Irrigating Deserts: C.S. Lewis on Education by Joel D. Heck

“The task of the modern educator is not to cut down jungles but to irrigate deserts. The right defense against false sentiments is to inculcate just sentiments.” C.S. Lewis, “Men Without Chests,” Abolition of Man

One of the reasons that I am drawn to Lewis is that he holds multiple vocations together. In my own life, I try to integrate the tasks of teaching academic, writer, and spiritual director—aspects of my C.S. Lewis on Educationcalling that sometimes feel disconnected and other times synchronize beautifully. Lewis was a writer, scholar, teacher, and public intellectual, but also felt that pastoral responsibility to those who found his books challenging in their lives. It would seem on the outside that these streams of gifting would be complementary, but at Oxford especially, Lewis’ career paid a price for writing popularly—he was considered a kind of dime store academic by his colleagues, especially when he moved into the fields of apologetics and theology, the very things that made him famous in Britain and America. While CBC in Canada and NPR in the U.S. typically turn to academics who write and speak popularly to bring credible voices to their social conversations, when C.S. Lewis gave lectures for normal folk on BBC, he transgressed the boundaries of an Oxbridge academic. He was shunned, academically speaking, and never became a full professor until he had already been teaching for thirty years.

My interest in the tensions of Lewis’ vocation led me to this 2005 book, Irrigating Deserts: C. S. Lewis on Education by Concordia professor Joel D. Heck. Dr. Heck argues that Lewis’ primary vocation was educator, and that all aspects of his work follow his educational calling. As far as I know, this was the first full book on Lewis and teaching up until that point, an astonishing discovery by Heck if Lewis’ central vocation was indeed teaching. I’m presenting a paper on teaching C.S. Lewis at the C.S. Lewis and the Inklings Colloquium at Taylor University, so I thought I should give it a read.

There are a number of features in Irrigating Deserts that I found eminently helpful. Heck gives a description of the complex Oxford-Cambridge (Oxbridge) educational system, which is quite foreign to most North Americans. In particular, I never understood the significance of the fact that, as a young man after WWI, Lewis was exceptional in receiving three “firsts” at Oxford. To me, I assumed that meant he was a triple major in English, Philosophy, and Classics. This is partly accurate, but it also equivalent to earning a 4.0 GPA in each of these disciplines. As best as I can judge, the Bachelor work in Lewis’ day was at a graduate level, and with a few years as a tutor he automatically received an M.A. Heck also explained why Lewis never pursued a PhD—believe it or not, it would limit his career path toward a professorship—and how tenuous Lewis’ teaching career was in his first few years. For me, Lewis educational biography took on a fuller meaning.

Beyond explaining the complex ins and outs of the Oxbridge tutorial system, Heck gave me an intellectual geography for Lewis’ writing and teaching. Heck carefully explained the intellectual climate at Oxford as it shifted from the 1920s to the pre-WWII period, and then shifted again in the post-war period. This contextual map allowed me to put Lewis’ work in contexts that I hadn’t imagined. In particular, I had no real sense of how popular Lewis was as a lecturer, how much work his tutorials were, and yet how counter-cultural his beliefs were at modern Oxford. By far Heck’s strongest work is his integration of dozens of reports from Lewis’ own students, which he carefully collected and then used to give an image of Lewis when he was leading his one-on-one tutorials (which took up much of his week) and his famously popular lectures. Heck truly gives us access to unheard voices closest to Lewis when he was farthest from the international Christian superstar spotlight, in the shabby chambers of the New Building at Magdalen College.

Perhaps my favourite parts of Irrigating Deserts were the chapters on Lewis as a reader—in the 1920s he managed to read 3-4 books a week (that we know of)—and the intellectual value of reading and rereading books. As I chip away at my own reading—this short academic book took a week—I find it a bit depressing just how much he was able to read, and how much he could remember. Time after time, Lewis’ colleagues and students talk about how he had almost a photographic memory for the content of books. He read widely, and forgot nothing that he read. Yet he put great intellectual stock in rereading. As impossible as the feats in these chapter seem, the stories themselves were a lot of fun to read.

While there is much to commend itself about this book, I was also disappointed on a few points. The writing was basically good and quite functional, but not nearly as creative and organic as the subject by C.S. Lewismatter deserves. I truly appreciate its brevity—Heck is not lost in the verbose insecurity—but I think it was organizationally problematic. After a brief introduction to Lewis’ intellectual interior life, we go to two chapters on Lewis’ understand of the purpose and practice of education and the curriculum. These chapters are followed then by the chapter on reading and rereading, then Lewis as a student and teacher. This approach is unfortunate, since Lewis’ views are given to us artificially in the first chapters, rather than drawn out of his educational biography. Even within the chapters, we see the need for more editorial work. For example, three times Heck mentions the fact that Lewis flunked the math exam for Oxford entrance, but it isn’t until the third time that we understand why he did, and what the implications were. Editorial tightening was desperately needed.

What was keenly missing for me was the depth of Lewis’ philosophical understanding of teaching.  The first two chapters address it, but they are not nearly as deep as they could be and should, I think, take up a large chunk of a book subtitled C.S. Lewis on Education. After reading, I understand much better the education of Lewis, and the functional reality of his teaching, but not the difficult journey of his own methodology. These aspects are not totally absent, but lack the focus and depth that this kind of treatment requires. Especially, as the book ends, we are missing the pedagogical implications—the “what do we do now?” reality of Lewis’ own approach. I walk away from Irrigating Deserts with no real sense of how I can improve my own teaching, what implications Lewis’ pedagogical views have for our crumbling university scene, or even the full ramifications of what it would mean to “irrigate deserts” instead of “cut down jungles” in the 21st century. As a lecturer and university administrator (VP Academic at Concordia University, Austin, TX) I am certain that Heck has views on these things, but they are largely absent from the book.

I am careful not to judge a book by what it is not, rather than by what it is. However, Irrigating Deserts is published by an academic publisher. This book is the foundation for a further-edited piece that absolutely should have been published, and is worthy of the Marion E. Wade research award based on the idea of the book alone. However, the editors did a disservice to Prof. Heck in allowing the book to finalize in its current form. In general, the lack of critical attention to the editing of Irrigating Deserts is in continuity with the lack of critique of Lewis himself. There is a hint that shy or demure students were intimidated by this giant Oxford intellectual, and in one of his very useful appendices Heck humorously points out how Lewis misread an English curriculum report, but other than that we were lacking any real critique of Lewis’ thoughts or approaches. Perhaps St. Lewis is impenetrable as a logician and impervious to critique, but I would have liked to see Heck try. After all, one of Lewis’ great gifts was the critical lens with which he viewed the world.

With all these critiques in view, I still recommend Irrigating Deserts. It is, I hope, the first step in a generation-long conversation about whether, or how, Lewis is relevant to teaching today, as we sit within a mounting crisis of liberal arts education: I believe we are in great danger of becoming “Men Without Chests,” citizens of a state where we have great knowledge, technical abilities, but no moral courage to live as something other than economic units in a technocratic world. Indeed, it is Lewis’ relevant critique today that I find so helpful in my vocation as educator. Although Heck does not draw together the threads of that critique, he does give us a pretty good foundation for readers to launch the critique themselves.

Throughout his entire adult Christian life, Lewis held the various streams of his vocation in tension. While my calling probably more closely matches Frederick Beuchner’s than C.S. Lewis’, I am able to learn from Lewis’ vocational journey. I am grateful for Dr. Heck’s book in that it gave me a biography of Lewis that is focused in a way that other biographies are not. I am unconvinced that C.S. Lewis’ primary vocation was, as Heck argues, one of an educator. But the way Lewis drew that particular calling into his entire approach to life inspires me to more critically appraise myself of my vocational tasks, even when faced by public opposition, an impossible workload, and a social climate that is inherently contradictory to my worldview.

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Great Links: William O’Flaherty’s “C.S. Lewis Minute” & “All About Jack”

Anyone who travels along the path of digital Narnian pilgrimage is bound to bump into William O’Flaherty‘s work. He is the voice behind the C.S. Lewis Minute, which offers a daily soundbite of Lewis trivia and biography. These catchy, quick “did you know?” moments delivered to your inbox are a great daily ritual of thoughtful background to some of your favourite C.S. Lewis works.

William O’Flahery is also the brainchild of “All About Jack,” a prolific podcast of expert interviews with Lewis scholars and biographers. These meatier interviews give voice to people that aren’t normally invited into the popular media conversation. For example, Dr. Michael Ward’s work (Planet Narnia, The Narnia Code) is given new depth with his clear and simple interview. And this week, William has interviewed Terry Glaspey about his book, Not a Tame Lion, which I reviewed quite positively last winter. In these interviews, we also get to hear about the writer’s personal story, and how he or she became a pilgrim in Narnia to begin with.

One of my favourite series in the All About Jack podcast is the Essay Chat. C.S. Lewis wrote more than a hundred essays, many of which are scattered throughout obscure book collections and largely unavailable to us. Other essays are still in print, but largely unknown to the wider public. These 10-12 minute interviews with Lewisian thinkers allow us to get to know some of “Jack” Lewis’ most succinct and poignant work.

I’ll have the opportunity to meet William in person at month’s end. We are both presenting at the C.S. Lewis and the Inklings Colloquium at Taylor University in Upland, IN. Meanwhile, check out this engaging podcast series to broaden your understanding of Jack Lewis and tickle your brain with some of his critical essays.

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Pets in Heaven?

Reblogged from Mere Inkling:

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One of my favorite features in the Wittenburg Door of the 1980s was a running account of “Dogs Who Know the Lord.” Having witnessed more Christlike traits in some pets than I’ve seen in many human lives, I considered the tongue in cheek title a definite possibility.

This week we bid farewell to a gentle and loving border collie who had been part of our family for more than a decade.

Read more… 506 more words

My son asked me yesterday whether the cat buried beneath the old maple stump in the back yard will go to heaven. I thought Rob's essay might be a good answer for my seven year old. His follow up question though--aren't there always follow up questions?--was whether JoJo, his favourite toy monkey, would go to heaven. "Maybe he'll become a new monkey!" he suggested. I'm not sure Rob can address that, but here's a blog worth reading.
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Narnian Pilgrims and The Evil of Middle Management

My son and I have just finished the fourth Chronicle of Narnia, The Silver Chair. Though it is perhaps the least layered book, with fewer mythic symbols woven into the fabric of the by C.S. Lewisstoryline, it is probably my favourite book for its subtle humour, which I’ve written about in “Peals of Laughter.” One of Lewis’ most brilliant characters, the mournful marshwiggle, Puddleglum, brings such joyous light to the story with his gloomy optimism and solid courage in the face of certain failure. We laughed more reading this book than any of the others, despite the fact that much of the book is spent in hopeless peril, endless darkness, and the life-draining enchantment of a powerful sorceress.

Except for a beautifully crafted hint at Lewis’ view of heaven in the last chapter, The Silver Chair seems less theistic in its storyline. It isn’t, however, lacking in Lewis’ social critique. I’ve already written about how The Silver Chair integrates some of Lewis’ views of bullying. Lewis always felt that bullying was supported by lazy, stupid or maniacal administrators, who either winked at childhood terrorism or even set up the hierarchies of control themselves. C.S. LewisBecause of his childhood experience of that system, he would spend his life hinting about the great evil of administrators of all stripes.

For example, in chapter 2 of his Reflections on the Psalms, C.S. Lewis speaks of a kind of red-tape harassment in a scheme he had heard of about the income tax office. A friend of his had received a tax assessment that seemed unusually high. Being a solicitor, well trained in argument and financial matters, he went down to the tax office to challenge the bill. When the fine was reduced, Lewis’ friend asked why the assessment had been high in the first place. The clerk’s response is telling:

“The creature behind the counter tittered and said, ‘Well there’s never any harm trying it on.’”

But there is harm–at least that’s what Lewis thought.

“Now when the cheat is thus attempted against men of the world who know how to look after themselves, not great harm is done…. When, however, that kind of publican sends a similarly dishonest demand to a poor widow, already half starving on a highly taxable ‘unearned’ income (actually earned by years of self-denial on her husband’s part) which inflation has reduced almost to nothing, a very different result probably follows. She cannot afford legal help; she understands nothing; she is terrified and pays–cutting down on the meals and the fuel which were already wholly insufficient. The publican who has successfully ‘tried it on’ with her is precisely ‘the ungodly’ who ‘for his own lust doth persecute the poor’ (Psalm 10:2).”

What is also telling is that Lewis shares this anecdote as part of his explanation of the judgement psalms, demonstrating why God may come in wrath to defend the oppressed. Clerks were not highly esteemed in Lewis’ view.

We see a similar swipe at middle management in the way The Silver Chair ends. I will avoid giving much context–I know it is 60 years old, but I don’t want to spoil the ending. The setting is Experiment House, this horrific progressive school that is structurally dehumanizing and useless in curriculum. Its modern ideas have brought about a kind of grand labyrinth of manipulation, where quick fists and mental terrorism are greater features than scholastic achievement and self-discovery.

I will say that the protagonists, our Jill Pole, who begins the book crying behind the gym, and the regenerated Eustace Scrubb, finally put an end to the systematic bullying at their school. As is common when victims finally stand up for themselves, the Head (Headmaster, or Principal) and the police are called.

“When the police arrived and found [no evidence], and the Head behaving like a lunatic, there was an inquiry into the whole thing. And in the inquiry all sorts of things about Experiment House came out, and about ten people got expelled. After that, the Head’s friends saw that the Head was no use as a Head, so they got her made an Inspector to interfere with other Heads. And when they found she wasn’t much good even at that, they got her into Parliament where she lived happily ever after.”

Why is Lewis so hard on clerks, bureaucrats, government workers, and, apparently, parliamentarians? While Lewis does a good job predicting the ridiculousness of the Peter Principle, the foundation of his critique has to do with greatness. He believed that only great men and women faced great temptation, while the rest of us exist in a kind of base evil. We see this in chapter 11 of book 3 of Mere Christianity, but the principle is found all throughout The Screwtape Letters. The high road of demonic temptation is not about creating Hitlers and Stalins–any average office worker seriously tempted to commit genocide is likely to get some kind of help long before they run for office. No, the best way to create evil in a person’s life is through the slow, steady, almost imperceptible descent to hell through banal temptations like annoyance, discomfort, and apathy.

The Screwtape Letters is really about the subtle temptation us normal mortals face; for Lewis the great evils of bureaucratic thinking are not benign. The best example of the great weight of the little sins and uncreative sinners is captured in this old preface to Screwtape:

“I live in the Managerial Age, in a world of ‘Admin.’ The greatest evil is not now done in those sordid ‘dens of crime’ that Dickens loved to paint. It is not done even in concentration camps and labour camps. In those we see its final result. But it is conceived and ordered (moved, seconded, carried, and minuted) in clean, carpeted, warmed and well-lighted offices, by quiet men with white collars and cut fingernails and smooth-shaven cheeks who do not need to raise their voices. Hence, naturally enough, my symbol for Hell is something like the bureaucracy of a police state or the office of a thoroughly nasty business concern.”

I think this is why in most of the Narnian books the greatest enemies are dispatched fairly simply in the end. Certainly these are victorious moments, but there is also great victory in slaying middle management demons. How is this done? By standing up to bullies, by making hard choices to do good things, and by slaying the petty dragons that threaten to rise up within ourselves. For Eustace in The  Voyage of the Dawn Treader, his dragonish ways made him into a real dragon. For most of us, who typically live in the middle management worlds of clerks and office workers and teachers, the damage we do is sometimes harder to identify. But if we learn from the children of Narnia–and become pilgrims there ourselves–we will find the transformation that makes mere mortals into immortal heroes.

Perhaps we should order this pilgrimage in triplicate.

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Dayshift Werewolves and Weekend Writers: A Review of the 3 Day Novel Contest Genre

A slowly leaked secret of my life is that I am a 3 Day Novel Contest survivor. For those who don’t know, the 3DNC is a kind of literary boot camp, “the world’s most notorious literary marathon,” where each year for the last thirty-five hundreds of writers across the world chain themselves to their laptops and typewriters in order to hammer out a 100-page novel in a single weekend. And for each of the last three years I’ve retreated to my writing shrine in my basement during the Labour Day weekend and tried to close a narrative arc in 72 hours. I’ve been successful in finishing a novel each year, though I’ve never cracked that magical list of honourable mentions, those intrepid writers who scrape their way to the top of the literary slag pile

Those who have read some of the 3DNC winners know that there is a kind of genre to the contest. Most of the winners write tight, almost cryptic first-person narratives, often filled with brooding characters that walk the line between self-hatred and self-discovery. For example, The Videographer by Jason Rapczynski (2008) is the story of a porn cameraman working through his failed relationships and toying with alcoholism. It is a prime model of loser lit, where the protagonist can’t even be motivated enough to have dreams that he would then expect to be crushed. The story lures the reader into the tragicomedy of the narrator’s film-staged self-discovery, and epitomizes the 3DNC genre.

There are other great examples. In the Garden of Men by John Kupferschmidt (2007) is a beautifully crafted journal of political impotence in the face of totalitarian control. From the sterile station of his office cubicle, the protagonist rebels in a futile attempt at a paper-trail revolution. Although he is ultimately unable to save humanity, he himself becomes human in this almost accidental and completely haphazard rebellion. Without the same kind of redemption, The Convictions of Leonard McKinley is Brendan McLeod’s addictive 2006 novel about a young boy’s fixation on appeasing God. Leonard’s perversion, though, is not his complex battle with actual sexual temptation, but the mutilating, spiritually twisted self-loathing that emerges out of his guilt toward a hybridized quasi-Christian god. It is a disturbing and gripping comedy.

As I sketch out my 3DNC outline each spring, I promise myself I will try to write something that fits within the contest genre. I would like to win, after all, and collect all those royalties that mount into the dozens of dollars. In 2009 I wrote something that might fit the genre, but it was too close, too personal, and at 150 pages, far too brief for real character development. In 2011 I wrote something that is completely un-publishable—a fun idea I wanted to work through, but I knew had no market. I was certain I would not win, but the 3DNC was a great way to get the idea on paper. And in 2010 I typed out a young adult novel that is now in the editing phase with the goal of offering it for publication. This light, colourful preteen girl novel isn’t exactly 3DNC standard fare.

But I picked up a winning book recently that has made me appreciate that there is some breadth in the 3DNC genre. Dayshift Werewolf is a fantasy novel that shows the underbelly of the fairy world. Underwood’s strength is her character exploration. Dayshift Werewolf has a zombie fighting to understand her teenage son who clearly doesn’t get zombiism, an overly-sensitive Norwegian mountain gnome trying to defect to the American wild, a cat-collecting 3DNC winnerwitch manipulated by everyone around her, and a werewolf who prefers gardening to hunting man-flesh. Whether it is a demon bored with the satanic rat race, a monster trying to find his poetic voice, or a teenage Sasquatch struggling to understand why her body isn’t magazine-beautiful, Underwood captures our generation’s neuroses in the comedic confessions of illicit characters.

Even though Underwood’s speculative fiction stretches the 3DNC genre a bit, it still shares some elements with the other books I’ve read. The characters each tell their story in the first person—these are diary entries, the complex mental journeys of the characters. This book is funny, and while it isn’t as dark and tragic as the others, it does have a sweet sadness about it. Dayshift Werewolf is also, in a very real sense, loser lit, the stories of the underdog—or underwerewolf, if such a cliché exists in Underwood’s parallel world. I have experimented with writing the underdog story in the fantasy form, and relish the freedom that Underwood takes advantage of in telling her character’s stories.

One stark difference between Underwood’s book and the other 3DNC winners is that Dayshift Werewolf isn’t really a novel. There is no beginning, middle, and end. Instead, the characters are all connected by this one town, Stevens’ Ferry, a literal breeding ground of the undead and the weirdly magical, an isolated hamlet with progressive inclusive communities for the naturally grotesque and fantastically degenerate. When I say it isn’t a novel, I don’t mean that the volunteer 3DNC judges picked poorly. Dayshift Werewolf is a great choice, an entertaining and intelligent read. But it fits on the very edges of the novel genre, much like Vincent Lam’s Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures, a haunting collection of stories drawn together around nominally connected characters. They both read like novels, but are really six degrees of separation story collections. This feature makes Underwood’s work unique among 3DNC champions.

Despite the relatively narrow range of books I’ve encountered among 3 Day Novel Contest winners, I loved every one of them. And despite the fact that I love loser lit—I even write loser lit—and despite the fact that I would love to win someday, I probably will not write a strategically 3DNC-like book this year. In fact, I already know what I will write and have begun plotline and character sketching. My hope is that it will be connected enough to the 3DNC family of books to be considered, and well written enough to be judged on its own merits. Mostly, though, 3DNC is an opportunity to stretch my literary legs, to test out ideas, tease out characters, and actually finish something in a vocation where stories can sometimes go on forever.

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Bullies Then and Now: Bullying’s Effect on Everyday Life

I’ve written on the struggles C.S. Lewis had growing up with bullies–it really was a lifelong struggle–and we see from time to time how Lewis captures the victim’s feelings in fiction, like when “Jill Pole was crying behind the gym” in The Silver Chair. As I was going through Surprised by Joy, Lewis’ only full-length memoir, I came across a passage that is almost terrifying when considered that it comes from the experience of a little boy.

The bullying had this negative merit that it was honest bullying; not bullying conscience-salved and authorized in the maison tolérée of the prefectorial system. It was done mainly by gangs; parties of eight or ten boys each who scoured those interminable corridors for prey. Their sorties, though like a whirlwind, were not perceived by the victim till too late; the general, endless confusion and clamor, I suppose, masked them. Sometimes capture involved serious consequences; two boys whom I knew were carried off and flogged in some backwater—flogged in the most disinterested fashion, for their captors had no personal acquaintance with them; art for art’s sake. But on the only occasion when I was caught myself my fate was much milder and perhaps odd enough to be worth recording. When I had come to myself after being dragged at headlong speed through a labyrinth of passages which took me beyond all usual landmarks, I found that I was one of several prisoners in a low, bare room, half-lit (I think) by a single gas jet. After a pause to recover their breath two of the brigands led out the first captive. I now noticed that a horizontal row of pipes ran along the opposite wall, about three feet from the floor. I was alarmed but not surprised when the prisoner was forced into a bending position under the lowest pipe, in the very posture for execution. But I was very much surprised a moment later. You will remember that the room was half dark. The two gangsters gave their victim a shove; and instantly no victim was there. He vanished; without trace, without sound. It appeared to be sheer black magic Another victim was led out; again the posture for a flogging was assumed; again, instead of flogging—dissolution, atomization, annihilation. At last my own turn came. I too received the shove from behind, and found myself falling through a hole or hatch in the wall into what turned out to be a coal cellar. Another small boy came hurtling in after me, the door was slammed and bolted behind us, and our captors with a joyous whoop rushed away for more booty.

This little anecdote, which Lewis relates in an almost jovial way, shows us two things, I think. First, bullying is not a new phenomenon. Bullying has been standard fare in modern education, and has been often more brutal than a mere “boys will be boys” experience. Second, we can see how radically different the form of bullying is today. The elements of fear, intimidation, and violence remains the same, but the real physical brutality took on other forms and structures in Lewis’ day. Chapter 6, “Bloodery,” is a systematic description of school-sanctioned bullying that included public humiliation, physical beatings, constant terrorizing, and what was most likely the rape of younger boys by their elders.

Yet I think one aspect is similar. For private school boys, like Lewis, bullying touched every moment of every day. It dominated his student life, and kept him in constant terror. I think that social network technology has allowed relatively uncreative bullies today to have the same reign of terror. I could go home, leaving a bully behind at school or sports. But bullied kids today go home to a two-dimensional world of terror that defines their three-dimensional lives.

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Lost and Found Writers at the Altars of Hope

Stephen King claims in his writing memoir, On Writing, that he used to collect his rejection letters from publishers on a nail in his attic. When the weight of the dozens of rejections became too much for the nail, he replaced it with a spike and kept on collecting those letters.

I don’t doubt it. There is something sacred for writers about any correspondence from those gatekeepers of binding and ink, even if it is a tersely worded rejection. Anything I have from the third-rung editors I’ve had contact with—and they’ve been few, since I seem to binge write and then hoard my work in well-named file folders—I tape on a wall in my writing station, a kind of literary shrine of “Congratulations!” letters and hand-written notes. When inspiration is low, I run my finger across the aging paper, tracing the jagged tape ends while my mind tumbles toward new imaginative worlds.

I suspect I’m not the only author-in-waiting who has created a cultic relationship with his acceptance and rejection letters. I’m also quite secretive about the whole experience. True, when I got picked up by The UTNE Reader, I broadcasted it far and wide, but for the most part I simply cut up edited by Walter Hooperthe letter and paste it to my wall. Until I am found as a writer, these things remain in my own little world, living somewhere between hope and despair.

So when I read books on writing by those who have wedged open a space for themselves in the publishing world, I’m fascinated by their rituals of acceptance and rejection, like Stephen King’s nail on the attic truss. Reading through C.S. Lewis’ letters, I came across his lost and found experiences as a young poet at the end of WWI. After a mortar wound, his convalescence in hospital gave him the opportunity to edit his poems into a book and then to submit them for publication. Naturally, “almost beyond hope,” Lewis began with the top publishing house, Macmillan & Co., still a powerhouse in the business. His manuscript was promptly rejected with this courteous note:

“Dear Sir,
We duly received your manuscript entitled ‘Spirits in Prison: A cycle of lyrical poems’, by Clive Staples, and regret to say that we do not see our way to undertake its publication. Some of the shorter nature poems seem to us to have no little charm, but we do not feel that the collection as a whole would be likely to appeal to any considerable public. We beg therefore to return the MS. with thanks.
We are, yours faithfully,
Macmillan and Co. Ltd.” (Letter to Arthur Greeves, c. Aug 7, 1918)

Lewis was not overly discouraged and promptly sent the manuscript on to Heinemann, who were known for publishing contemporary poets. Just a month after this first rejection, Lewis was able to write to his good friend with the thrilling news that he had been picked up by Heinemann:

“The best of news! After keeping my MS. for ages Heinemann has actually accepted it. ‘Wm. Heinemann’ – apparently there is a real Mr Heinnemann – writes to say that he ‘will be pleased to become its publisher.’ He adds that it may be well to re-consider the inclusion of some of the pieces ‘which are not perhaps on a level with my best work’.” (c. Sep 12, 1918)

You’ll excuse Lewis for his misspelling of the publisher given his excitement, and for imagining that a 2-3 week manuscript review was “ages,” but this is the beginning of Lewis’ writing career.

What follows over the next few months is a correspondence about the title of the book—which ultimately becomes Spirits in Bondage—Lewis’ pseudonym, by C.S. Lewisan exchange of poems, some editing, and the descriptions of Lewis’ personal meeting with Mr. Heinemann.

As it turns out, while Lewis was discovered as a poet by William Heinemann, he remained a rather lost literary figure. Spirits in Bondage did not sell well and was reviewed in none of the important places. Not quite a decade later, Lewis finally came to terms with the fact that he would not be a famous author and settled into an academic life. After a decade of struggle and failure, he finally gave up his dream.

The letters he writes to his father and best friend show the vast differences in the publishing business then and now. It’s not surprising, then, that Lewis kept all the letters in his correspondence with Mr. Heinemann, and he even kept that polite note of rejection from Macmillan. It seems that even this prepubescent literary giant had his own version of a nail in the attic, his own literary shrine of lost and found.

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