Christine Schaub

Back to the movies

As some of you, dear readers, may have read in past interviews and biographical sketches, the Music of the Heart series began as dramas, then morphed into teleplays, before becoming novels—or what I like to call “fauxographies.” And with the October 2005 release of Finding Anna, then last July’s The Longing Season, it has become ever clearer to me that I need to return to my dream of making these stories into movies.

I have always been a reluctant novelist in telling these hymn stories. At first, I didn’t think I’d have enough to tell—certainly not 60,000 words worth! But the advice seemed sound: developing the stories into novels and winning over an audience would make a movie deal more promising. I believe that was good advice, and I’m glad I researched and traveled and outlined and dithered over dialogue for a year to make each book you now own worthwhile.

However, the publishing path is very rocky and, lately, impassable. So I have ended my relationship with Bethany House to pursue screenwriting and other writing opportunities. Book #3 is canceled, but I do not believe the hymnstory project is dead…too many stories still need to be told.

I have so enjoyed hearing from readers around the world. Finding Anna and The Longing Season have been translated into Dutch and German, gone hardcover with Crossings book club, and large print for my seeing-impaired fans. I’ve visited and called into book clubs to answer your burning questions, filled out online Q&As, done live and taped radio and television interviews, and had a photo shoot at my home for a magazine cover story. It has been an interesting adventure—and I’m always up for those.

Please continue to write to me and check back here for life updates. I imagine many readers will discover my books from your recommendations, and I’ll be only happy to chat with them. CS

Gilligan in church

I was visiting a Methodist library of old and rare materials when I came across a tiny hymnbook from the early-1800s. And I do mean tiny—it was no more than 2.5 x 4.5 inches, and I could hold it in the palm of my hand. I carefully opened it and revealed to my host that early hymnbooks were actually collections of poetry…no accompanying music or even music suggestions.

You see, for the longest time hymns were chanted, rather like today’s rap. They were composed for three similar meters, the most popular being “ballad meter”—stanzas of four iambic lines (da-DUM chuck-chuck, da-DUM chuck-chuck). Dickinson and Wordsworth used this style regularly in their poems.

And it’s still popular today. Remember the TV show “Gilligan’s Island”? The show’s theme song, “The Ballad of Gilligan’s Isle,” is written in ballad meter. Sing along with it:

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
a tale of a fateful trip.
That started from this tropic port,
aboard this tiny ship.

Now let’s try something…ridiculous. Let’s take the Gilligan song and apply these words:

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see.

Surprisingly fun, isn’t it? If you’re aghast at this exercise, you’ll understand exactly what Martin Luther was up against when he started setting hymns to established folk tunes. Yeah…just another item on the Pope’s long list of reasons to excommunicate him. But, man, did the public love Luther for it. They sang loudly and lustily, memorizing long poems of praise, adoration and contemplation—poems many congregants couldn’t even read.

During a recent radio interview, the host asked me what I thought of today’s musicians “reinventing” hymns with different styles and melodies. I said, “I think it’s great!” And I meant it. Dozens of different tunes accompanied Newton’s iconic hymn before the now-famous melody, “New Britain,” was adopted in 1835—and even that has been tweaked into our modern version. Anything a musician can do to reintroduce such poignant words to a hungering public is worthwhile, in my way of thinking.

Now go find yourself some iambic lines and hum them. Neither Luther nor Gilligan would mind.

Book Brutality

I’ve been speaking to a lot of writing students lately on storytelling, career paths, and writing as a profession. I’ve walked a rather, shall we say, convoluted path since getting kicked out of college with a B.A. in Mass Communications. So I’m never certain what I’m saying to these students is impressionable.

But then I got this bit of feedback from a student at my alma mater, Anderson University:

At last! Someone gets it! Now, I don’t actually come out and say, “If you don’t cut your own throat after a book or two, the publisher will cut it for you.” No, that would be too…brutally honest. And we all know that college is about living a blissfully surreal life—that’s what makes it so great.

But just about everyone outside publishing has a perception that novelists are living lives of unsupervised bliss—earning wads of money for basically sitting around in our pajamas, drinking endless cups of coffee (or something more “Hemingway”), rattling off brilliant bits of dialogue and sentences at will, throwing intense dinner parties for other, intense authors to engage in intense conversation.

None of that is true. Well okay…the pajama part might be true. And maybe the coffee.  But the only people making wads of money are the publishers and your occasional John Grisham. And that sentence/paragraph you liked so much in my last novel probably took days to perfect. And I have yet to invite another author to a dinner party—although I would, if he was a comedy writer. No room for intensity at my dinner table.

I consciously try not to talk people out of becoming novelists. It’s their dream, so they should go for it. But I do try to clear up some of these fallacies before they get sucked into a business that is not designed to celebrate the author. Brutal? Yes. So now I’m off to Starbucks to commiserate over…coffee.

John Newton @ the movies

If you’re looking for some weekend entertainment for the whole family, head to your multiplex and see Walden Media’s movie “Amazing Grace.”

Now, this is not a movie based on Newton or his iconic hymn. Rather, it’s an historical perspective on Englishman William Wilberforce and his parliamentary fight against Britain’s commercial slavery. The elder Newton, played by the great Albert Finney, is featured in about twenty minutes of footage.

I’ve seen the pre-release twice now, and continue to marvel at how beautifully the scenes are acted and shot. It’s as if the History Channel swept in, filmed, removed all the voice-over, and said, “Let us educate and move you at the same time.”

I am not an authority on Wilberforce, so I have to assume the scenes depicting his protracted struggle are mostly accurate—his Parliamentary tactics, his core group of abolitionists, his faith, his personal relationships. I am, however, an authority on Newton, so I was a little disappointed that the filmmakers portrayed him as a rough and ragged priest, mopping his church floors in sackcloth. In truth, Newton was rather refined…but this is Hollywood taking their usual liberties.

If you read my book, The Longing Season—the story behind the young Newton and how that period of his life helped shape his hymn “Amazing Grace”—you’ll notice some inconsistencies between the film and the truth. Example: Early in the plot, Wilberforce stands on a pub table and announces he’ll sing a hymn by his old friend, the priest who was a slave ship captain for twenty years. It is well documented in Newton’s autobiography and subsequent biographies that Newton captained a slave ship for less than five years, then retired from the sea for health reasons. Likewise, the famous melody “New Britain” that we and Wilberforce sing was not attached to the lyrics until 1835—well after both he and Newton were dead.

So. I’ve now had my say. But don’t let any of these inconsistencies stop you from seeing such a wonderful and timely film. Think of The Longing Season as a primer and the “Amazing Grace” movie as a complement. My book introduces the conflicted young man who becomes one of many powerful voices for humanity decades later. The subjects of slavery and redemption are still weighty and poignant today, and there’s nothing like a good read and an afternoon in a darkened theatre to explore one’s mind and soul.

Typing "The End"

Have you seen the movie “Romancing the Stone” lately? I caught it tonight on a cable channel and was struck by how much detail I’d forgotten. For instance, it slipped my mind that Kathleen Turner’s character is a…romance novelist! Who lives a lonely existence in an upstairs apartment with a…cat! And spends all day in her pajamas, writing her books on a…typewriter!

My, how far we novelists have come since 1984. OK…maybe not.

I will confess to waking up with a really great idea and plugging away at it, never discarding the pajamas. And then around 3:00 pm the UPS guy knocks on the door and, while he doesn’t actually shriek, his expression says, Lady…not a good look for you. What he says out loud is, “sign here”…and I sign, trying not to breathe on him because I can’t remember if I’ve brushed my teeth yet.

And, yes—the life of a novelist can get pretty isolated. It’s a solitary career by design, but as playwright and painter Lorraine Hansberry once said: “The thing that makes you exceptional, if you are at all, is inevitably that which must also make you lonely.” Lorraine says nothing about the cat requirement, so I’ll pass on that one.

But…a typewriter? It’s the classic scene where novelist Kathleen types “THE END,” rips the paper out of the machine, adds it to the tall stack, boxes it up, then goes downtown to hand-deliver the entire book in typed, paginated order to her editor over drinks in a restaurant. And it’s with a bit of nostalgic sadness that I tell you this: it doesn’t happen that way anymore.

I’ve never even met my editor. I don’t type “THE END,” and I’ve never had an unmarked copy of the manuscript. When it’s ready for submission, I attach it to an email, hit the “send” button and…poof! It’s gone. A little later, my editor confirms via email that she received it, and I don’t hear another word until the content edit.

Yeah…I think a lot of the procedural romance is gone. We’ve become pretty efficient, but at what cost? *sigh* There’s a cat at my door. I’m gonna see if he needs a job.

The camera lies

Just before Christmas, I was a guest on a live morning show south of Chicago to talk about The Longing Season and John Newton. There was much discussion about my outfit (colors, patterns, accessories) and hair (up or down?) and lipstick (luscious red? pouty pink?). There was discussion ad nauseum.

And let me just say upfront: I looked good. At least, that’s what my driver, the studio receptionist, the show stylist, the hosts, and my own jaundiced eye said. Here—you be the judge.

So imagine my surprise—nay, despair—when I watched the DVD of the interview with my publicist and discovered that under the glaring studio lights, I looked TEN YEARS OLDER. At least. Oh, the horror.

Now, I’ve heard the camera can add ten pounds…but ten years? I mean, I was willing to overlook the curl that sprung out of the side of my head like a tail out of a pig’s behind (although my publicist had strong words about that) and I took notes on the hand flinging and flipping I seem to enjoy. But the shock of the washed-out, Southern-girl, pasty-white skin pushed me over the edge. This wasn’t peaches-and-cream, people. This was anemic.

See, when a woman is single and of a certain age where terrorism statistics are used to compare her odds of marrying, it doesn’t help that a studio camera adds ten years. Seriously. *sigh*

I need a tan. But I have a publishing deadline, so I’ll settle for an appointment with a cosmetologist who specializes in television make-up. And next time, the camera won’t lie.

Talk to me

I just finished reading two “guy” books: T.L. Hines’ Waking Lazarus and Will Staeger’s Painkiller. Both had whodunit plots and flawed male leads with special powers that saved the world—big, continent-sized worlds and small, personal worlds. But the thing that intrigued me most in these good reads was the dialogue—sometimes witty, sometimes poignant, but always necessary dialogue.

Nothing will make me throw down a book faster than bad dialogue. Now, I don’t claim to be the genre’s best dialogue writer, but I am a student of conversation. I began creatively in sketch comedy and screenwriting—which are all about dialogue—and morphed into the complicated world of fiction. In my one-rat survey (with moi as the “rat”) I discovered that the best dialogue hailed from non-Christian writers, usually male and quite often British. The worst, absolute stinky, clichéd worst, came from American female Christians.

I determined to avoid the stinky pile. So I picked up Tom Chiarella’s book, Writing Dialogue: How to create memorable voices and fictional conversations that crackle with wit, tension and nuance. This is a brilliant how-to book, funny and dead-on about the art of dialogue writing. It’s as if Chiarella stepped into my head, assembled my jumbled preferences, and transcribed the why and how I can peg great dialogue…as well as why I throw down the bad. Check it out by clicking on its cover in the right-hand column under "Books I Suggest."

Now, about those two great reads...

T.L. Hines is a Christian novelist via advertising with a brilliant hook, good plotting and characterization, and a measured use of dialogue. Whole pages go by with no quotation marks—no overt dialogue. He saves conversation for when it really matters…when it moves the plot forward, defines the character, makes a big reveal. His dialogue is never, never, inane. I read Waking Lazarus in two sittings.

Will Staeger’s Painkiller is anything but Christian. His characters live by the humanist approach—situational ethics, look out for yourself first, do what feels right. His CIA plot is violent and his prose is peppered with profanity, but man…can this guy write witty. In long, action-filled and cleverly-written passages, I found myself flipping ahead, begging for more dialogue. No surprise he hails from Hollywood film development.

Have you discovered a writer who’s particularly great at dialogue? If so, tell me about it…post a comment here and we’ll chat.

Bribery works

Like millions of people worldwide, I made a resolution December 31. And like those same millions, just one week into 2007, I’m struggling to keep that resolution.

I wake up with resolve each morning, coaching myself, ‘You will exercise today, Chris. Just do it!’ The Nike “swoosh” kicks me out of bed, I jump into work-out clothes, march downstairs…and then I settle down with a latte and newspaper, move on to email, make a few phone calls, run a few errands, teach piano, do some research/writing… And before I know it, it’s pajama-and-book time and my muscles have sagged another millimeter.

*sigh* So I’ve resorted to bribery.

Bribery is an art form. It involves denial and incentive and creativity, and my Mom was a master of it throughout my childhood. How do you get a kid to water flowers or hang laundry or can vegetables without complaint? You bribe her with “Queen for an Hour” or a fast card game or good old-fashioned ice cream…in the middle of the day, when she should be working, without her brothers knowing.

I’ve resorted to bribery with my piano students—complete 25 lessons, I take them to Starbucks; complete 50 and I take them on an outing of their choosing. Another 25—Starbucks…another 50—outing, etc. I’ve bowled, roller- and ice-skated, climbed rock walls, sat through low-rated kid movies while screaming only in my head, engaged in an eating contest—which I lost, shockingly. I haven’t exactly enjoyed all these outings, but I’m pretty sure my Mom wasn’t thrilled to answer the summons and serve her “queen” for an hour, either.

So now I’m bribing myself to exercise. Starbucks, movies, piano, Starbucks, a novel of political intrigue, Starbucks. There’s a theme here…and it’s working.

The stool comes home

Have you ever had the thrill of giving a gift that cost you little but had inestimable value to the recipient? I did this year…and I have the photo to prove it.

Now if you zoom in on this picture, you’ll probably raise an eyebrow and think, ‘Okaaaaay…it’s a cruddy old stool. What’s the big whoop?’ Well, you weren't there to see my Mom’s big grin. This stool has deep meaning for my family.

It sat in my grandparents’ back room, next to the low back sink, for 70 years or more, waiting for its chance to seat little boys who needed haircuts, grandchildren who had a sink project, and the odd-man-out forced to eat at the breadboard because the kitchen table was full. It’s been a step-stool, a naughty-stool, a catch-your-breath stool. And as far as we can remember, it’s always been painted white with little bands of black on each leg.

We lost track of it in 2003 during a public auction of my grandparents’ possessions. The stool should never have gone up for bid, but it did, we lost it, and we’ve been fighting mad and just sick over it ever since.

But that’s the beauty of a small community. Things disappear then reappear when word gets out. Someone knows someone who knows someone else who can solve the problem. In this case, I called a cousin, the cousin called the auctioneer, the auctioneer tracked down the buyer, and the negotiating began.

And on Friday, December 22^nd, three days before Christmas and about two years after the search began, Grandma’s stool re-entered Schaub possession, never to leave again. There was much rejoicing.

Tuning in Christmas

The Little Drummer Boy is stalking me. I’m not kidding. I turn the car stereo to the all-Christmas station, pah-rum-pah-pum-pum. I walk into Walgreens, pah-rum-pah-pum-pum. Sometimes he taunts me in jazz, sometimes in 1950s boys’ choir, but usually he hits me with a bad pop version. Repeatedly. Right over the head with his little, irritating drumsticks.

There are worse songs for stalking—“Feliz Navidad,” for instance. And I dare you to read that without the melody popping into your head. “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” is fun to hear exactly one time. And don’t get me started on “The Christmas Shoes.”

I love Christmas music. It’s everything I can do to wait until the day after Thanksgiving to load up my CD player and rotate Kenny G, Jim Brickman, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, and the soundtrack from “Rudolph.” The music makes me want to bake cookies and crush candy canes. I hum all the time. If my house were bigger, I’d probably skip through it.

Currently, I’m hooked on Sarah McLachlan’s recording of “River” (a Joni Mitchell holiday song) and I’m trying desperately to track down an advanced piano duet of “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” Last year, I was all about “White Christmas” and “Mary Did You Know.” Two years ago, it was “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

I love that about Christmas music. Particular songs sneak up on us each year and make us nostalgic, introspective, joyful. It’s like a special treat when we hear them—like the song is being played just for us…just for this moment.

Well, except for the Drummer Boy. May his sticks rest for a good long time, I’m sayin’.