an essential part of humanity – that a handful of people in what is now Israel, Syria, and Turkey once wrote down a story about a God who, out of all the infinite cosmos, wanted to live on earth and breathe and have dinner and walk and talk and love and grieve and die with you. You matter.
2. On a day when some remember a story of an unjust (but legal) crucifixion conducted for political reasons, it is a good time for those of us who are more privileged to reflect that: a) there is a wide gap between law and justice, and our responsibility is always to stand in that gap; b) religious piety and love of one’s neighbor are not the same thing, and one may prevent the other, as it did for people in the story; c) seeking safety in a community or a nation is not a matter of finding and expelling the “lawbreakers” – after all, we have an entire religion whose origin story involves the time that God was expelled as a lawbreaker; d) we could be cautious of whose example we follow — do we wash our hands of the violence that is done with our tacit permission, like Pontius Pilate, or do interrupt the stone-throwers, do we we kneel and wash the feet of society’s outcasts, like Jesus?
Photo Credit: Hugo Fergusson on Unsplash.
Update: Available now in paperback, kindle, and audiobook from Audible and iTunes.
Rasha is a Syrian refugee fleeing war with her infant son. Sahira is a time-traveling, shapeshifting hijabi defender of humanity.
In a distant future when all humanity is fleeing a predatory and unexpected horror, Rasha’s choices at a critical moment could make the difference between extinction and refuge — if Sahira can get her safely to that day.
Both time-travel thriller and love story, this riveting addition to the Ansible saga takes you from the dust and despair of bombed-out cities and poisoned land to the weird apparitions that can transform a planet’s future.
This book can be ordered now.
PRAISE FOR THE ANSIBLE SERIES
“Stant Litore may be SF’s premier poet of loneliness.” – Jason Kirk, author of Reverb and The Other Whites in South Africa
“Litore’s stories aren’t only entertaining. They are stories invading our lives, unexpectedly. You encounter them, as you might encounter people. They are those random elements in life that happen to you, like a mugging, like childbirth, like falling in love and marriage, like death and the funeral that follows. They are moments that leave a mark, and leave you changed.” – Andrew Hallam, Ph.D., Metropolitan State University of Denver
“Stant eloquently writes passages that are so moving, full of passion, fury, loneliness, blind drive … He takes us to places of amazing beauty, awe-inspiring, as well as places where the implications in the story can leave you almost in despair for the human race.” – Nikki Ebright, Director, Myths & Legends Con
Had a lovely class this morning on “Blessed are the peacemakers.” I shared the differences between English ‘peace’ (derived from Latin ‘pax,’ meaning rest or order achieved via the absence or suppression of conflict) and Koine-Greek/New Testament ‘eirene’, meaning diverse lives woven together in community. We talked about how ‘eirene’ doesn’t exist if your community consists of people stacked on top of each other hierarchically in separated, exclusive bolts of cloth, unwoven. We talked about weaving in the Greek world and in Greek literature, noted wryly that several centuries of primarily male translation committees for Bibles, until recently, couldn’t distinguish between ‘woven’ and ‘knit,’ and talked about what’s required for eirenepoein (peacemaking) to work. We talked about how in Galatians, ‘bearing one’s own load’ and ‘bearing each other’s burdens’ aren’t treated as opposites (not an either/or choice) but as both being a part of living in woven-together, responsible community (not dependent or independent, but interdependent). And one heaviness on my heart was that I have been a completely terrible peacemaker this week, because this season has made me harsh. And peacemaking requires patience, listening, self-control. There is a difference between strong and harsh. At least for me. So I will work on that.
What a peculiar culture we are, with a basketful of destructive and long-lived ideas inherited from the Romans. We think peace means ‘no one fighting, conflict avoided’ because that’s what kind of peace the Romans liked to demand of subject peoples. We think meek means weak, because that’s what the Romans thought (the Greek word ‘praeis’ actually means overriding your fears and appetites to serve something more important; it’s about restraint and service). We think of giving charity instead of doing justice, though in most ancient languages, there is only doing justice, without a separate word for ‘charity.’ We think ‘blessed’ means lucky or favored or happy, because Latin, again (the Greek word ‘makarios’ means ‘made big’ in the sense of influence in the lives of others). We think ‘pure’ means ‘unmixed’ (Latin) when the Greek word means ‘cleansed’ (using the same root as ‘catharsis’) because in the Koine Greek text it didn’t matter what you had done or what had been done to you, or what swear words you’d spoken or heard, or the status of some portion of your anatomy; what mattered was the process of cleansing the heart and what that cleansing would allow you to do in the future. We think truth means ‘a fact’ when it actually meant ‘a commitment’; the Greek ‘aletheia’ that we translate as ‘truth’ meant ‘unforgetting’/never-forgetting a promise, and we miss that because the Romans used a word that meant ‘that which can be verified.’ We think faith is a thing instead of an action. We think love is something you feel when it’s actually something you do, a way that you put everything on the line for another (Greek ‘agape’). We think hope is something wishful, when it was actually a vision of an alternate and sought-for future that you were going to walk toward no matter what may come at you in the dark. We talk about ‘salvation’ and forget that the Greek word means ‘given refuge’ and that the early Christians defined themselves as refugees in search of a home. As Margaret Atwood says, we think liberty is about what you’re getting freedom from instead of what you’re getting freedom for: we tell Exodus stories where God says ‘let my people go’ and we forget the rest of the sentence, we forget what purpose the freedom was to serve; we are always fearing and running away from things and missing what we’re running toward. Even after so many centuries, in the West we translate and live with the eyes of the Caesars always over our shoulder, and with the language and the quick march-step of the Romans shaping our thoughts, our religious texts, and our cultural ideologies.