by Suanne Camfield

Why do you write?

If you scraped together a dozen writers and asked them this question, my guess is you’d get a dozen different answers.

And . . .  I’d also guess that if you stripped all those answers down to one—just one—they’d sound about the same.

I’ve been thinking about this since I read Karen Halvorsen Schreck’s essay in the recently released Always There. Never mind that the book contains (ahem) a number of Redbud essays and never mind that it’s entirely composed of essays on motherhood–Karen’s words speak deep to a place in the writing soul. The place that’s terrified of being suffocated by the everyday–drowning in it–and so whose existence depends on clawing and scratching its way to empty spaces in which to breathe, even if  it’s just for a little while.

I’d imagine most writers don’t have the luxury of forgoing the everyday simply to write. Sure, we could banter for hours over “if money and time weren’t an issue” but seriously, when aren’t money and time an issue? Ever? Whether we’re buried under a mound of permission slips and algebra equations or boardroom presentations and tax-season deadlines (or all of the above), life has a way of needing to get done. Usually by us.

And we can dream (often) of sitting on Oprah’s post-retirement couch or fielding interviews from our villa in Italy, but the truth is—and I’m sorry if you’re still among the disillusioned—writing wasn’t voted “most likely” in any yearbook’s rich and famous categories. (According to a recent Publishers Weekly article even prolific writers like John Steinbeck and Harper Lee had to work at something other than their craft to put food on the table. And, just to add insult to injury, consider this depressing quote I came across (and I don’t even write fiction): “A prose fiction writer’s hourly wage, broken down into units, would be in the modest range of the US minimum wage of the 1950s – approximately $1 per hour.”)

So, if it’s not because we can’t seem to find anything better to do with our “extra” time and if it’s not because of the huge swells of cash that are bound to crash our way, I’ll ask the question again: Why do we write?

In Always There, Karen’s longing to write envelops her as she quietly closes the door to her infant daughter’s room—the same daughter she prayed and hoped and waited for and feared would never come, but whose existence, she realizes, has the potential to swallow her own. And right then, Karen makes a decision.

“I take out a journal. I make a vow: whenever my daughter naps, no matter what (well, mostly no matter what), I will take time for this other self that is also me. I will write. And I sense God standing there, looking with favor upon my complexity.”

And herein lies (at least one) answer to my original question: We write because “this other self that is also me.”

This other self is the one who ingests auras and conversations and ideas that most would never notice; the one who fills her Moleskine with scraps of wisdom tossed about in the random corners of life; the one who stares out the office window in between emails dreaming up the perfect anecdote for Chapter Two; the one who endures the stuffy train commute to finish the next scene; the one who doesn’t mind when the plane is delayed or the doctor is running behind or the oil change is taking a little longer than expected because these are the moments–sometimes the only moments–to cultivate this other self. This other self who digs and probes and prods and reflects and longs and yearns so that it can simply inhale. And exhale. And be.

This other self who lives as beautifully and completely and simultaneously as the one who moves through the stress and busyness of everyday life. The one without whom the rich complexity of who we are would tragically be lost. The one who cautiously sips the undeserved favor. This other self who is also–wholly and fully– each one of us. Me.

by Halee Gray Scott

We all have those moments. Those moments we glibly call “defining” in which we are forced to make a decision that, in effect, makes us or unmakes us.  One such moment came to me one winter morning in 1988. My life was a mess. My parents’ marriage was on the verge of collapse and my grandfather—the one person I loved more than anyone—had just died from a bypass surgery gone wrong. It would be hard to overestimate how alone in the world I felt. Like always, I sought solace and company in books.

On that same morning in 1988, as I was leaving my fifth-grade classroom for recess, I overheard a conversation between two of my classmates. John and Rachel were standing on the far side of the room, next to the brown chalkboard covered in division problems.

“Do you understand anything Halee says?” asked John. “She uses these big words and I never understand her.”

“Not really,” Rachel answered, “but I like it. She’s not like everybody else.”

As kind as Rachel had been, it was John’s words that I honed in on. Mortified, I fled the room. “Nobody understands me,” I globalized. But when my friends were Meg and Charles Wallace Murray, Anne of Green Gables, and Mary Lennox, what else could I have expected? That morning, I made a decision: I would stop reading and (even more so) would never use “big” words again. And for a long time, I didn’t.

Matthew 25 lets us eavesdrop on a conversation that Jesus had with his disciples on the Mount of Olives. Through the parable of the talents, Jesus urged the disciples to steward their gifts well. But why would such a lesson be necessary? In an American Idol culture, it’s hard to understand why anyone would bury their talents, but look closely at how the unfaithful servant explains himself: “So I was afraid.” He weighed his personal inadequacy against the greatness of the task and was paralyzed by fear.

As writers, we’re subject to a similar temptation because our calling is so similar to the calling of the prophet. And prophets are never popular. Walter Brueggemann writes that the task of the prophet is to criticize the status quo and energize people towards a grander alternative by casting a vision of what is possible. But neither criticizing or energizing is easy. No one wants to be criticized, but Brueggemann argues that no one really wants to be energized either. In the complacency of 21^st century America, who wants to expend the energy to create something new, to work and hope our way towards a better future?

For the writer, the poet, the temptation is to mute ourselves or lower the octave of our voice to be more amiable to our hearers—much like I did in response to the criticism of a 5^th grader.  It’s a temptation we must resist if we want to be faithful. As Ann Voskamp has said,  “To create, you have to bury something. Either bury your fear in faith, or bury your talent in fear.”

by Ellen Painter Dollar (reposted with permission from Ellen’s blog on Patheos)

Here’s one of many hard lessons I’ve learned as a writer publishing primarily online: You can pen a gorgeous piece about some timeless topic—parenting or faith or health or grief. And if your piece doesn’t have a news hook—if it doesn’t mention some hot topic in the news up front and then go on to make some point about said news item—many (most editors aren’t interested.

I get it. It’s a loud, nonstop world out there, information flying at us like bugs toward a windshield. People need a reason to stop stalking ex-loves on Facebook or playing Angry Birds long enough to read 800 words or so, and maybe ponder them for, oh, two or three minutes. The news hook gives them a reason.

But I’m fed up with the news hook.

In case you haven’t noticed, reproductive issues have been in the news a lot recently: Planned Parenthood vs. Susan G. Komen, Roman Catholic bishops and contraception, Rick Santorum and prenatal testing, vaginal ultrasounds and abortion and rape.

Readers and friends have filled my inbox and Facebook page with links to articles on these stories and more. And I have read many of them, often because I’m interested but often because I feel like I should. This is my topic—one of them anyway. And I should care about the latest news. Furthermore, conventional writing wisdom says I should be on the lookout for precious nuggets of information that I can use as news hooks for my own posts and articles.

But I have become more and more reluctant to click through to read the words on the other end of all those links. And even more reluctant to use any of these stories as news hooks.

As blogger after blogger, journalist after journalist, writer after writer has weighed in on abortion and rape and prenatal testing and contraception, I have become less and less convinced of the value of news hooks. I have begun to wonder if the relentless seeking after the perfect hook is making the blogosphere less relevant and useful, and more noisy and contentious.

First, news hooks often just give writers an excuse to write the same-old same-old. When I see that Writer X, whose work I am familiar with, is writing about Issue Y, I can often guess without reading more than the headline what he or she is going to say. Instead of providing fodder for new conversations and spurring writers to say something fresh and original, news hooks often end up being a handy tool for writers to once again make their (our) favorite arguments. The result? Warring bands of articles blaring familiar positions on hot-button issues, contributing to a cultural discourse that is more focused on coming up with clever zingers that like-minded folk can tweet to their followers than on conversation and consensus.

Using a news hook to reiterate one’s opinion is not necessarily a terrible thing. While my faithful blog readers and friends can probably guess how I’ll respond to some news story, there are millions of readers who have no idea who I am or what I might say. For those readers, my same-old same-old take on Issue Y might be fresh and new. They will gain new perspective, and I’ll gain a new reader.

But I see how easily the day’s news becomes something we use to further our own agendas. We begin to see the events of the nation and the world primarily through our own self serving lenses. That can’t be a good thing.

Second, relying on news hooks makes our writing disposable. The fly-by-night nature of the blogosphere is the blessing and bane of being a writer today. With so many sites seeking nonstop new content, writers have unprecedented access to an audience. Anyone with writing talent, thick skin, tenacity, and a willingness to work really hard has the opportunity to get their work published. When some topic becomes a hot news hook, editors are on the lookout for experts in that topic.

The down side of this constant content-seeking is that our writing has a very short shelf life. Once the news story passes into oblivion, so does whatever we wrote about it. Sure, it may continue to get occasional hits from someone Googling the topic, or when a similar news story surfaces. But by and large, a blog post, even on a major news site, is ancient history within a week or two.

Again, this is not necessarily a terrible thing. It’s the environment within which journalists have always worked. But it also means that we writers have little incentive to produce something timeless, in the way that a novel or poetry or a killer nonfiction essay can be timeless. It makes us more like carpenters, cobbling together a bunch of words to create something utilitarian, rather than artists, using words to make sense of this crazy world, to spur change in ourselves and others, to give comfort or challenge or inspiration.

I don’t mind being a carpenter most of the time. For many writers, carpentry is what pays the bills. But I’m striving to be an artist too. I’d like to write stuff that isn’t disposable.

And when it comes to other people’s writing, I’d much rather read a work of art than something they banged together, using their stock tools and materials, in response to a news hook. Art moves me. Art changes me. Art makes me say to people, “Did you read this?! This is amazing.” Art sticks with me.

Even in the rapid-fire, news-oriented blogosphere, writers can produce art. I occasionally fish around in my files or on Google for a blog post I read several years ago, and find that it still makes my heart clench and my eyes tear. A few of my own posts are, I think, worthy of repetition, timeless in their own way. (My “Best Thing Blog Hop” arose out of a desire to give other bloggers an opportunity to share something really great and potentially timeless that they wrote.)

The news hook isn’t going anywhere. But if we writers want to move and change and challenge and inspire people (and more practically, if we want people to really read and ponder and revisit what we churn out day after day), we need to go beyond the news hook to write about grief and joy, justice and mercy, love and loss—the timeless things that remain after the day’s news is history. And maybe avoid responding to the latest big news story unless we have something truly original to say that will nudge both us and our readers out of complacently repeating the same old arguments and toward actual conversation. Maybe even change.

by Michelle Van Loon (reposted with permission from michellevanloon.com)

Every two years, readers and writers flock to the campus of Calvin College in Grand Rapids, MI for the Festival of Faith & Writing. The campus buildings bear names like Huizenga, Vanderwerp and Hiemenga, reflecting the deep Dutch roots of the Christian Reformed Church with which the school is affiliated. True story: When I attended the Festival four years ago, in fact, I had a very tall blonde woman with a Dutch surname bend to read my name tag, take a step back so she could eye me up and down, and then say imperiously, “You’re not a Van Loon!” Epic rudeness, a weird break from the usual locked-down decorum of the Dutch – and in retrospect, completely hilarious.

I looked for her this year, but she wasn’t there. (I can’t say that I missed her much.) What was there was a literary Thanksgiving table, a feast of words shared by hungry people from college students to senior citizens. This year’s keynote speakers included Jonathan Safran Foer and Marilynne Robinson, and workshop session leaders included dozens of writers including Luci Shaw, Walter Wangerin, Jr., and Larry Woiwode. Several members of my writer’s group were session speakers as well.

As I loosen the metaphorical belt around my overstuffed frontal lobe after three days at the all-you-can-eat buffet, here are a few quick observations about the Festival:

(1) Jonathan Safran Foer was worth every penny they paid him to come speak. (Home run.)

(2) If a workshop is called “Ours and Not Ours: Writing The Immigrant Experience” and there are four Dutch Canadians as the panelists, it is possible that the audience may wonder if they’re being featured on an episode of Punk’d. (A swing and a miss on this one, Calvin.)

(3) Redbuds and/or fellow Christianity Today Her.meneutics blog contribotors were everywhere. It was fun to cheer them on, and they Redbuds put on a heckuva reception on the first evening of the conference.

(4) I really enjoyed the panel discussion on the topic of book reviewing led by John Wilson of Books & Culture, Chris Smith from Englewood Review of Books, and Wheaton College prof Brett Foster.It reminded me that a well-written interaction with a book can stretch a reader’s world even if the reader has no intention of reading the book.

(5) I had no idea that Grand Rapids is so anti-left turn: the blinking red lights followed by green arrows for left turn lanes in some places, the U-turns to avoid left turns  in other places made for some unintentionally exciting driving adventures. And don’t even get me started on the microscopic street signs.

(6) In one of his sessions, Daniel Taylor noted that pain is essential to art. He offered a couple of categories to us as writers: “Memoir is remembered pain. Fiction is imagined pain.” Later in the same session, he added another gem: “Write grief, not grievance.”

(7) I facilitated a Festival Circle (a discussion group that met twice during the Festival) called “Re-formed Life: Writing as a Spiritual Discipline”. It was a joy to come together with others who cared deeply about the topic to share experiences, strengths, weaknesses and ideas.

(8) I appreciated the full slate of events, though it was a wee bit painful to have to make a choice and realize that as I said yes to one option, I was saying no to many other options. OK, at times, it was more than a little painful.

(9) Novelist Clare Vanderpool put this out there: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word exploded into a story…” Beautiful.

(10) It was a delight to meet in person so many people I’ve come to know via online interaction. I wondered if the F2F would be strange or awkward, but mostly it was lots of fun and generated a few really meaningful conversations.

(Thanks for every bit of it, Lord. The left turns, the shoeless dinner, and three days spent in the company of other scribes.)

by Karen Halvorsen Schreck

Fiction is about everything human and we are made out of dust, and if you scorn getting yourself dusty, then you shouldn’t try to write fiction. It’s not a grand enough job for you.   —Flannery O’Connor

On May 1st—May Day!  May Day!—my young adult novel, While He Was Away is due out from Sourcebooks Fire.

The book has been a long time coming.  I started working on it in 2007; it’s gone through many incarnations since that time.  One thing has stayed the same, however, and that is my desire to share the story. Or, better put:  my desire to understand the story, and what it has to share.

(More and more, from writing to writing, I find myself thinking:  the stories are telling me.)

Just yesterday, when a long-time friend asked me to say more about While He Was Away, I began reflecting on what lay behind my original desire.  Why this story?  Why did I hold on to it for so long, through all the years, revisions, rejections? Why did I keep the faith?

(Or:  why did the story keep the faith in me?  How did the story keep the faith in me?)

Today, answers branch in all directions, pulling me hither and yon.  The most pressing answer, the one that responds as an exclamation point to my recurring question mark is simply:  You couldn’t not!  (A double negative, I know.)

I couldn’t not write While He Was Away because through all these years, I have not stopped thinking about the Iraq War.  I have not stopped thinking about the young men and women who have been deployed, not once, but multiple times.  (Are you a man or a woman at 18, only four years older than my daughter is now? Studies show that the young who have served in foreign war are twice as likely to report chronic mental and physical pain as the never-deployed; one could make the case that suffering promotes maturity, I suppose).   And I have not been able to stop thinking about the people who love those who have been deployed, and wait for them to come home.

I grew up hearing war stories—my father served in WW II; my mother’s first husband died in WW II—and more often than not, the stories on which I was raised have seemed in direct conflict with the stories I have heard from Iraq.  This is partially because my father cloaked his stories in humor.  As he described it, World War II was a wonderful coming-of-age experience, a lark.  (Never mind his bad dreams, his night terrors.  Never mind his last years with Alzheimer’s, when those nightmares leaked into his days.)  Would the young men and women serving today similarly describe their time in Iraq (and now in Afghanistan) as a coming-of-age? I found myself wondering as I wrote While He Was Away.  And if not, how much does this have to do with a larger cultural shift?  How has our country changed—the place today’s soldiers will return to, please God?  My father was embraced as a hero.  My fear is that our attention span for heroes has been reduced to Andy Warhol’s fifteen seconds of fame.  If that.

I couldn’t reconcile the conflict between my parents’ war and mine, between my parents’ country and mine.  Or I couldn’t begin to, until I wrote this book.  To be frank, I still struggle with this reconciliation even now, with While He Was Away weeks away from having a life of its own.

But I’ve come a little closer to the kind of understanding that as a fiction writer, I hold so dear, in spite of, no, because of the fact that it took me so long to get to this point.  It’s the kind of understanding that I think Flannery O’Conner is alluding to, when she  writes: “There’s a certain grain of stupidity that the writer of fiction can hardly do without, and this is the quality of having to stare, of not getting the point at once. The longer you look at one object, the more of the world you see in it; and it’s well to remember that the serious fiction writer always writes about the whole world.”

“Stupidity.”  Oh, Flannery.  I love this.  As fiction writers, are we all holy fools?

Which brings me to faith, and the relationship of faith to the contemplative life, and the relationship of writing to the contemplative life.  I couldn’t not write While He Was Away because though I am so often of little faith, Ifound that in this act—the act of  writing this book—I could look, contemplate, see what I hadn’t been able to see before—what I hadn’t been able to bear seeing.  The story showed me., surprised me, kept faith in me.

If others seeing writing as an act of faith, or perhaps even as  a contemplative act, I would love to hear your stories.

By Amy Simpson

“In the beginning the Word already existed. The Word was with God, and the Word was God. He existed in the beginning with God. God created everything through him, and nothing was created except through him. The Word gave life to everything that was created, and his life brought light to everyone. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it. So the Word became human and made his home among us. He was full of unfailing love and faithfulness. And we have seen his glory, the glory of the Father’s one and only Son” (John 1:1-5, 14).

Whenever I read or hear someone else read from John 1, I get goose bumps. And I figure I know where I got my love for words.

As humans, we tend to take words for granted, to handle language flippantly, to waste our words, to withhold them, to use them as weapons that can cut as nothing else can. We forget that words can be powerful, precise, and sacred. That they should be respected and used thoughtfully, that even a few words can make our world more beautiful or more devastating. That God himself is the creator of language, the foundation of all words, the source of all meaning and significance. He understands the mysterious power of words much more deeply than any of us do.

Ultimately the holistic nature of God is an almost complete mystery to us. Yet he has chosen to reveal himself in many ways, in terms we can understand. How striking that among these revelations, Jesus is called “the Word.” He is the definitive and final word, the greatest word, the perfect word for all time. He is the precise and clear word, always ready to complete any thought, to explain the unexplainable, to illuminate confusion, or to deepen the mystery.

For a writer, who often searches for the right word and sometimes makes do with inadequate words, this idea is stirring. I’ve always loved what I interpret as a ringing endorsement of the power of words and of the choice to devote my energies to using words well. I even feel a little sorry for people in occupations who don’t have similar revelations to keep them going: Jesus as plumber, stockbroker, or real estate agent. (Then again, I don’t think plumbers, stockbrokers, and real estate agents are generally as insecure about their work and their gifts as writers tend to be.)

This Word has inspired so many other words, all incomplete and inadequate and essentially uniformed in their conclusions because we who are limited by space and time and other constraints we can’t even discern, are incapable of describing one who is limited by absolutely nothing. Words fail us.

And yet even in our inadequacy, writing feels like a holy calling when I look at it in the light of this description of Jesus. My feeble attempts seem noble because they shadow what he has done—written the perfect Word where everyone can see it, in the greatest book ever written, in the story that keeps unfolding, generation after generation. When I add my words to his Word, they matter.

by Natasha Robinson

I tossed and turned all last week because God sometimes speaks to me in the most inopportune times. I don’t hear an audible voice or anything like that. On the contrary, he reminds me of the truths of his Word. Something he wants me to apply to my life right now or to share with others.

Recently, God has been speaking to me concerning the topic of love. I will be speaking on the topic in May and the words started to flow into me in the wee hours of the morning. Seriously, God? You know this dinner is not until May right? And you do understand that I have other immediate needs.

I found myself prioritizing other responsibilities that I deemed more important throughout the day, while God continued speaking to me in the wee hours of the morning. When we say to God, “not my will, but your will” (which I was singing several days last week), we need to mean it.

How quickly we forget that God is in control and his will shall be done when he messes with our personal agendas. While trying to understand my sleepless nights, it is as if God was saying to me, “When I tell you to do something, do it.” Then I was reminded of a message I heard in October where the speaker said, “Delayed obedience is disobedience.” I spent two restless nights trying to mentally hold on to the message God was giving me so that I would not forget it. By Thursday, I reasoned I needed to write my speaking point down and I needed to do it quickly. Once I began putting the words to paper, I was able to get back to sleep.

The first time I had this experience was a few years ago when I started to get the idea, “Maybe I should write.” I attended a conference and had a conversation with a man who got my wheels turning concerning of all the possibilities of telling God’s story through the experiences of my life. Afterward, I could barely sleep for three weeks. I was up all night writing: writing those things that I thought, experienced, learned, feared. Writing reminded me of the different paths and turns my life had taken, most of which were not planned by me but are constant reminders that “[I am] God’s masterpiece created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for [me] to do (Eph 2: 10).” Writing reminds me that God is in charge of my life and he is going to work everything out for my good, so that everyday I am being conformed into the likeness of his son, Jesus.

Writing may keep me up at night, but writing is another way I pray and commune with God. I write the visions God has revealed for my life. I write about his blessings and benefits. I write so that I don’t forget.

What encourages you to write? When discouraged from writing, how do you keep going?

Natasha Sistrunk Robinson is passionate about discipling, leading, and encouraging
women. Connect with Natasha through her blog, A Sista’s Journey or Twitter @asistasjourney.

by Jennifer Grant

My kids and I have fallen in love with the television series “Lie to Me.” Thanks to the magic of Netflix, when homework is done, chores are finished, and it’s early enough in the evening to allow it, we watch an episode.

It stars Tim Roth, one of my favorite actors – see Vincent and Theo, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, Everyone Says I Love You, and The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover. As a graduate student, I wrote a lengthy paper on the last title. It’s one of the most brutal, beautiful pieces of film I’ve ever seen. Alas, however, those “grad (school) days are over” – hum the tune of Dog Days are Over now – and I now find myself drawn to television shows rather than complex political allegories or films that artfully explore the nature of consumerism.

“Mom, it would put us at 8:30 if we start ‘Lie to Me’ now,” my son begs. “Everyone’s homework is done. And the table’s cleared…”

Often, I can’t resist it. Roth stars as Dr. Cal Lightman, the world’s leading deception expert. Lightman scrutinizes facial “micro-expressions,” observes body language, and listens to variances in people’s voices to determine whether they are telling the truth. Based on the work of a real-life human lie detector, the show has turned me into an armchair deception expert. (My kids don’t enjoy my new avocation.)

“I did not have a micro-expression of contempt,” my son protests. “I just didn’t like it that she took my spot on the couch. Again.”

Mm-hmm.

“Lie to Me” reminds us, episode after episode, that our bodies reveal when we are telling the truth. Across generations and cultures, people raise their eyebrows and open their mouths when they are surprised. We slump when we are discouraged. When our smiles are real, crow’s feet appear. We draw our hands into fists when we are angry or feel like hurting someone.

It’s just the way we’re made.

So if we say, our white-knuckled fists shaking, we are blissfully happy in our marriage, people are going to know there’s more to the story. If we insist we never have religious doubts while raising our eyebrows or speaking in clipped, careful sentences, again, people will wonder what we are trying to hide. The way we write also reveals how truthful we are. If I am going to say anything of value in my work, I have to speak up and look my readers in the eyes. If I skim over the surface, work to avoid offending anyone, and fail to spend the time I should editing and revising my work, you’ll know it. My writing will be bland and forgettable.

I want to continue to grow as a writer who tells the truth – and this takes a great deal of practice and courage, as well as an obstinate commitment to honesty. If I don’t ever push myself – and, by extension, push you – in my work, I’ll be just another nice writer who competently describes my little corner of the world and tiptoes around difficult or painful topics. (And remember, “nice is different than good.”)

In Love You More, I delved into the tangled ethics of international adoption. I could have written the memoir without mentioning adoption abuse or how my government’s involvement in Guatemala’s civil war affected the country’s poorest people – people such as my daughter’s birthmother. The chapter on ethics was painful and difficult to write, but I slogged through it. I knew some readers would be bored by it and want to get back to cute family stories (and a few readers said almost just that – see the reviews on Amazon), but I knew that to tell the truth of my experience adopting Mia, I needed to address its complexities. By telling the truth about what is broken, I was able to speak honestly about what is whole – including my love for her.

In every episode of “Lie to Me,” Cal Lightman– after interrogating characters as diverse as a frat boy accused of statutory rape or a rogue American who supports the Taliban in Afghanistan – finally slashes through the lies. A person confesses, and facial expressions, choice of words, and body language reveal that he or she is being honest at last.

“Now that’s the truth,” Lightman says.

And the crime is solved.

Let’s commit to telling the truth in our lives and our work, even – or perhaps especially – when it’s difficult to do.

–

A proud founding member of Redbud, Jennifer Grant is the author of Love You More: The Divine Surprise of Adopting My Daughter (August 2011, Thomas Nelson) and MOMumental: Adventures in the Messy Art of Raising a Family (May 2012, Worthy Publishing). Find her online at jennifergrant.com.

by Kelli Trujillo

“The difference between a wannabe poet and an actual poet is that wannabes don’t ever actually read poetry . . . other than their own. Actual poets read, love, study poetry.”

OK, so that’s not an exact quote of my poetry professor—his wording was much more erudite—but that was the gist of something he said one day in class. It sounds rather obvious, but it’s stunningly true . . . especially in a classroom filled with idealistic young adults, all self-labeled poets, who labored over their own poetic self-expression but had only limited passion and patience for Plath, Jeffers, or Bishop.

Over time, though, we learned to read them—to really read them—and we became humbled and put in our place as we approached our own writing efforts. The more we read the real poets, the deeper we waded into the canon, the more our sense of Poetry (with a capital P) matured and expanded. Our own writing was inevitably changed.

I’m often sadly surprised by how often I encounter aspiring writers who are indeed passionate about learning to write or beginning the writing life but who simply don’t . . . read. Who wonder how I “find the time” to read or who seem to think the only books worth reading are utilitarian (you know, something like 10-Steps to Writing a Bestseller or How to Build a Mommy Blog in 5-Minutes).

But the very best writing comes out of a mind, soul, and heart shaped by the very best reading.

It’s not a matter of parroting—one doesn’t read Christie or Sayers in order to learn how to write a murder mystery. One doesn’t read Winner or Lamott in order to copy some formula for how to craft a spiritual memoir. One doesn’t read Dostoevsky or L’Engle in order to become today’s Fyodor or Madeleine.

No, one reads these texts for love of reading, driven by a passion for story, drawn in by a world or by words or by ideas.

The more one reads—and, I’d argue, the better content one reads—the more one is shaped and changed as a person.

And this, my friends, is where the real writing begins.

Books about writing are certainly helpful (I’d recommend Lamott’s Bird
by Bird and L’Engle’s Walking on Water); writers conferences and writing critique groups can offer valuable networks and skill-sharpening.

But it’s the reading—and the love of it—that shapes a writer. It indirectly but inevitably brings timbre, tone, and strength to a writing voice. It’s the wading deeper into the literary canon (both fiction and non-fiction) that truly gets a writer’s feet wet.

Want to be a better writer? Begin by deepening your commitment to reading.

by Monica Selby

Every writer knows the fear of a blank page.

What if I’m not good enough?

What if I can’t find the words?

What if I have nothing to say?

There have been times in my life when the fear had to win.  First as a newlywed, then as a new mom, then as a new TWIN mom.  These were years when other cares took precedence, new skills were learned and new identities forged.  I typically fell asleep sitting up, those few times I attempted to tackle the fear.  These are the years I learned more about grace.

But, as it must in the life of every writer, the day came to truly face the fear.  I’m not sure why it was THAT day, but suddenly conquering the fear was a priority and not a privilege.  Every day for almost a year now—I’m a still a fledgling—I’ve lived closer and closer to the fear, sometimes winning and sometimes losing.  It’s stronger now; the “what ifs” have turned to “you-nots.”

You are not good enough.

You will not find the words.

You have nothing to say.

Some days—some weeks—I believe the fear and I try to forget.  I never can.  There ARE things to say; there is beauty to create, and a God to be glorified.  Occasionally I hear a
whisper, “You were made for this.”

It’s not my own voice. It’s certainly not the fear.  It’s not even my husband; though he says it a lot.  And I know the Whisperer does not mean I was made for publication or even to be widely read.  He only means I was made to glorify Him with words; He’ll decide how far it reaches.

So, I sit on most days.  Me and the fear and the grace.