A Single Layer

A lot of people are talking about whether or not it's possible to develop a literary canon in an age of self-publishing. When there are no gatekeepers, how do we know what to keep for future generations? Those who've had the gates slammed in their faces find the open doors of self-publishing a welcome relief and a source of hope for their material. To them, this question seems archaic. But when anything can be published, the resulting sea of material makes it almost impossible to find the readership that matters, whoever that is. And the plethora of written material that's now available for people to read is mind-boggling—and growing exponentially by the day. It's kind of like orbital debris. At the moment, it doesn't really affect anyone. But at the rate we're going, it will. Eventually. Future generations will look back on our irresponsibility and cast well-earned judgment. Not that keeping a blog or self-pubbing your memoirs is literary littering. Bu

Over the past year, I've had the pleasure of knowing Chelsea Davis, an artist and musician as well as a friend. Just over a week ago, Chelsea launched a Kickstarter to fund an EP with songs written by her and our friend Ana Sanchez. As someone who thinks a lot about the creative life, and what it looks like to live out of our identity as image bearers of a Creator, I thought I'd take a moment to grill her (in writing) about what it's like to be Chelsea Davis. So, Chelsea Davis, what is it that you do? I try to understand my experiences of people, places, and things. Generally, this involves a lot of quiet time followed by a lot of talking out loud. Occasionally somewhere in the middle, I find words to name my experiences, and then I sing about them. When and how did you realize that music was your passion? I just watched an embarrassing home video of my 4 th birthday. Apparently someone brought a karaoke machine, and I refused to share the mic with any of

Lately I've been feeling like any account of my current life would have to include the word "disastrous" in its title. It's a bit hyperbolic, but when you consider how easily a pile of little things can take on the weight of something much greater, disaster seems about right. Here's an abbreviated account of my recent troubles: There was that cake I made that kind of imploded. That was after having to make it twice because the first attempt turned out way too thin. Then I got cake grease all over my new shirt. And I broke my biggest mixing bowl. I broke that while making bread for an amazing dinner with a friend, after which, while walking her to her car, a bug flew into my mouth. Then there was the whiskey. A parting gift for a friend, I had to pick it up in Costa Mesa at an exorbitant price (apparently worth every penny, but I don't drink whiskey so what do I know). I accidentally left the whiskey too long in the warm car. It uncorked itself. All

I'll tell you what gives me more joy than anything else I can think of: creative communities. I don't mean formal communities with logos and schedules, though those are nice enough. I mean when you find out that Benedict Cumberbatch is friends with Tom Hiddleston who's friends with Zachary Levi who's friends with Nathan Fillion who's friends with Joss Whedon. Just imagine that dinner party for a moment. Now you see what I mean. Yesterday afternoon I was in a room of people, most of them friends, some of them strangers, reading through "The Merchant of Venice". Each person read a different role. And the whole thing was brilliant. I found myself looking around me at the other readers with a particular appreciation, because I was in the midst of my own convergence. The creative community had happened. Not a single person in the room was "famous", but every one of them was graced with a good measure of talent—and a few of them with the kind of t

I wrote this responsive prayer for our service yesterday as part of a 40 day series on the Lord's Prayer our church is going through. My mother asked me to post it here. I do what she says. Lord Jesus, teach us to pray: For yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. This is your world. You hold the past, present, and future in your almighty hands. Because the veil was torn and the Spirit has come, we are always—even now—standing in the presence of our God. All of creation bends to you—and would we hesitate? The rocks sing your praise, and the waves rest at your feet. How often we forget! Lord Jesus, teach us to pray: And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one. All around us—and within us—we find excuses to ignore your persistent presence.   We settle for easy dissatisfaction in things that are not of you. We have stepped too far over that line that runs through each human heart. We’ve compromised to keep ourselves from sufferi

Let me tell you a little bit about my life right now. It's quite lovely, actually—I have a perfect apartment, good friends, precious family, and I ate delicious sweet potato gnocchi today. But it's not particularly cheerful at the moment. It seems nearly everyone I care about is going through their own personal gauntlets, and I am left to pray. Which is a good place to be left in, but not easy. I have made this observation elsewhere, but I'll make it again here. Something happens when you crack open the door to grief. You become almost physically aware of the feelings that are due things. That which is delightful suddenly strikes you as the most beautiful thing in existence. That which is sad can set you to honest weeping. I find a certain sanctity in this. After all, Jesus wept. In the midst of all this, I've been personally "suffering" a lot of Stupid. My wallet was stolen a month ago, and for a pile of reasons, it's taken all that time to get acces

Right as my hope comes crashing down, I pray I might be hopeful still from every angle. I pray hope overcomes dreams with better things, And the sight and the shiver, the taste and the sound Go out from me, and come back new. Clean my memories, build them with better wings, Root my feet to the earth and wake me up well, For I have dreamed many dreams, and not one of them true.