PANDEMIC AUTHORS [T, 5-19-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

PANDEMIC AUTHORS   [T, 5-19-20]

When daughter Katie Kennedy, the author and historian, was a grad student at UIL, one of her housemates was from Chicago. She had grown up in the same neighborhood where Saul Bellow lived.

Bellow was one of the great writers of the 20^th century. I thought John Updike was better, and when I pastored in Charleston, IL, I used to have delightful arguments with a young English prof at EIU, defending Updike against his argument that Bellow was better. The deluded young prof was wrong, but there was no doubt that Bellow was great.

One of my criteria for a good writer is that I can leave a book for any period of time, and when I return to it, I know exactly where the story is and who the characters are. I read Bellow’s Humboldt’s Gift over a period of ten years and never had to wonder once about story or character each time I returned to it. [Don’t ask.]

Anyway, when Katie’s housemate was in 8^th grade, she had an English assignment in school that stumped her. So as she walked from home, she went up to the front door of one of the greatest writers of the century and rang the bell. A rumpled man answered. She explained her dilemma to him. He invited her in so they could discuss the issue.

Now, that is a wonderful story. The great man humbling himself to help a young girl who didn’t really understand the social distance that greatness demands. But any writer hears that story with a different ear. We know Bellow was just trying to avoid sitting down at his desk to write. Writers will take any opportunity to avoid actually writing. As Dorothy Parker said—the motto for every author since—“I hate writing. I love having written.”

First we make coffee. Then we sharpen pencils. Nobody uses a pencil anymore, but it seems right that the pencils be sharp. Then we adjust the blinds. Then we adjust the chair height. Then we wipe the screen. By then the coffee is cold, so… If our MC [main character], or even an MC[minor character, yes this is confusing when reading one’s notes] would reveal something about where this story should go… or if non-fiction, if I could just find a way to explain double predestination that does not make the reader prefer to go to hell just to escape the explanation…

These days, nobody rings our bell. Except the UPS driver, who immediately runs away after doing so. I have no excuse. I could sit down and write. And so should you. The folks at historical museums and university archives want people to keep journals during this pandemic, so people in the future, when we have not returned to normal, can learn what normal was, and how we departed from it.

It’s easy if you start with a story. Like the one about Maltbie Babcock, the famous late 19^th century preacher, who, among other things, wrote “This Is My Father’s World.” He was walking through the posh Boston neighborhood where he pastored and saw a little boy trying to ring a doorbell. He strained and strained, but it was too high. He could not reach it. The gracious Rev. Babcock went up to help and rang it for him. “Now, Mister,” said the boy, “run like hell.” I’ll bet he grew up to be a UPS driver.

John Robert McFarland