Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
I write in my books
This essay was published as a devotion through Internet Cafe Devotions. Click here to read it :-).
Marking it up
I couldn’t wait for college. All the usual reasons — getting away from the small town I lived in and my parents and all the people who thought they had a right to know my business. But it wasn’t just about running away — it was about running to. To new friends, new knowledge, and new experiences. Oh, and also because I’d heard you could write in your books.
Until then, writing in books had always been forbidden, probably because the books didn’t belong to me. I rented from the school, borrowed from the library. Everything had to be taken care of. In college, though, I got to buy my own textbooks. Some of them were used, already filled with other people’s notes, and some were immaculate. I bought the pristine ones and then, somewhat giddily, filled them with my own marks. Highlights in multiple hues. Notes in the margins, stars, arrows, circles. It wasn’t just because I was an art major and liked to draw in pretty colors. It was because it was a way of interacting with the material, a way to remember it, come to understand it, to acknowledge and process what was important. A way to make it mine. I liked being able to flip through and, at a glance, see what mattered. I could remember that, even if I didn’t remember all the specific details, I put a big green asterisk right next to the paragraph, so I could skim through and — voila! — find what I needed.
I’m the same way with my Bible. Yes, of course it is a holy book, worthy of respect. But don’t be mistaken and think, just because my favorite copy is dog-eared, somewhat crumpled and covered in marks going every which way in the margins, that it shows less-than-proper respect. Au contraire! I can hardly read any book, especially the Good Book, without a pen in my hand anymore. If something touches me, I mark it. If something isn’t clear, I question it. If something reminds me of or refers me to something else, I circle it, draw arrows to connect the sections. If something I read speaks to my current situation, I date it. If someone else teaches me something about it, I put their name next to my notes. By doing all these things, I’m attempting to imprint the ideas into my soul. I’m hoping to become physically involved, not remain aloof and separate. I’m hoping to wrestle with it, as David did. I’m hoping to be consumed by it, changed by it, inspired by it, touched by it. I’m hoping to make it mine.
She Speaks
She speaks, because he gave her a voice.
She writes, because he has equipped her and empowered her.
She struggles, because he has made her human.
She endures, because he is beside her.
I watch. I experience. I immerse myself in the depths. And then, only when the silt has settled to the bottom, and light shines through the clear water, I write. I write so that others can experience. So others can see what I see, what I was so privileged to glimpse. It is in the telling that I finally understand. Writing becomes knowing for me. Writing is how I connect to the God who loves me, who saved me, who has been so kind and gracious to me.
And today, when a friend sent me a link to a scholarship announcement for She Speaks, that same Spirit rose up inside of me. Tears brimmed, words of praise bubbled forth. You know how sometimes you just know? You know that you know that you know? I belong there. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I may not make it this year, and that's OK. As I read through the blogs of those who are applying, I’m humbled by the stories, the faith, the devotion. I can’t predict what will happen, but I just know that it matters. It’s important. It is time to take what I know, what I have done, what I have written, and move forward. For him, with him. Oh, always with him. Because then, and only then, will my words matter. Then, and only then, will I have experienced something worthy of the telling.
So, Lord, I write this to you, though I link to the contest. Have your way. If not me, then touch someone else with this miraculous opportunity. And rise up in every one of these women, rise up and SHINE FORTH in their words. Written, spoken, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that the words are yours, not ours. And that when you show us what to do with them, we listen.
**
Though I hadn’t heard of the She Speaks conference before today, I’m so excited about it I can hardly speak. (Typing, however, is another story.) I’m familiar with Proverbs 31 Ministries and Lysa TerKeurst, though, and I’m confident that the conference will live up to the words of praise and enthusiasm I’ve been reading all day today. The conference offers three tracks — for speakers, for writers, and for women’s ministry leaders. There are numerous sessions, opportunities to meet with editors and publishers — and many other women placed on a path similar to mine, also seeking fulfillment of the dreams God has placed within them. I’ve attended several writing conferences, but never one focused on faith and how to communicate that. I don't presume to think I am worthy of this scholarship, but I have felt overwhelmed by the presence of God and the joy that bubbles up in me as I have learned and written about this, so I humbly throw in my hat... and prepare to cast my crown to the Lord in praise and adoration. Because he is worthy of all that, and more... no matter what.
Finding Him
A 6-word memoir written by a member of my writing group last night really touched me.
Found his voice in others' lives.
He's a writer and editor, and I think he meant that he expresses himself, his 'voice,' in the way he writes about others. It's a beautiful way to put that. I loved it, though, because how I interpret the same line is that I've found His (with a capital H) voice in other people's lives, in the way they live, in the things they say, in what they do. He reveals Himself in so many ways.
Since I've been writing so little, I'm going to open this up to any readers I might still have. Your turn! How have you found God in other people? How has He spoken to you through others? What experiences that you've witnessed have shown Him to you most clearly? Where/when/how do you see Him? Or anything else you want to tell me. Please, please, leave a comment. I'm serious about wanting to know.
Found his voice in others' lives.
He's a writer and editor, and I think he meant that he expresses himself, his 'voice,' in the way he writes about others. It's a beautiful way to put that. I loved it, though, because how I interpret the same line is that I've found His (with a capital H) voice in other people's lives, in the way they live, in the things they say, in what they do. He reveals Himself in so many ways.
Since I've been writing so little, I'm going to open this up to any readers I might still have. Your turn! How have you found God in other people? How has He spoken to you through others? What experiences that you've witnessed have shown Him to you most clearly? Where/when/how do you see Him? Or anything else you want to tell me. Please, please, leave a comment. I'm serious about wanting to know.
My offering
"Your stories, they are a gift. They were given only to you. You are the only one who could have experienced them the way that you did. You are the only one who can tell them the way you do. They were a gift, and it is your obligation to offer that back, to do what you can do with it and offer it back to the Lord." These aren't the exact words of a friend of mine, but this is how I remember a conversation with a fellow writer several weeks ago.
These words have rolled around in the gapingly open, empty void inside my head ever since.
These are my stories. I don't just have the option of telling them. I have an obligation. I do believe that to be true. That's how it feels to me, anyway. It also helps explain the power I feel when I do just that, when I record my experiences in writing, when I step back, out of the way, and let God take over.
Tonight I learned at Bible study something I already knew, but I connected to it in a whole new way. Christians often quote the part of the Scripture that says, "Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice." OK, I know that and try to do it. And I find myself getting all puffed up when I do it, feeling proud, feeling blessed and holy. But I think the most important part is next: "For this is your reasonable act of service." Oh. It's not going above and beyond. When I operate under the power of the gifts He has given me, when I am simply doing what I am good at, when I am using my abilities, both the ones that come naturally and the ones that I've worked hard to develop - I'm only doing what I'm supposed to do. I'm not making God proud of me. I'm not earn brownie points. No, I'm just doing my duty. It's no more impressive than a child not throwing their juice boxes on the floor. (Although in my household, that is something that would be impressive.)
So I'm putting these two ideas together, and this year for Christmas, Lord, I am giving you an offering. I am going to use what you have given me, the stories of my life, of my faith, and write them to give back to you. I don't care if anything comes from them. I don't care if there seems to be no purpose. I am simply going to move forward into the bare minimum category. By writing for you every day, maybe, hopefully, I will advance out of the bare minimum category into something more. But right now, I'm not even doing what I'm supposed to do. I'm not cleaning my room, doing the dishes, or making my bed, so to speak. Bare minimums. And if I want to find more, I have to first step into that. So here I go, stepping forward in faith, using what you've given me, asking you to accept this humble offering.
These words have rolled around in the gapingly open, empty void inside my head ever since.
These are my stories. I don't just have the option of telling them. I have an obligation. I do believe that to be true. That's how it feels to me, anyway. It also helps explain the power I feel when I do just that, when I record my experiences in writing, when I step back, out of the way, and let God take over.
Tonight I learned at Bible study something I already knew, but I connected to it in a whole new way. Christians often quote the part of the Scripture that says, "Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice." OK, I know that and try to do it. And I find myself getting all puffed up when I do it, feeling proud, feeling blessed and holy. But I think the most important part is next: "For this is your reasonable act of service." Oh. It's not going above and beyond. When I operate under the power of the gifts He has given me, when I am simply doing what I am good at, when I am using my abilities, both the ones that come naturally and the ones that I've worked hard to develop - I'm only doing what I'm supposed to do. I'm not making God proud of me. I'm not earn brownie points. No, I'm just doing my duty. It's no more impressive than a child not throwing their juice boxes on the floor. (Although in my household, that is something that would be impressive.)
So I'm putting these two ideas together, and this year for Christmas, Lord, I am giving you an offering. I am going to use what you have given me, the stories of my life, of my faith, and write them to give back to you. I don't care if anything comes from them. I don't care if there seems to be no purpose. I am simply going to move forward into the bare minimum category. By writing for you every day, maybe, hopefully, I will advance out of the bare minimum category into something more. But right now, I'm not even doing what I'm supposed to do. I'm not cleaning my room, doing the dishes, or making my bed, so to speak. Bare minimums. And if I want to find more, I have to first step into that. So here I go, stepping forward in faith, using what you've given me, asking you to accept this humble offering.
Writers group
I've put this on Facebook and emailed a few people, but I thought I should mention it here, too. For information about a writers group starting in August in Crawfordsville, please go here:http://oksowrite.wordpress.com/
The force behind the words
The jam session ended with Brad singing a quiet, acoustic version of "Daggers," one of his best songs. When it was over, he said, "That's the first song I didn't write." It came to him... in a burst of divine inspiration. "It belongs to God," Brad said. "But I get to carry it around for a lifetime."
~from O Me of Little Faith, by Jason Boyett
Readers, I'd love to hear your stories of when this has happened to you (if it has), whether it was in your writing or speaking or music or art or...
And since I've been asking for input but not offering much myself lately, I'll just tell you about one small instance. I've kept a journal for years, starting seriously and regularly shortly after I "discovered" God. Without fail, writing to God and for God brings my life back into order. I remember sitting on the front porch, back when we had a lovely front porch with a purple porch swing (which my friend Rosanne enjoys now). I was writing in my journal, and I decided to flip back a few pages and read what I'd written. I remember getting chills all over as I read the words, in my own handwriting, in my own journal, from two weeks earlier... and not having ANY recollection whatsoever of writing them. It didn't sound like me. It didn't feel like me. My only conclusion was that it wasn't me. I was awed and humbled and amazed. From that point on I knew, without the slightest hesitation or question, that I could never stop writing, always hoping and praying that He will take over. It sounds rather presumptuous to say they're His words, to claim that the holy, divine God would deign to speak to me or through me, and I promise I don't mean this to elevate myself at all. Not at all. I know much of what I write is mine. But I long for the moments when the words that come are no longer mine. When I feel Him take over, when the words tumble out, complete, correct. When certain words are the only ones that will do. When I try to change them only to know that the original word must remain, only to know that the rhythm, the meaning, the thoughts, everything is already done for me. It doesn't happen all the time, but when it does I don't want to move or lose the moment. And when it does I thank my God, in tears, for being so real, so personal, so present, so so amazing.
~from O Me of Little Faith, by Jason Boyett
Readers, I'd love to hear your stories of when this has happened to you (if it has), whether it was in your writing or speaking or music or art or...
And since I've been asking for input but not offering much myself lately, I'll just tell you about one small instance. I've kept a journal for years, starting seriously and regularly shortly after I "discovered" God. Without fail, writing to God and for God brings my life back into order. I remember sitting on the front porch, back when we had a lovely front porch with a purple porch swing (which my friend Rosanne enjoys now). I was writing in my journal, and I decided to flip back a few pages and read what I'd written. I remember getting chills all over as I read the words, in my own handwriting, in my own journal, from two weeks earlier... and not having ANY recollection whatsoever of writing them. It didn't sound like me. It didn't feel like me. My only conclusion was that it wasn't me. I was awed and humbled and amazed. From that point on I knew, without the slightest hesitation or question, that I could never stop writing, always hoping and praying that He will take over. It sounds rather presumptuous to say they're His words, to claim that the holy, divine God would deign to speak to me or through me, and I promise I don't mean this to elevate myself at all. Not at all. I know much of what I write is mine. But I long for the moments when the words that come are no longer mine. When I feel Him take over, when the words tumble out, complete, correct. When certain words are the only ones that will do. When I try to change them only to know that the original word must remain, only to know that the rhythm, the meaning, the thoughts, everything is already done for me. It doesn't happen all the time, but when it does I don't want to move or lose the moment. And when it does I thank my God, in tears, for being so real, so personal, so present, so so amazing.
On writing
Found this today on Max Lucado's website and just had to share. So beautiful and inspiring to a writer who wants to be all he says we need to be. Some of my favorite excerpts:
They also wrote with their lives first. They lived the message before they scribed it. ... He [Paul] responded to a real world with real words. Let’s do the same.
Let your life be your first draft. Shouldn’t Christian writers be Christian writers? Love grumpy neighbors. Feed hungry people. Help a struggling church. Pay your bills, your dues, and attention to your spouse. You’ll never write better than you live.
And:
And isn’t that our aim? The best book possible? We need good books. We need your best book. Don’t give up. Be stubborn with your standard. Stay faithful in prayer. Don’t begrudge the hard work. Peter De Vries said, “I write well when I’m inspired and I see to it that I’m inspired at nine o’clock every morning.”
A framed quote greets me each time I sit at my desk. “You wanna write? Put your butt in that chair and sit there a long, long time.” Writing is not glamorous work.
But it is a noble work.
There is a single mother who, tonight, is utterly exhausted. Three kids and long hours have taken their toll. She keeps a book on her bedside. She has only a few moments to read. She just needs a word, a phrase, a refined sentence to lift her heart. Would you write it?
Tomorrow a businessman will follow his daily routine. He will turn from the numbers on his screen to the words on a blog. He doesn’t need much, just an anchor-point, a reminder. Would you write it?
A teenager is looking for a book. Her friends fill their minds with stories of vampires, magicians, and goblins, but she wants more. She wants truth, creative truth. She wants hope. Hope on a page. Will you give it to her?
We need you to do this. We need your best work and it is work. But it is a valued work. A worthwhile work. A holy work. May you do such a work.
May you, like John, depict the heavens. May you, like Paul, love the churches. May you, like John, connect with a Theophilus in your world. May you pick up their pens and write for the soul.
They also wrote with their lives first. They lived the message before they scribed it. ... He [Paul] responded to a real world with real words. Let’s do the same.
Let your life be your first draft. Shouldn’t Christian writers be Christian writers? Love grumpy neighbors. Feed hungry people. Help a struggling church. Pay your bills, your dues, and attention to your spouse. You’ll never write better than you live.
And:
And isn’t that our aim? The best book possible? We need good books. We need your best book. Don’t give up. Be stubborn with your standard. Stay faithful in prayer. Don’t begrudge the hard work. Peter De Vries said, “I write well when I’m inspired and I see to it that I’m inspired at nine o’clock every morning.”
A framed quote greets me each time I sit at my desk. “You wanna write? Put your butt in that chair and sit there a long, long time.” Writing is not glamorous work.
But it is a noble work.
There is a single mother who, tonight, is utterly exhausted. Three kids and long hours have taken their toll. She keeps a book on her bedside. She has only a few moments to read. She just needs a word, a phrase, a refined sentence to lift her heart. Would you write it?
Tomorrow a businessman will follow his daily routine. He will turn from the numbers on his screen to the words on a blog. He doesn’t need much, just an anchor-point, a reminder. Would you write it?
A teenager is looking for a book. Her friends fill their minds with stories of vampires, magicians, and goblins, but she wants more. She wants truth, creative truth. She wants hope. Hope on a page. Will you give it to her?
We need you to do this. We need your best work and it is work. But it is a valued work. A worthwhile work. A holy work. May you do such a work.
May you, like John, depict the heavens. May you, like Paul, love the churches. May you, like John, connect with a Theophilus in your world. May you pick up their pens and write for the soul.
Writer, writer and writer
It was also the night I found what may very well be the perfect journal. A new kind. The brand name is ecosystem, and it's approx. 7.5 x 10", about 1/2" thick, in an obnoxious watermelon pink color with a matching elastic strap, quirky patterns printed in the same color on the inside front and back covers, wonderfully smooth paper with narrow, delicate lines, and it even has a pocket in the back. The cover is flexible and satiny-feeling. Oh, and the pages are even (very subtly) perforated. It just feels good to hold. Even though it's not green (either it doesn't come in that size or they were just out at the moment), I think they've achieved journalistic perfection with this one. Trust me, this is a spiritual thing for me.
So now... well, I guess I need to get busy writing.
I'm published... finally!
So I am. So I have been. And today my first article appears at Inside Indiana Business. The first of many, I hope... I have three faith essays that have been purchased by Kyria Digizine (one for the magazine and two for the website portion), the first of which will appear in May. And I've had an article accepted by the Upper Room devotional, and one by Internet Cafe Devotions.
Thanks to all of you who have encouraged me. It's happening :-).
Am I who I think I am?
“What kind of writing do you do?” she asks. She looks like a writer, with her hand-crafted glass necklace and her funky glasses. Quirky but interesting. Yeah, she’s legit. I’m at a writing workshop, fascinated by the guessing game I’ve played all morning. Who’s real? Who truly belongs here? Are there any other imposters?
I stammer, eventually deciding on, “I do copywriting, but primarily write non-fiction.” She nods acceptance.
Is it really that easy? And is it true? Am I a writer? Woven through every conversation at this workshop are polite questions designed to suss out how serious each person is about their craft. Can they sell it? Are they any good? But more importantly, will they see through me? Can I legitimately call myself a “writer”? Saying I’m a designer is easy. I have a framed diploma announcing my BFA in Graphic Design. But can I be a writer simply on my own say-so, simply because I know in my heart that I am?
The same could be asked about Christianity. It’s easy enough to profess one’s allegiance to Christ in a small circle of women gathered for Bible study. But what conclusion will someone draw from watching me, hearing me talk about my work, my family, and my life? And much more importantly, what conclusion does God draw from my life, from my private thoughts and behaviors? Am I truly who I profess to be? If I am, I won’t need to announce it in order for it to be true.
I stammer, eventually deciding on, “I do copywriting, but primarily write non-fiction.” She nods acceptance.
Is it really that easy? And is it true? Am I a writer? Woven through every conversation at this workshop are polite questions designed to suss out how serious each person is about their craft. Can they sell it? Are they any good? But more importantly, will they see through me? Can I legitimately call myself a “writer”? Saying I’m a designer is easy. I have a framed diploma announcing my BFA in Graphic Design. But can I be a writer simply on my own say-so, simply because I know in my heart that I am?
The same could be asked about Christianity. It’s easy enough to profess one’s allegiance to Christ in a small circle of women gathered for Bible study. But what conclusion will someone draw from watching me, hearing me talk about my work, my family, and my life? And much more importantly, what conclusion does God draw from my life, from my private thoughts and behaviors? Am I truly who I profess to be? If I am, I won’t need to announce it in order for it to be true.
Writing for Him
As much as I’ve talked about writing, I haven’t written much this summer. I’ve been busy, as most of you are, too. I am the queen of organizing and multitasking, but my natural abilities seem to be impaired. Is it the three kids needing to be in different places several different times every day? Is it “working mom” guilt — if I were a good mom, I’d go to the pool with them/make signs for the lemonade stand/stop resenting the interruptions? Is it the stress of trying to be available and proactive to my clients when I’m really planning activities, running to the store, packing for short weekend trips, or breaking up sibling disagreements? Those factors certainly contribute to the situation, but I think my lack of writing is directly linked to the lack of solitude. When others are around all the time, I don’t stop and relax. I don’t pray like I should. I don’t focus on the quiet but extremely important pursuits.
Someone asked me once why I didn’t study writing in college. It’s because I didn’t have anything to say. I had opinions, but I didn’t have confidence that anyone would be interested in my thoughts. It wasn’t until I opened my heart to the Lord that I thought my words could matter to anyone else. It wasn’t until He inspired me that I wanted to share my soul with the world. When I’m walking with God, I find myself with much to say. He continually reveals things to me. It’s as though my eyes are wide open, the veil has been lifted, and I can see more clearly. Colors are more vivid. Sounds are more vibrant. Every activity, every observation, every experience imparts a spiritual lesson. I don’t have to search for them. They’re right there, practically written for me.
So I guess this lack of inspiration is proof of a painful reality. My relationship with God right now isn’t what it should be. I’m recycling my writing, foraging through old notes and files for something I can use again. When no words are coming out, there must be no words going in. When words aren’t going in, it’s because I’m not listening. When I’m not listening, it’s because I’m too busy. I’ve chosen to live in the secular world and not dwell in the secret place of the most High. I’m doing it on my own and without Him.
For me, writing is an act of faith. A hope and a belief that God will step in. If I offer myself as a vessel, He will speak, He will encourage, and He will inspire. He will have something to say, and I get to be a part of it. So I sit down to write tonight, knowing it’s the first step towards rebuilding the relationship I know I can have with Him. Knowing that even if I have nothing to say when I start, He will find the good and show it to me. Even in my weakness — especially in my weakness — He will shine. To God be the glory. Forever.
Someone asked me once why I didn’t study writing in college. It’s because I didn’t have anything to say. I had opinions, but I didn’t have confidence that anyone would be interested in my thoughts. It wasn’t until I opened my heart to the Lord that I thought my words could matter to anyone else. It wasn’t until He inspired me that I wanted to share my soul with the world. When I’m walking with God, I find myself with much to say. He continually reveals things to me. It’s as though my eyes are wide open, the veil has been lifted, and I can see more clearly. Colors are more vivid. Sounds are more vibrant. Every activity, every observation, every experience imparts a spiritual lesson. I don’t have to search for them. They’re right there, practically written for me.
So I guess this lack of inspiration is proof of a painful reality. My relationship with God right now isn’t what it should be. I’m recycling my writing, foraging through old notes and files for something I can use again. When no words are coming out, there must be no words going in. When words aren’t going in, it’s because I’m not listening. When I’m not listening, it’s because I’m too busy. I’ve chosen to live in the secular world and not dwell in the secret place of the most High. I’m doing it on my own and without Him.
For me, writing is an act of faith. A hope and a belief that God will step in. If I offer myself as a vessel, He will speak, He will encourage, and He will inspire. He will have something to say, and I get to be a part of it. So I sit down to write tonight, knowing it’s the first step towards rebuilding the relationship I know I can have with Him. Knowing that even if I have nothing to say when I start, He will find the good and show it to me. Even in my weakness — especially in my weakness — He will shine. To God be the glory. Forever.
Have I mentioned...
...that two of my pieces received Honorable Mention in the Writer's Digest 77th Annual Writing Competition? The letter informs me that "this year's contest attracted over 17,000 entries. Your success in the face of such formidable competition speaks highly of your writing talent, and should be a source of great pride as you continue in your writing career." Both pieces were entered in the Inspirational Writing category. One, fittingly enough, was called The Whole Box of Donuts and contained 5 or 6 of these short essays that are on my blog (ending with the one about the donuts, of course). And the other, titled The Changing Faces of an Unchanging God, consists of short "snapshots" of different moments that I've seen God throughout my life.
Several of you have believed in my writing ability for some time now; maybe this will be the thing that finally allows me to believe I could someday be more than just a wanna-be!
Several of you have believed in my writing ability for some time now; maybe this will be the thing that finally allows me to believe I could someday be more than just a wanna-be!
Writing Prompt - Am I a Writer?
In response to this week's (give or take) writing prompt, so thoughtfully provided by the Gentleman Savant. The question (in its short form, because my response is so long no one will read it anyway, especially if I add 10 or 11 lines of questions): how do you write? What process do you use? And do you consider yourself to be a writer?
Am I a writer? Good question. Sure, I write, but is that enough?
I would propose that it is not the act of writing that makes one a writer so much as the act of seeing. For me, it is all about looking at an image or event – in life, in my head -- and writing in order to allow someone else to see the same picture. Maybe it’s because I’m also an artist, yet I’ve noticed my inclination is to render a scene with words rather than with paint. The tools have always been there, and I have always been able to construct a sentence and quickly put down thoughts. But it took a certain amount of maturity to discover that I had something to say. Whether anyone wants to read what I have to say is another question, which I’ll avoid in the interest of preserving my fragile writer’s ego (and using backwards logic, I suppose if I have a fragile writer’s ego, then I must, in fact, be a writer).
Writing, to me, begins with recognition. Recognition that there is something valuable, something funny, something heartwarming, something quirky, something insightful, something absurd or something ironic – whatever the adjective, that there is something worth preserving. In my younger days, I tried to hold onto those moments with a photograph, but as an adult, I’ve discovered things that cannot be captured that way. The way it felt to hold my toddler as she sat on my lap, stretching her chubby arms up to wrap backwards around my neck, fingers locked, trusting, tender, still, my arms wrapped all the way around her tiny chest, fighting the urge not to squeeze her as thoroughly and tightly as my emotion would dictate — the absolutely heart-wrenching sweetness of the moment. Or the poignant beauty and sadness, all wrapped into one gigantic wave of grief, standing beside the tiny grave of my friend’s infant daughter, four women bonded by friendship and pain and compassion, dark dresses fluttering in the gusts of wind, damp, tattered tissues clutched in our hands, wondering how Tisha will ever bear to pull herself off her knees, rise up off the wrinkled carpet of Astroturf covering the clods of dirt that will soon envelop her baby’s body in the dark earth. How is it possible to walk away from that place? Literally or figuratively?
It is moments like these that I have to write. Not because of any particular talent with my words, but because I am an observer. A translator. (Does anyone else feel that way?) If I can ever take the poetic beauty I see in my mind and translate that into language that will evoke the same ideas in another person’s mind – then, only then, will I be able to call myself a writer without feeling a bit like an imposter.
When I read Stephen King’s book on writing, he said something along the lines of this: develop your characters, really figure out who they are, put them smack dab in the middle of a situation, and then write them out of it. I guess that’s sort of what I do, even though I write non-fiction. Know where I’m starting, and then write, waiting to see where I end up. Looking for truth. Insight. Resolution. I can write just about anywhere, noisy or quiet – in the coffee shop, listening in on other people; on the couch in the living room with feet up and laptop propped on my lap; sitting upright in front of the 30” monitor in my office; or by hand in my journal. Process: pen held between my teeth (I bite down when I concentrate, sometimes hard enough to split the barrel down the middle — but it also keeps me from eating the whole box of donuts I write about), general direction or outline already roughly worked out in my head before starting, and then just pour it out. I jot random thoughts and phrases at the bottom of the page until I’m ready for them. Writing by hand is fun for me because it forces me to edit as I go, but on the computer, I love to play around with the words, sounds, paragraphs, order, structure, etc. I remember the first paper I ever wrote on a computer, and it was like there was angel light projected from the heavens, shining down on that little mechanical box... so many choices, so many possibilities. No more retyping a whole page just to change two words. Ahh, the excitement of it all…
Or maybe I’m just a geek.
A geek who juggles the schedules of three kids, a husband, and her own clients. So I have never been in control of when or where I write… but for me, writing is my “me time.” I’m not official enough to justify setting aside specific times to write. I just take what I can get. And hope that someday people will take me seriously enough that I can call myself a writer without feeling the need to write nearly 1,000 words to justify it. (Is anyone out there still reading? Which makes me wonder… if a tree falls in the woods… if no one reads it, am I still a writer? Yeah, but probably not a very good one.)
Am I a writer? Good question. Sure, I write, but is that enough?
I would propose that it is not the act of writing that makes one a writer so much as the act of seeing. For me, it is all about looking at an image or event – in life, in my head -- and writing in order to allow someone else to see the same picture. Maybe it’s because I’m also an artist, yet I’ve noticed my inclination is to render a scene with words rather than with paint. The tools have always been there, and I have always been able to construct a sentence and quickly put down thoughts. But it took a certain amount of maturity to discover that I had something to say. Whether anyone wants to read what I have to say is another question, which I’ll avoid in the interest of preserving my fragile writer’s ego (and using backwards logic, I suppose if I have a fragile writer’s ego, then I must, in fact, be a writer).
Writing, to me, begins with recognition. Recognition that there is something valuable, something funny, something heartwarming, something quirky, something insightful, something absurd or something ironic – whatever the adjective, that there is something worth preserving. In my younger days, I tried to hold onto those moments with a photograph, but as an adult, I’ve discovered things that cannot be captured that way. The way it felt to hold my toddler as she sat on my lap, stretching her chubby arms up to wrap backwards around my neck, fingers locked, trusting, tender, still, my arms wrapped all the way around her tiny chest, fighting the urge not to squeeze her as thoroughly and tightly as my emotion would dictate — the absolutely heart-wrenching sweetness of the moment. Or the poignant beauty and sadness, all wrapped into one gigantic wave of grief, standing beside the tiny grave of my friend’s infant daughter, four women bonded by friendship and pain and compassion, dark dresses fluttering in the gusts of wind, damp, tattered tissues clutched in our hands, wondering how Tisha will ever bear to pull herself off her knees, rise up off the wrinkled carpet of Astroturf covering the clods of dirt that will soon envelop her baby’s body in the dark earth. How is it possible to walk away from that place? Literally or figuratively?
It is moments like these that I have to write. Not because of any particular talent with my words, but because I am an observer. A translator. (Does anyone else feel that way?) If I can ever take the poetic beauty I see in my mind and translate that into language that will evoke the same ideas in another person’s mind – then, only then, will I be able to call myself a writer without feeling a bit like an imposter.
When I read Stephen King’s book on writing, he said something along the lines of this: develop your characters, really figure out who they are, put them smack dab in the middle of a situation, and then write them out of it. I guess that’s sort of what I do, even though I write non-fiction. Know where I’m starting, and then write, waiting to see where I end up. Looking for truth. Insight. Resolution. I can write just about anywhere, noisy or quiet – in the coffee shop, listening in on other people; on the couch in the living room with feet up and laptop propped on my lap; sitting upright in front of the 30” monitor in my office; or by hand in my journal. Process: pen held between my teeth (I bite down when I concentrate, sometimes hard enough to split the barrel down the middle — but it also keeps me from eating the whole box of donuts I write about), general direction or outline already roughly worked out in my head before starting, and then just pour it out. I jot random thoughts and phrases at the bottom of the page until I’m ready for them. Writing by hand is fun for me because it forces me to edit as I go, but on the computer, I love to play around with the words, sounds, paragraphs, order, structure, etc. I remember the first paper I ever wrote on a computer, and it was like there was angel light projected from the heavens, shining down on that little mechanical box... so many choices, so many possibilities. No more retyping a whole page just to change two words. Ahh, the excitement of it all…
Or maybe I’m just a geek.
A geek who juggles the schedules of three kids, a husband, and her own clients. So I have never been in control of when or where I write… but for me, writing is my “me time.” I’m not official enough to justify setting aside specific times to write. I just take what I can get. And hope that someday people will take me seriously enough that I can call myself a writer without feeling the need to write nearly 1,000 words to justify it. (Is anyone out there still reading? Which makes me wonder… if a tree falls in the woods… if no one reads it, am I still a writer? Yeah, but probably not a very good one.)
Writing Prompt - "Me Time"
The latest writing prompt from the Gentleman Savant is this: What do you do to give yourself a private moment, a moment of self-reflection, just for you? Do you take in a movie by yourself, or walk the dog in the park, or do you get away from it all with a big chocolate milkshake? How do you take your ‘me time’, as they call it?
Time to oneself is critical. Without it, one cannot rejuvenate, relax, or decipher the events of the world and of life. So I work very hard to find that time. I don't understand all those folks who say they have no time, who think their families or work or other commitments take precedence over their own mental stability. It's really very easy. This is what I do:
Wake up, shower, wake up my girls. Check e-mail and answer a few quickly. Apply styling products, quick application of makeup. Open web browser; go to weather.com to decide what to wear and if my kids need sweatshirts. Looking at my calendar, I quiz the kids on their after-school whereabouts. I make sure my husband is gone to work (he walked out the back door at 7:30, but is he really gone? is his car still out there?). Fix breakfast for my 7-year-old, throwing together a milk-free lunch while it cooks (he's allergic). The kids -- all three of them -- leave for their three respective schools, with their respective start times, backpacks and lunch boxes in hand. (I drive the youngest.) I check my e-mail for the second or third time, make my morning call to my mother, answer a call or two from friends wondering if I want to meet for coffee. (Sometimes I go, and if it's Tuesday, I stop halfway down the driveway and run back in to leave a check and a half-Spanish, half-English note for the cleaning lady.) I frantically finish up the two ads that clients forgot to tell me are due today, and the three urgent requests for revisions to a logo, a poster, and a flyer in multiple formats. I answer a call from a friend asking if I want to meet for lunch at Little Mexico, my favorite restaurant, and before I agree, I call my husband to see what his lunch plans are. Successfully coordinating that and selecting a meeting time of 11:30, I walk into the kitchen. Oops, forgot my daily meds (allergies and rather-early-onset arthritis). Take those, wipe down the kitchen counter. Walk back through the sunroom, turning off the TV and lights left on by the kid, grumbling at the mess they left. Answer six more e-mails from clients and read the latest Gentleman Savant post. Check the other 5 blogs I read regularly. Revise one of the ads again and send high-res version to publication. Respond to the latest "ding" announcing more e-mails. Quit the mail program so I won't be interrupted right away. Lock the front door on the way to the living room couch. Collapse in relief. Take a deep breath, which is interrupted by my husband honking his horn in our driveway since it's already time for lunch -- and bounce back up, totally rejuvenated from the quality time I just spent with myself.
Just ask anyone: Working from home allows you to relax, work in your pajamas, enjoy the silence and find peace. What a great opportunity for a professional who also happens to be a mother. Going into work at an office can be rather stressful, they say. I can see that. What with the time alone in the car during the commute, with no one arguing over radio stations or if someone is touching them. And that whole working-for-eight-hours-without-the-distractions-of-maintaining-a-household? How does one ever focus?
As for me, I find no need to make time for enriching, restoring activities. I get all the peace I could ever want right here at home.
(But when that doesn't work for me, I shut out the world and hole up in my funky, comfortable chair, the one with the big swirl pattern all over it, in the corner of the living room by the enormous front window. I open one of my beautiful journals, and hand-write page after page with blue fine-point Tul gel pen in careful handwriting on the lovely smooth lightly-lined pages, waiting for God to speak, waiting for Him to calm my soul and soothe my spirit and make me whole again. I write to discover what I believe. I think someone much more famous than I said that originally, but I find it to be a monumental, fundamental truth.)
Time to oneself is critical. Without it, one cannot rejuvenate, relax, or decipher the events of the world and of life. So I work very hard to find that time. I don't understand all those folks who say they have no time, who think their families or work or other commitments take precedence over their own mental stability. It's really very easy. This is what I do:
Wake up, shower, wake up my girls. Check e-mail and answer a few quickly. Apply styling products, quick application of makeup. Open web browser; go to weather.com to decide what to wear and if my kids need sweatshirts. Looking at my calendar, I quiz the kids on their after-school whereabouts. I make sure my husband is gone to work (he walked out the back door at 7:30, but is he really gone? is his car still out there?). Fix breakfast for my 7-year-old, throwing together a milk-free lunch while it cooks (he's allergic). The kids -- all three of them -- leave for their three respective schools, with their respective start times, backpacks and lunch boxes in hand. (I drive the youngest.) I check my e-mail for the second or third time, make my morning call to my mother, answer a call or two from friends wondering if I want to meet for coffee. (Sometimes I go, and if it's Tuesday, I stop halfway down the driveway and run back in to leave a check and a half-Spanish, half-English note for the cleaning lady.) I frantically finish up the two ads that clients forgot to tell me are due today, and the three urgent requests for revisions to a logo, a poster, and a flyer in multiple formats. I answer a call from a friend asking if I want to meet for lunch at Little Mexico, my favorite restaurant, and before I agree, I call my husband to see what his lunch plans are. Successfully coordinating that and selecting a meeting time of 11:30, I walk into the kitchen. Oops, forgot my daily meds (allergies and rather-early-onset arthritis). Take those, wipe down the kitchen counter. Walk back through the sunroom, turning off the TV and lights left on by the kid, grumbling at the mess they left. Answer six more e-mails from clients and read the latest Gentleman Savant post. Check the other 5 blogs I read regularly. Revise one of the ads again and send high-res version to publication. Respond to the latest "ding" announcing more e-mails. Quit the mail program so I won't be interrupted right away. Lock the front door on the way to the living room couch. Collapse in relief. Take a deep breath, which is interrupted by my husband honking his horn in our driveway since it's already time for lunch -- and bounce back up, totally rejuvenated from the quality time I just spent with myself.
Just ask anyone: Working from home allows you to relax, work in your pajamas, enjoy the silence and find peace. What a great opportunity for a professional who also happens to be a mother. Going into work at an office can be rather stressful, they say. I can see that. What with the time alone in the car during the commute, with no one arguing over radio stations or if someone is touching them. And that whole working-for-eight-hours-without-the-distractions-of-maintaining-a-household? How does one ever focus?
As for me, I find no need to make time for enriching, restoring activities. I get all the peace I could ever want right here at home.
(But when that doesn't work for me, I shut out the world and hole up in my funky, comfortable chair, the one with the big swirl pattern all over it, in the corner of the living room by the enormous front window. I open one of my beautiful journals, and hand-write page after page with blue fine-point Tul gel pen in careful handwriting on the lovely smooth lightly-lined pages, waiting for God to speak, waiting for Him to calm my soul and soothe my spirit and make me whole again. I write to discover what I believe. I think someone much more famous than I said that originally, but I find it to be a monumental, fundamental truth.)
Thursday Writing Prompt
In response to the latest Gentleman Savant Thursday Writing Prompt: What is the best compliment you’ve ever gotten in your entire life? Alternately (or in addition), tell us about the most backhanded or worst compliment you’ve ever received. Was it the fact that it came from a certain person that made it so good/bad? Or was it the culmination of events leading up to it? The world wants to know!
Apparently I have issues. Self-confidence issues. You might not know it to look at me. If you were around me, you'd think I think the world of myself. But apparently I rarely take a compliment at face value.
Take, for example, the time I was backpacking around Europe in college. I was young, thin, fairly physically fit. (It's from walking up all the stairs, I'm convinced. Could not the ancients have invented some kind of pulley elevator or the like? But I digress.) Somewhere in Italy, a man walks up to me, points to my calves, and asks if I'm a football player. He smiles, winks. He probably thinks I'm hot, this young, naive, redheaded American girl (because I think they think we're all rather easy. I digress again.). I run off to my boyfriend, devastated. I think he laughed. I'm humiliated, searching for a pair of long pants to cover my shamefully large calves. (Actually it was too hot for jeans, so I didn't actually change. But bear with me for the purposes of this story.) It takes a while for it to sink in that the only people who mean "football" when they say "football" are Americans; I'm picturing giant men with shoulder pads and helmets and thighs two feet across, but he's talking about soccer. Soccer players who are not huge, but who have lovely legs. It was probably a compliment. Muscles and all. But what I heard? Look at your big honkin' legs.
I forgot about that right away, and in my well-adjusted way moved on with my life. For 20 years now I've hidden my calves whenever possible. On the rare occasions I've exercised, I've avoided any heavy weights and worked on high reps with low weight to tone without adding bulk. (OK, so that was only three times, so it probably didn't matter much.) But I finally got over it... and I have proof. Just three weeks ago, when working with a trainer at our local gym, she sat me down at this weight machine. I don't know the name, but it's the one where you sit down and put your feet on this vertical platform in front, and push with all your might. Since she knows I don't work out, she tried to start me with 75 pounds. Oh, no, that would not do. I had to show off a little. I did 150 without flinching. She was shocked. Proud. I think I saw tears in the corners of her eyes. For once I was proud of these legs of mine. But I'll never change my mind about shoulder pads. Adding foam to increase the bulk of a woman's silhouette? Crazy. No, shoulder pads are most definitely not gonna happen. Not for this linebacker.
Apparently I have issues. Self-confidence issues. You might not know it to look at me. If you were around me, you'd think I think the world of myself. But apparently I rarely take a compliment at face value.
Take, for example, the time I was backpacking around Europe in college. I was young, thin, fairly physically fit. (It's from walking up all the stairs, I'm convinced. Could not the ancients have invented some kind of pulley elevator or the like? But I digress.) Somewhere in Italy, a man walks up to me, points to my calves, and asks if I'm a football player. He smiles, winks. He probably thinks I'm hot, this young, naive, redheaded American girl (because I think they think we're all rather easy. I digress again.). I run off to my boyfriend, devastated. I think he laughed. I'm humiliated, searching for a pair of long pants to cover my shamefully large calves. (Actually it was too hot for jeans, so I didn't actually change. But bear with me for the purposes of this story.) It takes a while for it to sink in that the only people who mean "football" when they say "football" are Americans; I'm picturing giant men with shoulder pads and helmets and thighs two feet across, but he's talking about soccer. Soccer players who are not huge, but who have lovely legs. It was probably a compliment. Muscles and all. But what I heard? Look at your big honkin' legs.
I forgot about that right away, and in my well-adjusted way moved on with my life. For 20 years now I've hidden my calves whenever possible. On the rare occasions I've exercised, I've avoided any heavy weights and worked on high reps with low weight to tone without adding bulk. (OK, so that was only three times, so it probably didn't matter much.) But I finally got over it... and I have proof. Just three weeks ago, when working with a trainer at our local gym, she sat me down at this weight machine. I don't know the name, but it's the one where you sit down and put your feet on this vertical platform in front, and push with all your might. Since she knows I don't work out, she tried to start me with 75 pounds. Oh, no, that would not do. I had to show off a little. I did 150 without flinching. She was shocked. Proud. I think I saw tears in the corners of her eyes. For once I was proud of these legs of mine. But I'll never change my mind about shoulder pads. Adding foam to increase the bulk of a woman's silhouette? Crazy. No, shoulder pads are most definitely not gonna happen. Not for this linebacker.
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