northwest christian writers renewal

Whenever I'm asked, "How do I get started writing?" my first response is always, "Attend a writers' conference." There's no substitute. Nothing else motivates you quite like these gatherings of writers, editors, publishers, and agents. A weekend in that kind of setting sends you home fluffed, nudged, and ready to scribble.

As it happens, there's a great (and affordable) conference on the near horizon. May 2-3 (for those of you in the Pacific Northwest or willing to travel here) the Northwest Christian Writers Renewal will be held in Bothell, Washington.

Cec Murphy, writer or co-author of over 100 books, including 90 Minutes in Heaven, will be our keynote speaker. I'll be teaching two workshops myself, one on "The Four Roles of a Writer" (in which we'll talk about right brain/left brain battles and how to make them work to your advantage); the other is "How To Get Personal Without Revealing Too Much."

I hope to meet some of you there!

this weekend--part one

There's so much to tell, I can't get it all in one post.

First, I spent two wild, whirlish days scampering all over Seattle Pacific University, talking with writers and reconnecting with old friends. The annual Writers' Recharge is an "efficient" conference, which means there's not a lot of strolling or time-killing. What you'd normally pack into three days, or four, has been shaken, stamped, condensed and squeezed into a tidy, 32-hour nugget.

I'm exhausted.

But I'm also invigorated, for I've been in rooms packed with creative minds and God-focused hearts. This year, because a counterpart at one of the publishing houses I freelance for couldn't make it, I took his place on "that" side of the table. With a stack of guidelines and business cards, I waited for groups of six to enter my small conference room and pitch their book ideas. They came in with big eyes and rapid heartbeats and high hopes. I knew exactly what each person was feeling, for I'd been on "that other" side of the table myself. Wanting to sweep the uneasiness from the room and get down to the sharing of bright ideas, I tried to convey the we-ness I felt. "I'm a writer--just like you," I told them.

It gave me great delight to watch passion strengthen their voices and strip their fear. As the spotlight circled the room and each person felt its warmth, trepidation turned to persuasion. Collectively, we witnessed the distillation of months--or maybe years--of thinking, planning, meditating and creating into a single drop of urgency: "This is what I've written. This is why it needs an audience."

I don't know what my counterpart from Colorado Springs will do when the manuscripts start trickling in. I'd been given the go-ahead to say yes to whichever ideas I liked--and I liked a lot. Though at times I felt like a child who had stumbled upon the keys to my father's candy shop, and stood now, waving my friends in with frantic urgency, I wasn't indiscriminate. Some ideas weren't ready. A few needed a tighter focus. One was so unique I knew it wouldn't find a place on a bookstore shelf, so I encouraged self-publishing. But I did say yes to many. Some, I can't wait to read.

It's a brave thing to package your heart on paper and lay it at the feet of a stranger. You step back, catch your breath, and pray no stomping will occur. But if you don't try, you never get to hear another say, "This has God written all over it."

Aside from those four hours of editor meetings, I also taught three workshops. As much as I enjoyed the first process, my real delight is teaching. We talked about fear, and writing with excellence, and blogging. We shared ideas. We cried a little. And over all, we reminded one another that what we do, we do for the One who loves us. We write because He's worth writing about, and because our world needs to hear His heartbeat.

I'm encouraged by what I experienced this weekend. I saw a vast sea of pen-holders ready to take dictation; a group ready to lay their talents on the altar and let God have His way.

It's what I want too.

pike place

Four potted raspberry vines stared accusingly at me, but I managed to ignore them as I made my way to the car. I needed a break. I needed to lay off the cooking, baking, cleaning, planting and harvesting and steal a few hours of walking, shopping, talking and laughing. So no ... I didn't feel the least bit guilty as I walked past those pots. The raspberries could wait.

Pike Place Market is a forty-minute drive from our little farm. I spent that time sipping a latte--even though I knew my friend, Sandra, and I would probably grap a cup as soon as we met up. And that's what we did. After no less than six phone calls back and forth ("Where did you say you're parking? Isn't that the place that charges $10 for two hours? ... I'm on Virgina and 2nd. Pike is south, right? ... No, I'm not near the pig. I'm on the north end of the cobblestones" ...) we found each other, hugged hello, and ducked into the first pastry shop we could find. How I wish I could enable a scratch 'n sniff button for you (as brilliantly suggested by Christie, while commenting on my last post). Try to imagine a room full of warm, just-from-the-oven bread ... and rolls ... and tarts ... and quiche ... and puff pastry. Add to that the aroma of French Roast and espresso, and the sounds of frothing milk and chatter and chairs scooching toward tables. Bliss.

Sandra ordered something twisted, glazed and nut-studded. As I'm not a "sweets in the morning" person, I ordered a Swiss-cheese encrusted square of puff pastry--a concoction so light, so tender, it shattered into flaky particles with every bite. I could have eaten twelve.

We asked for our coffee in real cups, not paper. Sandra took hers black, but I ordered my signature latte. And oh, how superior that latte was to my usual Starbucks cup. I feel deceitful even thinking such a thought, let alone writing it, but how can you not 'fess up to something so blatant? The froth was so thick, it coated the sides of my cup. Each movement of my wrist created a new pattern of cream and brown swirls. I suppose with very little effort at all I could devote this entire post to that one perfect latte, but there's so much more to tell.

Sandra and I met two summers ago when we both taught at the Oregon Christian Writers' Conference. We connected almost instantly, and furthered that connection when we both taught at the Seattle Pacific University's Writers' Recharge this past June. Because both our husbands are in the ministry and we both write (she's the author of 30 children's books), we never run out of things to discuss. With several months of catching up to do, you can imagine the animated scene at our table. We talked first about writing, and the projects we're each mulling over, and the difficulties of balancing family needs and contracted writing obligations. I told her I'm questioning whether I really want to write during this season of my life; she understood. We shared the happenings at my church and at her husband's retirement center, and discussed the particular bittersweet nature of being pastor's wives, and about our strong desire to model grace to the women we minister to. If you had gathered up our words at the end of that first hour, and squeezed the breath from the conversation and distilled the heart of those syllables into one essential drop, that drop would be Jesus. What is Jesus asking of us at this point in our lives? How can we give those who are watching us a clearer vision of His grace? How can we offer Him more of our hearts?

Had we parted after that first hour, it would have been enough for me. I would have had the gulp of fresh, courage-endowing air I'd come looking for. But we didn't part. We meandered through the market comparing the bouquets of statice and just-cut lovelies that adorned about every third booth, sampling glossy Chukar Cherry chocolates, listening to the street musicians, watching the fish handlers toss salmon back and forth and enjoying their jovial bellows. We ogled at people (a market meandering must. Years ago I passed a boy on the cobblestones who was holding and eating a snake--a real, honest to goodness snake) and ogled the jeweled mounds of fruits and vegetables. My first purchase was a pound of Brussels sprouts. Don't make that face at me. You'd have bought a pound, too, if only because of the clever display. Same-sized, bright green orbs sat in pencil-straight rows, and near the top, a green, lifelike-looking gecko sat perched and staring, with a thin slice of a Brussels sprout clenched between his teeth. A sign at his feet said, "Don't even think of disturbing this display." When I gave my order to the guy behind the counter, I admitted to a strong urge to run my hand through those green balls. The look he gave told me he thought that was really, really funny. To mend our relationships, I asked for three pounds of creamy gold Yukon potatoes, too.

Sandra bought a jar of sour cherry jam, a half pound of picked red onions, and five Southern-fried chicken pieces which she vowed to save for dinner. I selected an autumn bouquet of burgandy Zinnias, butter-yellow Lilies, orangey-red something or other, and golden Black-eyed Susans. On the way out, I picked up a warm sleeve of Epis (braided rolls), which balanced my arms nicely.

The time went too quickly, but we promised to find another day soon for more of the same. I felt refreshed as I drove home, and thankful. God is good. I'm thankful I live in a place where I can sit in public and talk about Jesus. I'm thankful He's filled my life with kind, loving people. And I'm grateful for the sweet moments of fellowship He arranges for me, just when I need them most. It's good to sojourn together with a kindred spirit--if only for awhile.

My companion and my friend ... What fellowship we had, what wonderful discussions as we walked together ... --Ps 55:13-14 (TLB)

my point ... and i do have one

I thought it might be funny, when I was about five, to lock myself in the bathroom while having my bath and not answer my mother's insistent knocking and yelling. Who knows why we do these things?

That was, I believe, my first practical joke. Rough, yes--and not terribly well thought out. But we have to start somewhere. I remember lying in that tepid water holding my hand over my mouth so my mother couldn't hear my giggling over her panicked pounding. She stopped after a moment or two, and I heard the back door open and slam. What I couldn't see from the bathroom--and only learned later when my mother recounted the drama for my father--was that she then vaulted herself over the side of the porch railing, grabbed the axe from the woodpile, gave a hearty whack or six at the bush growing against the window, and jammed a ladder under the windowsill.

The window was unlocked, fortunately. After she climbed in and we exchanged polite hellos, she sat her shaky self down on the toilet lid and told me about the little boy who cried wolf. I thought it was a terrific story and asked her to tell me another.

“You’re missing the point, Shannon. That story is about you. If you keep doing this--if you keep telling fibs--people won’t believe you later when you really need help.”

That was my introduction to “the point.” I thought my mother was extremely clever to just plop herself down on the toilet lid (after pounding, vaulting, whacking and climbing, no less) and create that winsome combination of story and point. I admired her ability to tie a seemingly unrelated tale to my mischief. I wanted to do that, too. I wanted to conjure points from thin air.

That desire still lives in me. As a writer, I’m always on a quest to marry the perfect story to the perfect point. Nothing satisfies me more than walking a reader right up to the door of Aha! and watching them walk through. Life is packed with metaphors--random, disconnected ideas that remain detached and unrelated until someone snatches the two and ties them neatly into "the point."

If you write--and many of you do--I hope you make good use of metaphor and simile. But even if you don't write, you live. And a life attuned to metaphor is a life full of wonder. Take a second listen next time something sparks your interest. Why does it? What does it make you think of? How does that relate to your life? Where have you seen that before?

Just for today, be on the lookout. Points, morals, and lessons are everywhere. Find one in your normal happenings and you'll be hooked. You'll be so delighted you'll look for another. Tomorrow you'll look for three.

It's the richest, most interesting way to live. And that's my point.

contented

I already love today.

I woke to the sound of wind chimes, which meant we'd have a blustery morning. There's none better. As I do automatically, every morning, I went in the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, and just as I did so, the wind hit the front porch and squeezed through the cracks in my front door. I have no idea why I love that spooky, haunted-house sound, but I do. It makes me shiver, in the best sort of way. My brother-in-law, who built our house for us three years ago, heard that noise one day while visiting and jumped to his feet. "I can fix that for you," he offered.

"Don't you dare," was my response.

As if starting my day with bluster and howl wasn't delightful enough, I then went and poured just the exact right amount of hazelnut creamer in my coffee cup. I never measure, and I always pour the creamer in first, before the coffee, because that way I don't have to dirty a spoon. It's a hit-or-miss operation, generally, but today I hit it dead-on. You should try a sip.

This day will only get better. Sometime this afternoon, I'm going to pack up my laptop and head to the livestock auction. I'm writing the second to the last chapter of my book today, and it happens to center on a conversation I overheard at the auction a few years ago. So I need to put myself back in that place and soak in all the noises and odors. I can almost conjure that earthy smell right now, but I don't want to deprive myself of the actual pleasure, so I'm going.

Going to the auction, to me, is like taking a trip to my childhood. I went frequently with my grandfather back then, and I believe some of these cattle men--the big wigs, the ones who sit in the first interior ring with their feet up on the arena railings and their names burned into wood plaques behind their chairs--are the same cronies my grandfather swapped howdies with back then.

I don't have a first-ring seat, of course. I'll perch up near the top, where I can watch the kids begging for a cone from the auction cafe, watch the livestock-handlers try to keep their feet out of the path of stomping, irritated cows, watch the anxiety grow as people outbid each other for the healthiest goats.

I could almost make myself believe I was ten again, and sitting with my grandpa, except these overall-clad farmers have a cell phone in their front pocket and a double-tall latte in their hands. Other than that, it's 1971.

I always think of those lattes when I'm heading out to the auction, and it triggers a hankering in me. No need to fight a thing like that, so I'll stop at the Starbucks on my way and pick up a cup.

Who could ask for more? Bluster, howl, memory lane, and two cups of perfect coffee. I am one contented woman.

photographs and memories

In a previous post entitled "writers & ritual," I fessed up about my own daily, pre-writing routine. For those who did not read that post and do not care (or have time) to click on the link in that first sentence, I'll give you the brief version: every morning, before I've composed a single word, I get myself coffeed-up and comfortable in front of my laptop and navigate to the online edition of our local paper, where I read the obituaries. I won't go into the "whys" of that ritual; for that, you're going to have to click on those blue words above. But now you know. I've bared my soul.

I've found the most fascinating information in that column. By reading through the life histories of the deceased, I've discovered plot ideas for my fiction, locations, and a wealth of names: Mozel, Maizie, Beulah, Winkie. I keep a file of these nuggets in a drawer out in my office. On occasion, I'll print out an obituary simply because the words written in that small rectangular space made me miss a stranger, made me wish I'd been a friend to that face and name.

While straightening my office yesterday, I went to put that file back in the drawer and a small square of paper slipped out and fluttered to the carpet. Picking it up, I saw the obituary of a woman named Lillian. She was nearly 100 when she died and she left a vast line of descendants behind her. But the thing that struck me as odd about that woman's memorial--both when I printed out the obituary and again yesterday--was the picture above the name and death date. Lillian sat straight and stared determinedly at the camera, with no hint of a smile or warmth of any kind, and held up ... a coffee cup.

I'm puzzed by Lillian's mug. What message was she trying to convey? What were her descendants thinking when they chose that particular picture for her obituary? I have to believe they had other pictures of the woman. What was it about this one photo that made them all nod and say, "Yup. That's Mom, all right."

I started thinking. If the paper put captions to these pictures, what might Lillian's say? "Lookee what I have here!" was the first thought to cross my mind. She looked fiercely proud of that mug. But after thinking of and rejecting a half dozen others, I've settled on this caption: "I'm sure gonna miss my coffee."

I felt kind of sad staring at that picture. I thought, "Aw, Lillian ... tell me your life amounted to more than this."

Listen up now, those of you in my life with photo-selecting rights: you're going to really upset me if you choose a picture like that for my obituary. I want no pictures of me holding the dice at Bunco, no pictures of me playing Spades on the computer, no pictures of me knitting or talking on the phone or petting the dog. Please ... catch me hugging a child or laughing with my family or reading my Bible or worshiping. Capture one of those moments on film, and you have my permission to attach that photo to my name and death date.

Your turn. What would you like us to remember about your life?

true words vs. safe

“The farther writing strays from its deepest sources, the more sterile it becomes. Words skimmed from the surface grow tiresome. Subliminally the reader senses that the writer isn’t saying what he most wants to say. He’s protecting himself; being prudent. Writers realize this more consciously. One of the worst things they can say about a colleague is that he played it safe." ~ Ralph Keyes, The Courage to Write

I don't know about the rest of you, but the last words I want others to use when describing my writing are "sterile," "tiresome," and "prudent." I'd rather hear that my writing is gritty, or invigorating, or, perhaps best of all--risky.

But writing isn't risky if something isn't on the line. And most of us don't like offering body parts on the altar. Most of us prefer to write while wearing head gear and shoulder pads and lots of padding over the heart. That way, no one (meaning us) gets hurt.

What are the risks of writing true words? Here's a partial list:
--We might reveal too much of ourselves
--Our attempts at being "fresh and new" might draw ridicule
--Strongly expressed opinions might bring an antagonistic response
--What we expose about ourselves might alienate our readers

No one willingly sets out to expose their tender parts or draw scorn from complete strangers. But if you don't take a chance, if you don't grit your teeth and set your jaw and open that vein, your writing will forever be sterile and tiresome and prudent ... and bland.

I settled for bland in a chapter of my first book--but only in the first draft. The next day, when I went back and checked the chapter, my words were so pleasantly vanilla that I made myself sick.

I was trying to describe the apprehension I felt when my seminary-student husband came home and announced he'd been asked to pastor in a retirement home. I didn't save my exact words--why would I?--but I remember I wrote something very, very safe; something like:

Even though I believed God had called my husband to minister in the retirement center, I didn’t want to have to go with him. I preferred that he went alone. As a child, I’d gone to nursing homes frequently with my grandmother, and the memories were unpleasant. Everything about those places frightened me.

Yawn-worthy, isn't it? But it was prudent. When you skim like that, you keep your readers a nice, safe distance away. (Sometimes they return the favor and keep a nice, safe distance away from your book.) The way I wrote that first draft, no one would ever know my real memories and my true fears. No one could get offended at my description of the nursing homes of my past; no one could think me horrible for noticing details that polite people would ignore.

But I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave that passage in my book. I had clear memories in my mind and knew my readers deserved to know the truth about those memories. So this is what I wrote instead:

Bethany Home had a woman with long silver hair who always sat in the same chair near the front door, holding a box of tissues and cleaning a section of the adjacent wall. There were no smudges on that wall, but she scrubbed them anyway.

On other Saturdays our destination was the Josephine Home, or “Josie,” as my grandmother called it. Crazy Bill lived there. He was a diabetic man in a rusty wheelchair who thought I was his little sister. He’d see me coming from the top of the ramp, where he perched most afternoons to watch the goings-on up and down the connecting hallways.

“Bettina!” he’d call, latching eyes with mine. “Come and play with me, Bettina!”

I’d clutch Grandma’s hand tightly as our footsteps crossed the distance between us and the wheelchair.

Grandma would pat his shoulder and greet him cheerfully. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it, Bill?”

Crazy Bill, I’d correct her silently. He scared the life out of me. His legs were gone, but his arms were strong. He pulled himself along the rail that threaded the walls from one end of the nursing home to the other, back and forth, never seeming to tire. Whenever he paused in his travels, he’d pluck at the front of his bathrobe with nails that were long, chipped, and yellowed—trying, like the silver-haired woman at Bethany, to remove something that wasn’t there. I would stare at his hands with a mixture of fascination and dread, fearing that one day those hands might clutch my arm and pull me into his embrace.

No matter how kind Grandma was, Bill found a way to yell at her. I didn’t understand how she kept it up.

“Your blanket slipped a bit. Can I straighten it for you, Bill?”

He’d scowl and begin barking in that raspy voice. “I’ll do it myself! Let me do it myself!”

Grandma just kept smiling, but I shrank from his voice.

She tried to help me understand. “People don’t like to lose control, honey. That’s all it is.”

Every once in awhile, she’d tell me Bill’s story in an effort to alleviate my fear. “He was in the war, you know. I’ve seen pictures of Bill in his uniform. He was quite handsome. It’s a shame his mind gave out on him.”

It didn’t help. No stories about the war could cover the aroma of urine and pain and fear that permeated the corridors of that nursing home and all the others we visited. We’d step through those doorways into a world of haunted eyes and shrieks and grimaces. And the whole thing terrified me.*

I didn't want my readers to hate me, but neither did I want to bore them to sleep. I was willing to risk the former to prevent the latter.

The next time you sit down to write, take a hard look at your work-in-progress and see if you can spot tiny pieces of your heart interspersed between the words. If the work is pristine, sweet and tidy--I challenge you to try again. Your readers deserve better ... don't you think?

*Excerpted from A Whisper in Winter: Stories of Hearing God’s Voice in Every Season of Life, Shannon Woodward (New Hope Publishers, October 2004).

full

Earlier today, I said to Dave, "Check on me tonight, will you? When you get home, say, 'How's that chapter coming? Did you get it finished?' I need the accountability."

Dave gave me that look, the expression husbands the world over don whenever they find themselves being soft-spoken into a no-win situation. I saw fear in his eyes. I tried to erase it.

"I won't get snappish or crabby or defensive when you ask. I promise."

He stood there thinking, remembering. I have a feeling I've made that promise before. I have a feeling I've broken it. Without commiting to anything, he left the house--quickly, and without looking back.

When he returned awhile ago, he didn't ask. So I offered. "You know, I'm going to need a little grace on that chapter," I began.

He scoffed. Not a bad, mean, hostile scoff. Actually, it was a tad on the timid side; just enough to hint "I told you so," but undefined enough that he might be able to pretend he was only coughing, should I call him on it.

"No--I really do have a good reason," I said.

He looked at me, waiting.

"Well, first off, I was asked to do an edit. Quick turn-around. They needed the article right away . . . as in today."

He didn't blink.

"And I spent the afternoon at the school helping with Tera's party. And after we got home, Zac needed a ride to the Y."

Nothing.

"And . . . and it took me a loooong time to form the meatloaf into a perfect heart shape."

Know what? That one worked. He loves meatloaf, and he's not averse to heart-shaped food, if that food happens to be served on, say, Valentine's Day.

I'll put in an hour or so on that chapter after I'm finished here. Honest. You can check with me later, if you feel brave.

For now, I feel like blogging. I'm just too full not to. I've had a perfect day, and it has to come out somehow. So here goes:

--I awoke to snow on my car. Not much, but enough that the air smelled winterish and wonderful.
--My husband took me to lunch; at the conclusion, I had the most perfect puff-pastry swan filled with light-as-air cream.
--Clouds rolled in.
--Clouds rolled back out.
--I heard from an old friend.
--I heard from some new friends.
--I found what I was looking for at the library.
--My meatloaf came out perfectly; the potatoes had just enough cream cheese and butter; the peas tasted like I'd just released them from their pods.
--Zac's working on his third plateful and making appreciative, gluttonous noises, Larry's laid out like a bear skin rug near the wood stove, Tera's doing homework on the hearth, and Dave's sitting next to me on the couch, not holding me accountable.
--There's just enough breeze that every so often, the wind chimes on the porch tinkle.
--I'm loved.

I hope you know you're loved, too, tonight. I hope your day was wonderful, and you spent time with someone you care about.

Happy Valentine's Day

A program note: tomorrow I'm having a biopsy (nothing I'm too worried about.) If you should come to this site and see ANY posting of ANY kind, please do not read. I've never had Valium before and I'm concerned that it may cause me to write something incriminating and/or embarrassing. Your cooperation is appreciated.

a writer's need for refilling

We're home, and I'm sitting in my usual spot in the living room--laptop humming, wood stove blazing, tea at the ready. We had ourselves a wonderful mini vacation on the other side of the mountains, in Winthrop, Washington, but I'm home now--refilled and strengthened.

I can't pin my sense of rejuvenation on any one moment. Rather, it was the cumulative effect that stirred me. It was snowfall on my face, a fuzzy black puppy in my lap, and a circle of family and friends clustered around a campfire. It was two hours of window shopping along the boardwalk in Winthrop, and laughing with my husband at the sign in one window that said, "Closed . . . see you in the spring." It was the smell of the soy milk lotion I spotted in one shop and tested on the back of my hand, and the taste of a latte, and the bone-warming heat from a homemade wood stove, and the sounds of a blacksmith hammering beauty out of a hunk of metal. It was standing on the edge of the river, counting the deer on the other side. It was dust on the mountains, a crunch beneath my feet, and icicles frozen in mid-drop over the falls.

I tried to write while in Winthrop, but I couldn't concentrate. Chapter thirteen wouldn't come--not with a nudge or a kick or a whine. It refused my pleas as easily as my threats; in the end, I surrendered. I shut my laptop and went for another walk. And I found myself downtown in a bookstore, reading a children's picture book, the subject of which was as far from my work-in-progress as you could get. But I'd been led there--to that store, and that chair, and that picture book. For after I'd skimmed the front matter and skipped the dedication and settled on the first page, I read a single phrase that released my pent-up creativity. I read, "He saw darkness in the dog's eyes," and I suddenly knew how I was to write chapter thirteen. I can't even explain how that convinced me--I can only tell you that it did. I shut the book and left the store, and before I'd gone two blocks, I had the opening scene of that stubborn chapter written in my head.

On the quotes page of my website, you'll find the following bit of wisdom by Sir John Lubbock: "Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under the trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time." Sir John was correct. Writing empties us, and what is emptied must be filled again if it's to continue flowing outward.

Perhaps you can't trot over the mountains for a bit of winter-coated rejuvenation, but you can take a walk. You can find a quiet corner in a favorite cafe and search the faces of oblivious strangers. You can stare at the sky and think grand thoughts and give your ambition the afternoon off. And then when you've refilled yourself, you can return to your art with fresh eyes and a new heart for the work.

That's all for today. I feel a burst of "want to" coming on. I'm going to go with that--and open chapter thirteen.

an invitation

My friend Ken (see yesterday's post and his comment below) is an artist. I've been aware of his abilities since high school; I used to watch him hunker over a sheet of newsprint and produce uncanny likenesses of himself, or me, or any number of unknowing subjects in the halls and classrooms of Cascade High. I didn't know how he did it, but I suspected it wasn't at all hard for him. I assumed he'd reached out a tiny finger as a three-week old and been met with a touch from God, just like the reclining naked man in Michaelangelo's The Creation of Adam. My suspicion seemed confirmed after high school when he mastered "pointillism," which, loosely translated means, "the creation of dot art by one with crazy-fast wrists." My own wrists ached as I watched him slap those miniscule dots on the page. The images that emerged seemed to arise from nothing--and they were beautiful.

I didn't attempt anything close to art until Dave's Christmas gift in 1995. I was 34 years old by then. The reason I never tried before that is because I never received The Invitation. You know the one. It's the gold-embossed invitation; the one printed on ivory parchment with the deckle-edge; the one with a single line centered inside in script letters: "Congratulations . . . you're one of us." These are given to art teachers the world over, along with strict instructions to horde them faithfully and dole them out sparingly. Ken had received one; I was sure of it. And when an errand sent me to the far end of "that hall," the one which housed the high school art classroom, I'd slow my steps and grab a wide-eyeful of the honored few on the other side of that door. These finger-of-God touched few were Artists. You either had it, or you didn't. And I didn't, so I kept obediently to my side of the door.

Imagine how startled I was, all those years later, when no one barred my entrance to the art classroom in the back of my local craft store. I wasn't asked to produce credentials or references or a portfolio. And no one mentioned The Invitation--not even once. So I stuck a canvas on my easel, pulled the crinkly wrapper off one of my brand new brushes, squirted a big glob of cobalt blue on my palette--and started painting.

On Terry Whalin's site there's an article by James Scott Bell entitled Putting the Big Lie to Sleep. In it, he tells a similar story. After reading that article this week, and then recalling my own initiation into the art world, I wondered how many of you believed that same lie. I wonder if you're tiptoeing down a hall somewhere, slowing as you pass that open door and fearful you'll be called out for staring. Are you convinced you can't write--or create anything artistic at all--simply because no one has yet told you you could? If that's the case, let me be the first. Let me put that big lie to sleep, once and for all.

Artists are not born. A few, I'm convinced, do stick their little fingers out of the crib to meet the finger of God. I'll always believe that, if only for the fact that I know a boy who, at eight, drew pictures that looked purposefully Picasso. He hadn't had time in his young life to develop that ability, so it had to be a gift. But what does that mean for the rest of us would-be artists? It means we need to put pen to paper or brush to canvas. We need to enter the classroom, find our seat, and start the journey.

You can learn to write. I promise. You'll need to develop your craft; I won't lie. You'll need to read books about writing and attend conferences and allow other people to lay eyes on your work. You'll have to toughen up and accept rejection. You'll have to toughen up even more and listen to the inner editor when you hear, "Change. Slash. Rework." But if you do all that, and you keep on doing all that, eventually you'll look down one day and find that good writing has emerged from beneath your pen.

If you have even a spark of desire toward writing, and you're just waiting to hear the words, let me be the one to tell you: You're one of us.

Now get busy.

writer ears

"There are joys which long to be ours. God sends ten thousand truths, which come about us like birds seeking inlet; but we are shut up to them, and so they bring us nothing, but sit and sing awhile upon the roof, and then fly away."
~ Henry Ward Beecher

In 1995, with nary a hint or a nudge from me, my husband presented me with an unusual and wonderful gift. On Christmas morning, I found beneath the tree an easel, an empty canvas, a painter's bucket filled with brushes and paints, and a note telling me when and where my first oil painting class would be held. Such a move would never have crossed my own mind, but my husband knew that. And he knew I needed an outlet at that particular time of my life.

I loved his gift. I adored everything about painting: the smell of the linseed oil, the sensual swirls of color blending into one another under my palette knife, the soft whisper of my brush as it conjured a sky across a pristine canvas. And the names of those colors! Alizarin Crimson, Cerulean Blue, Indigo, Moss and Ochre. A previously hidden world sprang to life before my startled gaze, just like all those secret Magic Eye pictures of a decade ago. I could suddenly see what had been there all along. My hearing altered, too. Words that had drifted silently past my ears in my former life suddenly rooted in my conscience and bore meaning. The newborn, artsy me began to understand concepts once foreign--concepts of foreshortening and shadowing, perspective and contrast.

Shortly after I began lessons, we took a family vacation to Phoenix to visit our friends, Dan and Lisa. I hadn't been to Arizona since the sixth grade, but the memories that lingered from that previous trip weren't pleasant. I recalled that everything was brown and dead and hot, and that I'd spent half our trip throwing up from heat stroke. I'm not a big fan of blistering heat or scorpions or treeless hills, so I wasn't sure what to expect this go-round.

I must confess that Arizona's beauty won me over this time. It's a different sort of beauty from the blue and green variety that wakes me every morning in the Pacific Northwest, but it was there. It's a world of hovering pinks and salmons and warm terra cotta hues. I appreciated the uniformity of all those earth tones, right down to the agreed-upon roof tiles of my friend's housing development. Those earthy pastels billowed and rolled in a soothing tile sea from one end of her street to the other.

Early one morning, while sipping iced tea and reading the Phoenix morning paper, I glanced up and noticed the way the rising sun struck the tiles of the neighbor’s roof. From my perch, I had a clear view of the sharp contrast between the lit and shadowed sides of the tile. As I sat there, I experienced a sudden flash of understanding. My instructor had tried--unsuccessfully--to explain the impact of light source on a subject and how the brightness of that source affects color. I hadn't been able to track with him in class, but I got it now. I saw in 3-D what his words had been unable to paint for me. And I also saw, in my mind's eye, the exact proportion of white I'd add to my base color to duplicate the left side of those tiles, were I to try to paint them.

Lisa walked into the kitchen, looked at me looking out the window, joined me in staring for a second or two, and then said, "What? Is the cat on the roof again?” She wasn’t quite as taken with the color variation on the tiles as I was. We may have looked at the same thing, but we didn't see the same thing.

That's a writer's reality, too. We can be in a gathering of some sort, surrounded by normal-looking, two-eared people, and somehow manage to be the only one in the room who hears the whisper. A truth will rise from the conversation, drift overhead in slow, lazy circles, and choose to settle itself in our eager ears. No one else notices, no one else hears. Perhaps that's because no one else listens.

I’ve often felt that our job as writers--most definitely as Christian writers--is to hear and interpret and share truth with a world that for whatever reason, doesn’t stop to hear those truths for themselves. We’ve been called by God to be His scribes to this generation. He’s equipped us to minister in this way--with an ability to arrange words in a pleasing pattern, with a knack for communicating, and with spanking-new ears.

Hone your earing. Cock your head to one side, if that helps; aim your ear toward heaven and invite the sound. Wait. It won't take long. From a distant place, but closer with every step, you'll begin to hear the heartbeat of God. And when you have it, when you can not only hear but feel the very timbre of His pulse, gather your words and paint a picture.

God's glory is on tour in the skies,
God-craft on exhibit across the horizon.
Madame Day holds classes every morning,
Professor Night lectures each evening.
Their words aren't heard,
Their voices aren't recorded,
But their silence fills the earth:
Unspoken truth is spoken everywhere.

Psalm 19:1-4, The Message

validation

“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.