Friday, January 28, 2005


“You should be a writer,” I heard occasionally while growing up. This encouragement generally came from two sources: my high school English teacher and my grandmother. What the two of them saw in my essays and thank-you letters, I couldn’t fathom. I had a very specific, very clear image of the type of people who became writers. First of all, writers were male. They were pipe-smoking, alcoholic males who were crazy and/or hermits and often suicidal. I was none of those things, and I seriously doubted the world would swoon over a steady diet of “What I Did Over Summer Vacation” and “Dear Grandma, I Miss You.”

So I wrote little after college. I became a wife, then a teacher, then a stay-at-home mother. During those early days of motherhood, I more often had a diaper in my hand than a pen. But days of diapers turned quickly to first words, and then sentences, and then questions. Lots of questions. As my son grew and became inquisitive about his world, my own world expanded. I began to see truths and connections through his eyes. Life just made more sense, suddenly.

All that expanded vision needed release. I picked up a pen--and started doing so regularly. It all began flowing out, mostly in the form of a journal, but now and again in standard manuscript form: article length; six pages, double-spaced; name and address top left. I knew these little bits of writing were slightly better than summer vacation essays or thank-you notes, but I still wasn’t convinced they were reader-worthy.

On a whim, I sent one article off to a magazine. In return, I received a contract. I sent another and received a second contract. I showed the subsequent magazines to friends and we laughed together to see my byline. But I didn’t call myself a writer.

The new editor of my magazine wrote and told me he was pleased with my work. He asked me to send more articles, so I promptly sent him three more--all of which he accepted. Each time my contributor’s copies arrived, I ripped the envelope open with the excitement of a child. I loved the simplicity of the whole process: observe, think, write, send. It was all great fun—but nothing more.

Then one day my aunt brought me a large envelope she had found tucked away in her attic. Inside were dozens of letters between myself and my grandmother. Somehow, the letters written by her had made their way back to join the letters I’d sent. Somehow, they’d ended up at my aunt’s house after my grandmother passed away ten years earlier.

I spent an afternoon with those letters. My words to her recalled details I’d long forgotten--small events that loom in a child’s eyes. Her words to me recalled love. Even from a distance, her warmth had always flowed to me unhindered. Now, I felt again her support and her encouragement.

But I didn’t feel satisfaction. Instead, recalling her belief in my talent and her hopes for my future, I felt a sense of failure. There wasn't even a moment, sitting at that table, where I thought, “Grandma, you were right. I did it. I’m a writer.” I no longer believed all writers were insane, reclusive males, but I clung to an unyielding belief that real writing should be substantial. Real writing changed lives, made people think and offered hope. It wasn’t the light, breezy prattle I put to paper. I wrote about my toddler, for heaven’s sake. That wasn’t writing--that was simply an excuse to brag.

My reflective state lasted for several weeks. I stopped writing articles. I bought three books on “how to write a novel” and one on “how to name your characters.” I tried to plot a story that would simultaneously make the reader weep, inspire random acts of kindness and answer all the world’s problems.

While in this great-American-novel frenzy, I received a letter from my editor. Just passing this along to you, he wrote, referring to the second page--a photocopied letter to the editor, written in shaky cursive.

I read it quickly, snatches jumping out as though in bold print. “Thank you for the article, ‘Why Ask Why’ by writer Shannon Woodward … I am suffering from a terminal illness … I have, myself, asked ‘why’ many times … this article comforted me.”

I read that letter a dozen or more times throughout that evening. I read it again the following day, just before filing my great American novel notes and shelving my new how-to books. And I read it again for inspiration before beginning a new article--about my son, his particular view of things, and the way all that has changed me.

These days, I’m busy writing about real people with real needs encountering a real God. I’ll get back to the novel eventually. But I no longer measure my worth by genre. Regardless of what project God brings before me next, whether that’s a devotional, an article, humor, fiction or nonfiction, I know my calling.

I hope you know yours as well.

Labels: , ,

4 Comment:

At 1/30/2005 3:23 AM, Blogger Ken had this to say ...

"You are a writer."

And you inspire me. You always have, but it is so moving to see how far you've come as you've lived your life and grown in your writing and your faith.

Your reflections on writing - as most everything you've ever said to me - speak to me on so many levels. In some ways, I see myself in your words.

Will I ever make time to write more than open, heartfelt e-mails? Would anyone really care about what I have to say? Maybe the people who I care about, but they are supposed to...

Still, I'm so pleased to read of your successes along your journey. I remember talking with you when that first article was published. And then the second.

When you told me of the publishing of your first book, I was in awe. Which, of course, has been a state that I've been in for as long as I've known you. But - Wow! - a published author! Shannon, I was speechless.

A published author.

And when my sister called me from the bookstore last weekend, just to let me know that she was there, buying "A Whisper in Winter: Stories of Hearing God's Voice in Every Season of Life," I was so proud of you.

An honest-to-goodness published author.

Congratulations, Shannon. You have made a dream come true. And you continue that in your life and in your family and in your writing. And in giving to others the gift of your insights and your wisdom.

Thank you for continuing to inspire me.

At 1/30/2005 5:44 PM, Blogger shannon had this to say ...

Oh, Ken . . . you've always been such a good friend. Thank you for those beautiful comments.

If you have any thoughts at all about writing, I encourage you to do so. Just imagine what you could create adding words to your artwork. Let me know if you go in that direction.

Miss you! Say hello to Laurie and the girls.

At 2/02/2005 11:19 AM, Blogger Macromoments had this to say ...

Shannon, you write from your heart, and it is obvious that you're letting God do the driving. It's a wonderful feeling when readers take time to let a writer know that their words hit home. Only God could arrange that! ~Bonnie~

At 2/10/2005 8:02 AM, Blogger shannon had this to say ...

Thank you, Bonnie. I've been meaning to write and tell you that I enjoy your blog! I'll have to scoot on over there and do that. :)


Post a Comment

Thank you for your kind, loving comment. Um ... you were kind and loving, weren't you?

Back to the home page...