-Original Message-
From: Jim Cobabe [mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED]
Sent: Tuesday, November 18, 2003 10:04 AM
To: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Subject: [ZION] Standards vs Censorship
There have been predictable howls of anguish and protest
against such heavy-handed censorship. But I suspect that serious LDS
writers who wish to have a market for their work will toe the line.
I'm not sure what line I'm supposed to toe. But, whatever it is, I'm not
howling in protest. The Church leadership has every right to do whatever it
will regards artists and their works. Deseret Book should not carry any
books that it deems inappropriate.
I'd like to think that many serious Mormon writers are seeking audiences
that include more non-Mormons than Mormons. Many serious writers, who
happen to be Mormons, do not want to be labled a Mormon Writer any more
than Chaim Potok wanted to be labled a Jewish Writer.
But the sensitivity of Church leadership -- it's quite a bit less now than
it was a few decades ago -- does create some challenges for Mormon writers
of fiction who want draw from their life expereiences. For instance, I'm
reasonably certain that the writer of the piece below -- an excerpt from a
draft of a novel -- does not expect that his book will be distributed by
Deseret Book. Neither does he expect that he will be called in to have a
chat with his bishop or stake president. I'm sure he would like it if
Mormons read the book, but I'm absolutely certain his book is aimed at a
very general audience. In this excerpt, he sets-up the dilemma that
confronts novelists (and other artists) who happen to be Mormons:
PLEASE READ THIS CAREFULLY BEFORE PROCEEDING:
The piece below is protected by U.S. Copyright laws. The author has given
permission for its ONE-TIME use here. YOU MAY NOT distribute it by any means
to anyone nor may you copy it. The material remains the SOLE PROPERTY of its
author and may not be given to or shared with others unless you first obtain
written permission from the author.
IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE PARAGRAPH ABOVE, PLEASE DO SO BEFORE PROCEEDING
FURTHER. IF YOU CAN NOT ABIDE WHAT HAS BEEN STIPULATED ABOVE, PLEASE READ NO
FURTHER. DELETE THIS POST FROM YOUR FILES IMMEDIATELY.
A Mormon Goy
Write about what you know, my favorite English teacher always said.
Easier to do for Mrs. Margaret Mulder, garden variety shikse that she was.
It seemed to me that her selection of religion was more connected to
temporal matters than doctrinal correctness; the thoughtfulness of the
minister; his oratorical skills and personal charm; the architecture and
ambiance of the sanctuary; the resonance of the pipe organ; whether the
organist that had mastered Bachs Prelude and Fugue in D and tenors in the
choir sang in tune. Doctrinal correctness was an incidental oh by the way;
truths to her were malleable and relative, not exactly hard and fast divine
edicts etched in granite by God, Himself, or rolling off His tongue on
earth: the prophet, seer, revelator and President of the Mormon Church The
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
Writing about what I knew best, my life and times -- which then as now are
inextricably linked to the church presented a complex and troublesome
challenge. Mormon religion and culture are so deeply embedded in me that it
is practically impossible to conjure anything original, fresh, however
benign, without running the considerable risk of offending or unsettling my
ancestors living and dead (there are scores of each); putting me crosswise
with church leaders, from the bishop of my ward upwards to the Apostles
themselves (or in their crosshairs, figuratively, of course!). Worse,
writing about what I knew best could inadvertently lead to what some may
deem to be heretical and ethnically treasonous acts.
I was no turncoat. I was born to unflinchingly stand my ground. Though my
head be bloodied, it would remain unbowed; I was the captain of my fate, the
lord and master of my soul. No Gentile blood coursed through my veins. I,
Jedediah Pratt Russell, was fruit from the loins of those roaring Lions of
Zion Joseph Smith and Brigham Young. And, most critically, from the
resilient apostle brothers Pratt, Parley and Orson.¨ And, like them, from
the womb of the stalwart founding mother of feminism and unshrinking head
witch Anne Hutchinson of Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut and New
York; and Lathrops, and Howlands and Tillies and The Mayflower.
Scratch any vein on the family corpus and it will bleed Yankee royal blue.
Never mind that in my mind and heart I was a bona fide member of the house
of Israel, an anointed son of Joseph and his colorful coat, and his begotten
Ephraim and Manasses, a kissing cousin of Judah and his tribe. I was called.
I was chosen too. What I once sang in guileless plangent soprano (a year
before testosterone-engorged testicles knocked my voice down an octave
and, eventually, my faith and works too
