Never preach harder than you entertain.

I got the quote above from Jim Butcher,1 author of the very successful Dresden Files series. It’s succinct and, I think, a great mantra for new and aspiring authors.

It’s not that an author can’t write stories with a message. However, if you put THE MESSAGE at the center of the story and force the characters and the plot to slavishly orbit your sermon-in-disguise, the result will not be the kind of story that people who like to read will want to read.2 Examples of this phenomenon abound, so I won’t bother to catalog them here.

If one were looking for examples of how to convey a message effectively, without sacrificing a good story, perhaps few would point to the works of Charles Dickens. After all, one might ask, isn’t Dickens well-known for how his books put a spotlight on the social issues of his day? Oliver Twist was all about how bad the Poor Laws were in Great Britain, wasn’t it? And Hard Times was definitely a “passionate revolt against the whole industrial order of the modern world”3 you must admit?

In a word: no.

At least not in the way that most people mean those things.

Dickens certainly had his agenda and he was open and honest about it. Nevertheless, he went about promoting that agenda in a way that adheres to the admonition not to preach harder than you entertain. He understood that grabbing the reader by the scruff of the neck to berate him with a lecture can never be as effective as letting the lesson grow out of the scene, the characters, and the (often ironic) consequences of actions.

Allow me to show you what I mean with an example from Bleak House.4

The plot of the book revolves around a disputed will that has been mired in the Court of Chancery for years. Early on, some of the main characters encounter Mrs. Jellyby at her home. The excerpt is substantial, but something shorter would diminish the effect Dickens intends.

“In-deed! Mrs. Jellyby,” said Mr. Kenge, standing with his back to the fire and casting his eyes over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were Mrs. Jellyby’s biography, “is a lady of very remarkable strength of character who devotes herself entirely to the public. She has devoted herself to an extensive variety of public subjects at various times and is at present (until something else attracts her) devoted to the subject of Africa, with a view to the general cultivation of the coffee berry—AND the natives—and the happy settlement, on the banks of the African rivers, of our superabundant home population. Mr. Jarndyce, who is desirous to aid any work that is considered likely to be a good work and who is much sought after by philanthropists, has, I believe, a very high opinion of Mrs. Jellyby.”

. . .

There was a confused little crowd of people, principally children, gathered about the house at which we stopped, which had a tarnished brass plate on the door with the inscription JELLYBY.

“Don’t be frightened!” said Mr. Guppy, looking in at the coach-window. “One of the young Jellybys been and got his head through the area railings!”

“Oh, poor child,” said I; “let me out, if you please!”

“Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Jellybys are always up to something,” said Mr. Guppy.

I made my way to the poor child, who was one of the dirtiest little unfortunates I ever saw, and found him very hot and frightened and crying loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron railings, while a milkman and a beadle, with the kindest intentions possible, were endeavouring to drag him back by the legs, under a general impression that his skull was compressible by those means. As I found (after pacifying him) that he was a little boy with a naturally large head, I thought that perhaps where his head could go, his body could follow, and mentioned that the best mode of extrication might be to push him forward. This was so favourably received by the milkman and beadle that he would immediately have been pushed into the area if I had not held his pinafore while Richard and Mr. Guppy ran down through the kitchen to catch him when he should be released. At last he was happily got down without any accident, and then he began to beat Mr. Guppy with a hoop-stick in quite a frantic manner.

Nobody had appeared belonging to the house except a person in pattens, who had been poking at the child from below with a broom; I don’t know with what object, and I don’t think she did. I therefore supposed that Mrs. Jellyby was not at home, and was quite surprised when the person appeared in the passage without the pattens, and going up to the back room on the first floor before Ada and me, announced us as, “Them two young ladies, Missis Jellyby!” We passed several more children on the way up, whom it was difficult to avoid treading on in the dark; and as we came into Mrs. Jellyby’s presence, one of the poor little things fell downstairs—down a whole flight (as it sounded to me), with a great noise.

Mrs. Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness which we could not help showing in our own faces as the dear child’s head recorded its passage with a bump on every stair—Richard afterwards said he counted seven, besides one for the landing—received us with perfect equanimity. She was a pretty, very diminutive, plump woman of from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though they had a curious habit of seeming to look a long way off. As if—I am quoting Richard again—they could see nothing nearer than Africa!

“I am very glad indeed,” said Mrs. Jellyby in an agreeable voice, “to have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a great respect for Mr. Jarndyce, and no one in whom he is interested can be an object of indifference to me.”

You might not prefer Dickens’ style, but set that aside for the time being and look at what he’s actually doing in this passage.

If a writer from our day were given that scene to write and told to “make sure the reader sees how inconsistent it is for Mrs. Jellyby to be so devoted to a faraway tribe, yet seemingly blind to the plight of her own family,” what do you suppose that would look like? We would expect the main character to sweep up one of the children into his arms, cast a haughty look upon Mrs. Jellyby, and lecture her passionately about the inexcusable neglect of her duties.

Dickens does nothing like that here and I think this is an example of Dickens at his best. Read the rest of the chapter for yourself and I think you will agree that Dickens’ characters do remarkably little “teaching.” Yet to read the chapter is to know exactly what message Dickens meant to convey. We don’t need the narrator to indict Mrs. Jellyby with a paragraphs-long tirade; though she is oblivious to it, Mrs. Jellyby indicts herself. It’s well-written and entertaining (even adjusting for the truly pitiable moments).

Hopefully this example drives the point home. Authors never have to sacrifice the elements of good story in order to teach a lesson.

That’s the lesson that many writers today need to learn. The storyteller need not bury his convictions, but he should discipline them. The foolish character, written well, exposes himself. The hypocrite, drawn with care, makes her contradictions obvious. The neglected child who tumbles down the stairs while the “telescopic philanthropist” gazes nobly toward Africa speaks for itself. Bring the characters to life and the reader will understand the point.

Preach when you must, but always entertain first.

If you’re of a certain age and a certain degree of internet literacy, then you’ll also be familiar with the original version. Investigate all of the lore on your own time, because I won’t go into it here (and I have only a superficial awareness of it myself).

The movie was decent for what it set out to be, namely a psychological/cosmic horror movie that capitalized on a well-known internet phenomenon. There was one thing that I think it did particularly well, however, and I wanted to highlight it because I think writers—especially those who write speculative fiction—can benefit from it.1

What the movie did especially well was that it did not over-explain. There are plenty of unanswered questions and that is a good thing.

Like any horror movie there are, of course, a healthy dose of jump scares. But those aren’t really what makes a scary movie scary, and The Backrooms is no exception. What frightens us is the unknown, the idea that something is lurking just around the corner and we don’t know what that something is. Until the something is revealed our minds play through all the horrifying possibilities. The tension in a monster movie dissipates, or at least abates or shifts, after we first get to see the monster. There has been a kind of visual explanation of the horror that was previously unknown.

There is a bit of a “reveal” in The Backrooms, yet we are ultimately left in the dark about the biggest question of all: What are the backrooms in the first place?

The movie gives us no real answer to that question. People will speculate, of course, and perhaps they can even come to plausible conclusions by rewatching the movie and searching for clues or by cobbling together all the extraneous internet lore surrounding the backrooms. There’s no harm in that and it’s part of the fun of a movie like this.

Some moviegoers, perhaps, will find the ending unsatisfactory. I think it would be fair to say that the ending only leaves the viewer with more questions. I haven’t done any looking, but I would not be surprised at all to find lots of responses to the movie along the lines of: “We need The Backrooms 2 so we can finally know what happened with [fill in the blank]!” If producers give in to such pleas, it would be a huge mistake2

I see only two possible directions for a sequel:

1. Give people an explanation about what the backrooms are; or

2. Continue to leave the backrooms unexplained.

The second option, while preserving the essence of what it is that makes the backrooms scary, would likely prove unsatisfying to many viewers. “If we still don’t know what the backrooms are, then what was the point of the second movie?” The first option, is just as likely (perhaps even more so) to leave viewers unsatisfied because to explain the thing, to remove the quality of the unknown, is to rob it of what made it interesting in the first place.

So then what is the lesson for writers?

Speculative fiction—and here I include science fiction, fantasy, and horror—thrive on (to state the obvious) the speculative element. They do so in different ways and some stories contain more explanations than others. Writers should be wary, however, of trying to explain every little detail to the reader.

To go back to the idea of a monster story, the reader doesn’t necessarily need to know the precise details of how the monster’s physiology works or its diet or the place in the taxonomy of cryptids and other ghastly creatures. Those might be things a writer would want to know if they help him form the story, but they are certainly not essential elements of a good story; they can, in fact, spoil a story by over-explaining. Similar points could be made about “magic systems”3 or the “nuts and bolts” explanations of some “hard” sci-fi stories.

Writers of speculative fiction should remember that not every question requires an answer. Sometimes the best thing a writer can do is resist the urge to pull back the curtain.

After all, once you’ve mapped every corner of the backrooms, they’re no longer the backrooms.

The man in question was an officer in the Roman army — some say a Centurion, others a member of the Praetorian Guard itself. Whatever his rank, the man served his Emperor well, but his heart belonged to a King even higher than the Caesar: the King of Kings, Jesus Christ. The man’s name was George.

And George would slay the dragon.

The Vexation of Verisimilitude

Christian fiction has, I think it’s fair to say, an image problem. Yes, we hold the keys to the Grandpappy of Fantasy, The Lord of the Rings; but we’re also responsible for things like The Kirk Cameron Movie (for there is only one) wherein a Hallmark plot is body-snatched by a screed; the God’s Not Dead series (thanks, Kevin Sorbo); and, for those who prefer paper to celluloid, the Amish Romance novel, which is, let’s face it, romantasy for prudes.

Heck, I liked Cameron’s Fireproof. It’s not a bad movie. But it and the vast bulk of modern Christian fiction have created the perception in the general public that Christian stuff is made for Christians, as a sort of parallel economy of storytelling. You can’t touch a Christian book, the feeling goes, without being preached at.

Now, this is not an issue unique to Christian fiction. I can remember my eyes just about rolling back through my skull and out my ears when the second book in Paolini’s Inheritance Cycle featured elves who happily went on r/atheism-level rants about their disdain for superstition and religion. It was deeply satisfying when, in the third book, it was revealed that the Dwarves, at least, worshipped very real gods, if only to stick it to those knife-eared New Atheists. And James Cameron’s Avatar films are blatant anti-Western propaganda (someday I’ll put pen to paper on my Two Camerons Theory). But, because of where we stand as a post-Christian culture, these sorts of things are generally excused by the public. Fish ignorant of water and all that.

The frustrating thing is that the Christian publishing industry, across all media, seems perfectly content with this. Gospel-First, Story-Second is the default setting. And anything which threatens that equilibrium, anything which offends the senses of Dana Carvey’s Church Lady, must be done away with in favor of something squeaky-clean and utterly unappealing to the average red-blooded, uninitiated man or woman who might (gasp) judge a book by its cover and pick up something at Barnes & Noble for a few hours of pleasant reading.

“Okay, EJ, when are you going to get to the plopping point?” I hear you ask. “I was promised swords and foreskin bride-prices.” Yes, settle down, Peanut Gallery, I’m getting to that presently.

I believe that a not-insignificant part of the issue is that this Gospel-First, Story-Second approach leads to the removal of parts of life which are unpleasant results of the Fall but are no less legitimate tools in the storytelling utility belt. Things like violence. Yes. Let’s talk Violence.

The Value of Violence

Why don’t we start with the Ur-Example (for, after all, he did hail from Ur of the Chaldeans). Abraham (née Abram) had a nephew named Lot. Lot is not particularly well-known for good decision-making, but he did choose the most fertile land to settle when Abraham gave him the choice. And when the overlords of that region decided to put down a revolt, they carried off Lot, his people, and his property as spoils of war.

What did Abraham do as a result? Pray about it and sit back to hope God would sort things out?

No.

He belted on his sword, rallied his frankly impressive number of able-bodied servants, and gave chase, striking the overlords and rescuing his family in a daring raid. God was with him, the raid was successful, and Abraham refused any spoil but what his men had already taken and gave tribute to Melchizedek, the wise and saintly King of the city that would one day be named Jerusalem.

And what of David? (I told you we’d get to the foreskin bride-prices). Here is a lad who has tended sheep all his life, fighting off wolves and lions and bears, oh my, and who enters the historical narrative as a major force by slaying a giant. He then goes on to double the challenge of King Saul’s price for marrying his daughter Michal, giving the King two hundred Philistine foreskins (think counting coup but far more painful for the recipients) and, once he is crowned King, proceeds to wage successful war against all of Israel’s enemies throughout his life.

In fact, while God tells David “You shall not build a house for My name because you are a man of war and have shed blood,” (1 Chronicles 28:3), the Bible also tells us “Yahweh has sought out for Himself a man after His own heart, and Yahweh has appointed him as a ruler over His people…” (1 Samuel 13:14), and from that ruler’s line came the Messiah Himself. How could a man after God’s own heart have so much blood on his hands?

Well, gentle reader, I’ll tell you. God uses the violent purposes of men for good ends. Sometimes it’s turning evil into good (see the story of Joseph MacJacob in Genesis), and sometimes it’s using the strength of good to punish evil (see 1 Samuel 14 where Saul refuses to wipe out the Amalekites and has his dynasty taken away from him). God sometimes appoints men to positions of violence to enact His will (the book of Amos is an excellent primer on this whole concept, and an easy read). The book of Romans as well points out that the sword is given to governments by God to punish evil. Swords have only one use. God intends violence on evildoers.

So Christianity is not, in fact, a stranger to violence. Even if you’re a “New Testament-Only Christian,” I ask you this: how does God describe the sort of equipment the Christian ought to bear in the world? As armor and a sword. The shield of Faith and the belt of Truth, the helmet of Salvation and the breastplate of Righteousness, the sword of the Spirit. The “full armor of God,” to quote Ephesians 6. What we do in the world is called spiritual warfare, so why is Christian publishing so averse to violence?

It was not always so. Tolkien’s Aragorn was a wandering Ranger, a warrior against the darkness that everyday folk only dreamt of in their nightmares, before becoming Elessar, the King who held healing for Good and war against Evil equally in his hands. C. S. Lewis took things a step further, having Saint Nicolaus himself distribute swords, bows, and daggers to children to save Aslan’s kingdom from a wicked witch. Even John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, the popular originator of the parable-disguised-as-story genre, had Christian doing battle against Apollyon, blocking the demon’s fiery darts with his shield and bearing a sword to defend himself with.

And what does secular fiction give us? John Wick. A man who, when his dog is killed, embarks on a crusade that leads to the dismantling of an entire criminal empire. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t enjoy John Wick on some level — whether they like it for its thematic Trueness or its excellent cinematography — we all agree that if you shoot puppies you deserve to get Wick’d. Or take Jack Reacher. An observant titan doling out righteous fury regardless of the legality of his punishments. Alan Ritchson’s portrayal of the character is a runaway success on Amazon Prime Video. That bugbear of publishing, the Modern Audience, craves hard justice. Even if they won’t admit it.

The Virtue of Veracity

So, what’s the point?

The point, gentle reader, is this: Christian fiction could be a much broader category than is currently perceived and marketed.

Sandy Petersen is a game designer. If you’ve played TTRPGs you’re probably aware of Call of Cthulhu. He made that. If you’ve played video games you’re probably aware of Doom. He helped make that. Sandy Petersen is a Mormon, and while I’m not going to get into the whole Mormon-vs-Mainline debate here, I think it’s fair to say that no one exemplifies the Ned Flanders perception of Christianity quite like Mormons, except perhaps those who took Ferrell’s Church Lady as an instruction manual rather than a critique. And yet Petersen is in part responsible for the franchise which spawned the phrase “Rip and tear, until it is done.”

To paraphrase a comment by Petersen on how a Christian could inflict such gore as Doom offers on anyone, “We’ve been at war with demons for millennia. It’s only a matter of time before someone takes the fight to them by kicking down the door with a shotgun.” This is, of course, not his exact words, but I hope he will forgive my attempt to capture the spirit of what he said.

My own book, Redlanders, features a protagonist heavily inspired by King David. I shopped it around to various secular publishers. “Too New Testament,” they said, in more words. I shopped it around to various Christian publishers. “Too Old Testament,” they said, in more words. One Christian publisher was kind enough to provide their criteria for publication; that list would have disqualified the Chronicles of Narnia three times over. So I self-pubbed it on Amazon, throwing myself properly into the hellscape of Indie Publishing.

But sometimes violence is necessary in a fallen world.

Saul was dispossessed for failing to annihilate the enemies of Israel. David’s Messianic line was instituted because he had no such compunctions and yet loved the Lord. Violence is never a wholesome choice, but it is sometimes the choice God ordains. An oft-reposted meme is the tale of Gary Plauché, a grieved father who shot and killed his son’s rapist on live television and received nothing more than community service from his judge. I have two sons. To quote Plauché in the immediate, camera-captured aftermath, I’d “do it too.”

Christian fiction, as it stands, is too concerned with remaining wholesome. The protagonist must never take up one of those pointy things, despite Jesus warning His Apostles that they ought to sell their cloak and buy a sword (personally, I prefer polearms, but who am I to question my Creator?). While any Christian author ought to be careful that the violence they inflict on the page is either to demonstrate the wickedness or righteousness of its perpetrator, we cannot shy away from the fact that the reader has an innate sense of justice, and that they recognize on some level that even if the court denies Justice, she still cries out in the street.

The Gospel-First, Story-Second approach has neutered Christian storytelling and has relegated its preaching to the choir. The Gospel is, indeed, Good News. But it needs to be new to be News, and you’re not going to get that message in front of people who haven’t heard it before by sticking to your own cloister. The Man of Violence (not to be confused with the Violent Man) is a useful tool in the storyteller’s arsenal.

Sir George slew a dragon. He saw wickedness, girded his loins, and confronted it by the means of his profession. You don’t have to be Christian to cheer him on. Anyone who would rather see Silene in the power of the child-devouring dragon over the princess-rescuing Sir George is sick in the head. The Christian (and thereby Western) tradition is replete with warriors who took up the sword and shield to defend innocents and even the guilty from those who would do them harm by way of violence. This trope speaks to us on an instinctual level.

Christian publishing ought to take heed, plunder Egypt, and direct the reader however subtly to the Good, True, and Beautiful. Even if the GTB means cutting off the heads of serpents now and then. We should not write violence for its own sake. But we should acknowledge violence as a tool in God’s box, and be unafraid to use it properly in our stories.

E.J. Free’s novel, Redlanders, can be found at: https://www.amazon.com/Redlanders

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