The Book I Didn't Write

About three years ago, I wrote a proposal for a book that was "gimmick-lit": one of those project where the author does something outside of his or her comfort zone for a year and writes about the experience.  The masters of this genre are A.J. Jacobs & Gretchen Rubin. Done right, these books are so much fun: informative, entertaining, and even a bit inspirational.

My proposed book was, to be honest, an attempt to inform/entertain/inspire myself. It was a "Plan B" type of book, where I'd attempt twelve different adventures over the course of the year to help Steve and I re-envision our lives.

In the opening scene (one that I suspect will end up in a different book someday because it's as grim and true and poignant and real as anything I've written) I describe walking through Target on a Tuesday morning and catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I fit right in with the Tuesday morning crowd: I looked frumpy, pudgy, exhausted and overwhelmed. I was drowning in a tsunami of crisis: miscarriages, the death of a friend, two major job transitions, and a family health scare.  So when I saw the other ladies there at Target, my first thought was, Oh thank God...it's not just me!  But then I realized that all those other beleaguered women had babies. There was a reason for their chubby fatigue.  I had no such excuse.

That day (which really happened; it was not part of a project) was a turning point, making me realize that Steve and I had to "Return to Go" (as a board game might instruct) and figure out what we, and God, wanted our lives to look like.  I wanted us to build something with the pieces we had--a strong marriage, faith, education, access to an incredible city and network of friends--rather than lamenting over the pieces we were missing. And I suspected I wasn't alone in facing some version of this challenge.

I charted a year-long program.  I thought it might make a good book if I could balance out the sadness with some humor and discovery.  I planned a month of fitness (admitting that while I never want to run a marathon, I'd trudge through a 5k if the finish line was somewhere near an Ann Talyor); a month of spiritual growth (where I'd spend two weeks emulating Anne Lamott, and two weeks trying to be like Joel Osteen); a month of spontaneous travel (because one of the benefits of a double-income/no-kids lifestyle is supposed to be the freedom to jet off to cool places, and we have thus far failed to jet); a month of housewifery (I don't even see the dust in our house until things are furry & grey, and I've never learned the finer points of getting the grime out of the corners); and a month of beauty (where I'd make the effort to look the best I could, every day: more showers, fewer sweats & ponytails, more lip gloss, an attempt to put fancy shoes into the rotation.)  There were a few other items, but those were the ones I was most excited about.

That was three years ago. I've never run a 5k, and the dusty corners of our rooms are still an embarrassment.  Here's why: When I sent the proposal to my agent, she said something to the effect of: "This is funny, but it isn't you." She reminded me that I write about surprise and encouragement, and how those things emerge from my faith; that my books are real-happy, not manufactured cheer.  I can't remember her exact words, but the through-line of her comments was, "This isn't you."

I am so grateful that she saw this truth.  I needed to be reminded, even if it meant walking away from a book project that would keep me busy & distracted for a few months (and give me a better answer when people asked, "Are you working on a new book?") To put it in construction terms, I built the walls of that house...and then walked away because I didn't want to live there.  It wasn't me.

In the years since, I've picked away at other projects--a collection of thoughts on praying for a husband, some essays on waiting for God, a novel. A lot of life has happened. It didn't unfold along neat monthly lines, but wow, has it unfolded. Now I'm surveying this new landscape, asking God, Where is the surprise? Where are have you planted happy endings? How should I think about this or that? What do you want to me to write? It's a different perspective, and the walls are going up slow. But it's me, and I'm more confident that what I build will be something that I'm proud of.

If there's something you're working on just because it's in front of you, or because it's the hot thing, or it's what you think you can pull off with the limited resources you have right now even though you suspect it might embarrass you later, know this: it's okay to walk away. The walls (and the poignant scene at Target) will still be there, should you decide to return.  We have more time than we think we do--exactly enough, in fact, to do whatever we're supposed to do.  It helps me to remember that :)

And I prefer happily-ever-after stories that don't require me to run a 5K while smiling like Joel Osteen!

The Truth About Today

I was going to write a cheery post about how the sun is shining off of the snow in our yard, there are men outside shooting nice warm insulation into our walls, and THAT DOG is dozing on the couch next to me.  You know, an "All is right with the world, at least in this moment" post.  Because that's what I want it to be.

But the rest of the picture is that as I sit here next to THAT DOG, I'm writing.  Working on what I hope will be a new book about all of the things that have happened over the past couple of years.  Life has changed in ways we never saw coming (as Steve said to me one night, "Thank God you don't write fiction...if this stuff wasn't true, it would be unbelievable.")  I'm taking the advice I give writing students, wrestling the important scenes onto the page without worrying about how they'll all fit together later. And in this, I'm forced to face how much is at risk in our lives right now, and how much has been lost already.

I forget that in order to tell stories of how miraculously God came through, I have to start with stories of being face down in the mud, wondering what the hell happened, in desperate need of a miracle.  Those scenes aren't fun to write.  Nor are the ones about not knowing what will come next, or admitting how afraid we are sometimes, and how angry. These tough scenes aren't the whole story, of course. But there is no story without them.

It's worth it, I've learned: both the real-life cleaning off the mud with God, and the stress of reliving it all as I write.  But wow, does it make it difficult to notice the sun shining off the snow in our yard, or how THAT DOG is still sleeping next to me, happy as she can be.

I guess this is the both/and of life right now, this place where the story isn't finished, where there are still so many scenes to be lived before they can be written.  It reminds me to pray for those future scenes, to believe God's promise that as many twists and turns as there are in this road, in some mysterious way it will lead us to a good ending.

And even as I write this blog, it makes me think of the anguished words of a struggling father in the Gospel of Mark who came to Jesus needing help for his son. He said, "If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us."  Which is how I feel so much of the time, praying like I'm begging, unsure if it will make a difference.

Jesus' response to the man is interesting.  ""If you can?"" he asks. I can't decide if Jesus' tone is sarcastic or merely incredulous here, but whatever, he's making it clear that the dad is missing something important.   "Everything is possible," Jesus says, "for one who believes."

To which the father exclaims, "I do believe! Help my unbelief!"

That's me today.  That's what I'm writing, trusting that the today's scene is not the end of the story, that everything is possible for one who believes. Even if that one is me.

The Corrosive Temptation of Being "A Creative"

I've been thinking about this article, "The Corrosive Temptation of Being a Creative," since it popped up in my Twitter feed last night.  In it, Gary Thomas (author of Sacred Marriage) makes wise points about how our longing to fulfill creative urges--to write, sing, paint, dance for an appreciative audience; to be recognized for our gifts and contributions--often create the ground for narcissism to take root.  And narcissism, he points out, ruins everything.  "If you're not careful," he warns, "you might succeed at your art at the cost of your soul."

I see enough of this in the writing world to be afraid. It's less common among my mainstream author friends--I guess in traditional publishing it's always so clear how many more books you could be writing (none of us can keep up with Joyce Carol Oates!) that it's tough to stay full of yourself for more than a week and a half before your balloon deflates and you come back down to earth in front of a half-finished draft of your next project.

But in Christian writing circles, this is epidemic.  I'm discouraged by the number of authors who started out writing deep thoughts about living in this impossible gap between heaven and earth and had some success...and are now doing some version of "life coaching,"or helping others self-actualize/discover meaning, or teaching classes about taking control of our own stories, writing our own endings, or things like that, just to keep having something to say, to keep producing new books and talks.

I know where this urge come from.  I wrestle with it all the time.  I'm part of the huge potential audience who longs to believe that I have the power in me to fix the frustrating parts of my life--that it's not up to God, it's up to me. This urge feeds on almost any hint of hope.  So if you have some writing skill and an idea, it's not too hard to find yourself caught feeding this cycle.

I keep the manuscript from my first book--200+ pages of beautifully worded drivel called Feminine Magnetic Power--in my office as a warning of this temptation. Thankfully, it was never published. Because as lovely as it was, it had no substance beyond my own conviction that I had something to write and therefore someone ought to read it.

The Bible brings me back to reality.  I have no idea what I was created for. I have a few guesses (and a lots of evidence that it does not involve math or preparing gourmet cuisine). God keeps surprising me, and when I try to steer the ship, it stalls. Feminine Magnetic Power was a stall. It was the best of my efforts, forced out because I believed that if God gave me writing talent He had to back up what I wrote--especially if I put a spiritual spin on it.  That's not true.

As a writer, there have been two seasons where God has told me specifically, "You don't have your ending yet. The time isn't right to tell this story."  Both times, I've kicked against that, flailing about because I felt like I was on a deadline and if I wasn't writing now I'd never write again and I'd fail to make my contribution to the planet.  That, my friends, is narcissism.  But the good news is, those roots get pulled up & out each time I look around and notice: the planet is still spinning without my pithy words to guide it...and God has some other things for me to do while He directs my stories to their good  endings. Then, I suspect, He'll set me free to write. When I wait, it's worth it. But it requires me to believe that God's plan is better than mine, and that's difficult, especially on days when my life isn't shaped by fun and self-actualization, but errands and minutia.

Today, if you have a chance, check your inner landscape for seeds of narcissism. Rip 'em out when you find them, and ask God to help you guard against future infestations. Give your talents, and all the dreams that go with them, to God, trusting that He will show us when & how to invest them for the greatest return--for treasure that has His value, not just ours.

(As I type that, a passage from the Gospel of Matthew comes to mind, where Jesus talks about how our heart dwells where our treasure is, and then tells us not to worry. I'll try to keep all this in mind today :))

Let's Get This Party Started

A bit of housekeeping re: my last post.  I did not mean to suggest that bloggers shouldn't write books. And to each of you who commented, let me say specifically: if you feel the urge to write a book, please try. Give it serious attention and know that I'm behind you & think you can do it.  I'm not one of those writers who believes one must be born with a magical blend of craft & calling to see one's esteemed prose published.  My point was that writing a book takes more effort (writing, editing, re-writing, taking out huge chunks of text that don't quite work, waking up at 2am once you finally know what will work to fill that space....) than blogging does.  It involves more discarding of ideas after you try them and realize you only have 200 words to say on a certain matter, rather than 2000.  And most good chapters take more than a half hour to wrestle onto the page. That's not a bad thing; it's just the process.

So if you feel like you might have a book in you, trust that feeling--don't give up.  Work at it, and keep working.  If your experience is anything like mine, you'll discover things you didn't even know you believed until you wrote it on the page.  It's an amazing thing to be part of.

And, apropos of nothing, I'll share this:

Princess Peach's new musical obsession is Mandisa's "Good Morning."  We listen to to it in the morning on the way to school...then again later, on the way home...on Saturdays running errands...and Sundays on the way to church.  These days, it's pretty much always a Good Morning in the Peachmobile.

One line that makes me giggle every time is when Mandisa sings, "Jumped out of bed...Gotta get this party going!"  Because that's precisely what I'm thinking each day when I untangle myself from the pile of sheets and stumble downstairs for coffee: Let's get this party started!  (except, no...not at all.)

I hope your party is off to a good start today :)

On Writing: Books Need To Be More Than Blog Posts

My brother-in-law sent me a book recommendation last week, by an author who says the claim "I'm spiritual, but not religious" is actually kind of lame and drives her bananas.  I read the first chapter and loved it.  The writing was crisp and funny, she made some great, provocative points...all while walking that fine line of challenging readers without offending them.  I couldn't wait to see what would come next.

I was surprised to discover that instead of developing this idea further, what followed was a series of short chapters--one or two pages each--of unrelated ideas.  It was like reading a series of blog posts, or a book proposal. By about the thirteenth one, I wanted to scream.

Here's my writing tip for today (a reminder to myself and anyone else who needs it): A book should be more than a collection of blog posts.  Blogs are where we try out ideas, rant, question the way things are, etc.  But a book is where we challenge ourselves to push the best of these ideas a little (or a lot) further, to come up with solutions and see if they hold water, or even admit that we might have had it wrong and share what we've learned.

I blame at least 75% of my frustration with this book on the editor.  It's an editor's job to say, "You're not done here," or "This isn't an essay yet...you have to take this further, work a lot harder...you need to pick a destination and take us there."  And if this doesn't work, it's an editor's job to help us realize that if we only have a few paragraphs worth of thoughts on an idea, then it probably shouldn't go in a book yet (unless it's startlingly personal, new, or completely different than anything anyone else has said on the subject.  I think each of us get perhaps three such allowances over the course of a lifetime).

But publishing is in a strange place right now, and editors have less and less time/capacity to edit. So this becomes our job as writers. The rules don't change.  If there's no one to push us, we need to push ourselves.  This requires more patience than most of us have (that's me, waving my hand, wanting to be done before I've started), and a willingness to live without the euphoria/relief of saying "It's Finished!" for a few more months.  But this is our job, and I'm grateful that this book crossed my path to remind me.

This author has other books, and I'm excited to read them.  Her opening chapter did it's job: it made me want more of what she had to say, even about things I don't agree with.

Disclosure: I received a copy of this book from the publisher.  There was no obligation to post a positive review.

Why I Teach Memoir Writing

I'm teaching a memoir writing class tomorrow.  I'm beyond excited.

This is a new class.  It's given me a chance to reverse-engineer my writing process and figure out why certain things work and others don't.  It hasn't even happened  yet, and already it's been a great experience.

My Dad was a teacher, and he always thought this would be a good career option for me. He was right, but I ignored him (the way teenage daughters often do).  Back then, the only image I had for "teacher" was someone standing in front of a chalkboard in a school, talking about the same math problem, frog dissection, or French verb conjugation over and over and over again each year.  It sounded kind of...dull.

Here's what I didn't know(and I'm still not sure if this applies to math, but there's never been a danger of me teaching math to anyone, so let's not worry about that here): teaching changes, each time you do it.  First, YOU are different - your perspective, what you've seen and learned in your own life, how you've grown. And second, because YOUR STUDENTS are different.  Each group brings something new to the table.  It keeps things unpredictable, and that's often where the gems are hidden.

Of course, there are certain topics in any field that will always come up. I doubt there has ever been a writing class where questions about how to navigate the forbidding world of publishing weren't raised...nor should there be.  But there are other questions--ones more personal to a specific writer's struggles or challenges--that move teaching beyond the instructive aspect, making it interactive.  That's the sweet spot.

I teach writing because it helps me write.  It re-fuels my love of stories, reminds me that as much as life tries to lump us all together into a few homogenous groups, each of our journeys has remarkably unique elements and surprises worth reading about.  And THEN it forces me to move beyond all of that wonder/amazement and focus on basics: How does one construct a scene?  What's the goal and how do you know if you've reached it?  What do you do with those scenes once they're written?  How do you finish the job?

I'm excited about tomorrow: as a chance to share what I've learned, encourage new memoirs (as a reader, it's my favorite genre, so it behooves me to keep the pipeline stocked!), and refuel my own excitement about what it means to share your story.

If you have a chance this weekend, consider: What do you love to do? Why?

(And if you're looking for a chance to write about it, come join me in class!)