After finishing my last manuscript, I sat in my muddly-puddle for a spell, lost in my own musings, plopping pebbles into the water, watching the ripples ring 'round me in ever-expanding, yet meaningless circles.
It was time for a novel. I had an idea, fleshed it out, and dove into the deeper waters of story. Characters leapt to life. New ideas introduced themselves. The water felt clean and fresh. The muddle-puddle sluiced off my skin in one clean dip into the pool.
Then I hit the muddly-middle of my novel. I'm dog paddling, hoping the beginning that so engaged me and the end that seemed so dynamic is still in sight.
James Scott Bell advises to write the story that scares you. Write the story that feels a little bit too big, too scary, too much. I cling to his advice now. I love my story and it scares me; I know the characters yet their lives are now their own; the theme lives but the theme grows new ones--and I feel as though I've lost control of the universe I intended to create.
I refuse to stay mired. Though temptation looms, I refuse to start over or scrap it until my head breaks the surface. I'm not naive enough to believe that my premise is completely original, yet this work is far from derivative. Perhaps that's why I feel as though I can't Mapquest my way through it; I must find my own way to the edge of the pool.
Most days, I'm not sure I'm intelligent, intuitive, or creative enough to wend my way through this story. On all days, I know this novel will need the famed month-in-a-drawer before I pull it out to see what can be rewritten, reordered, and revised to realize the full potential of the premise.
I'm out of the puddle, at least.
I'm praying my way through my novel. Cheer me on from the sides, dear writer friends, but don't throw me a life jacket just yet. Underneath the friendly exterior of this elementary school teacher lies a spine of steel. I may be dog paddling for now, but I refuse to leave the pool.
My life is a symphony of faith. Jesus Christ is my composer and conductor. Come listen in!
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Believe
"...Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved"--Acts 16:31 NIV
Believe.
God's Word is not a myth, not a legend, not a cultural tale, not folklore. It's not a story, not a fable, not the invention of man.
It's Truth. Every word from God's Word is Truth. Its Truth is living and active; its very Word, Life. If we can accept that a few tiny cells begin a new human life, can we accept that belief begins a new eternal life, according to the plan outlined in God's Holy Word?
Believe.
All of us can believe. Those who live by emotion, those who live by reason. The youngest child. The eldest senior. The mentally challenged. The brightest scholar. God made His plan clear.
Faith alone is enough. It is enough to believe. Even so, our belief is backed by fact, by history, and by corroborated experience. The Resurrection is true. Historically it cannot be explained away. Jesus lived; He died a horrific death on the cross; He rose on the third day and was seen by many. We accept far more tenuous truths from history than the evidence for those Truths. But you see, there's no reason for the force of evil to hide other truths. Satan has every reason in the word to attempt to hide God's Truth from us. That the history of Jesus is so widely questioned speaks to its Truth and the threat it poses to evil.
Believe.
What if all could believe this season? Truly, honestly believe? Sing the carols and believe the Truth behind every word? See the nativity and know, on one ancient night, it really happened? Accept that God sent His Son as the ultimate Sacrifice, the Lamb of God, to suffer and die so those created in His image-- including you--may live?
God loves you that much. Believe it. You are not an accident. Believe it. You are created in His image. Believe it. If you do not know Jesus, know this: He would leave a flock of ninety-nine to search you out--yes, you. All of heaven will rejoice if and when you utter these words sincerely: "I believe". Our great Shepherd, Jesus the Christ, will put you over His shoulders and carry you to His flock. He will never leave you or forsake you.
It's simple enough for a child to accept. It's profound enough to save your soul for eternity.
May God bless you in this season of celebration. My prayer for you is that you will believe for the first time, or that your belief will be renewed.
Merry Christmas, dearest readers!
Believe.
God's Word is not a myth, not a legend, not a cultural tale, not folklore. It's not a story, not a fable, not the invention of man.
It's Truth. Every word from God's Word is Truth. Its Truth is living and active; its very Word, Life. If we can accept that a few tiny cells begin a new human life, can we accept that belief begins a new eternal life, according to the plan outlined in God's Holy Word?
Believe.
All of us can believe. Those who live by emotion, those who live by reason. The youngest child. The eldest senior. The mentally challenged. The brightest scholar. God made His plan clear.
Faith alone is enough. It is enough to believe. Even so, our belief is backed by fact, by history, and by corroborated experience. The Resurrection is true. Historically it cannot be explained away. Jesus lived; He died a horrific death on the cross; He rose on the third day and was seen by many. We accept far more tenuous truths from history than the evidence for those Truths. But you see, there's no reason for the force of evil to hide other truths. Satan has every reason in the word to attempt to hide God's Truth from us. That the history of Jesus is so widely questioned speaks to its Truth and the threat it poses to evil.
Believe.
What if all could believe this season? Truly, honestly believe? Sing the carols and believe the Truth behind every word? See the nativity and know, on one ancient night, it really happened? Accept that God sent His Son as the ultimate Sacrifice, the Lamb of God, to suffer and die so those created in His image-- including you--may live?
God loves you that much. Believe it. You are not an accident. Believe it. You are created in His image. Believe it. If you do not know Jesus, know this: He would leave a flock of ninety-nine to search you out--yes, you. All of heaven will rejoice if and when you utter these words sincerely: "I believe". Our great Shepherd, Jesus the Christ, will put you over His shoulders and carry you to His flock. He will never leave you or forsake you.
It's simple enough for a child to accept. It's profound enough to save your soul for eternity.
May God bless you in this season of celebration. My prayer for you is that you will believe for the first time, or that your belief will be renewed.
Merry Christmas, dearest readers!
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Pangs
More than ever, I wonder if our wounded, dying world is gripped by the final throes of birth pangs, as Mary was approximately two thousand years ago. I wonder if our groaning is destined to intensify, our pangs increase in wavelike strength until the moment of Christ's second coming.
I have no idea the day or the hour Christ will come again. No man (or woman) should claim such knowledge. But the notion that God could use one of the most recognized holidays in all the world to point us to His Son--indeed to see His second coming--has occurred to me.
My family wandered through a store full of technology recently. As always the technology amazed and befuddled me. Large pictures on the wall showed young people simutaneously texting on cell phones, sitting in front of laptops, and wearing earpiece phones. It's possible they chatted with a friend online, talked to another on the phone, and texted a third.
I shook my head, my breath caught in my throat. All the models wore big grins. All were alone. Yes, there's communication, which is wonderful (look at the many online friends I've made here). But where's the warmth of human contact, the comfort of touch?
From the beginning of human history we've tumbled over one another, our bodies in close proximity: husband and wife, mother and child, siblings sharing sleeping quarters for warmth. From the beginning of human history our very survival depended on this close-knit community, even reflected in the birth of Christ: Joseph delivers the firstborn Son of his wife. I imagine that Mary held Jesus close to her skin for warmth, because mothers' instincts are to hold those newborns as close as skin on skin.
We live so far from our God-given instincts now. Our world changes so rapidly. It astounds me to remember that I went to college with the best typewriter on the dorm floor--me, a woman not yet forty years of age. Look at the advancement of technology in a twenty-one year span of time....twenty-one years. Not a blink of an eye. Not a drop in a bucket. Yet so much has changed.
Consider the world in Jesus' time. Mary lived as her mother had, simply. Joseph worked as his father had, arduously. They lived as their parents had, and as their grandparents had, and as their ancestors had for generations before. Time still moved--God's plan was spoken and fulfilled-- but time whispered, unfurling like the slow unrolling of the white runner for the bride to trod upon.
Now time screeches. Time careens. Perhaps time even groans with the ever-increasing pangs of labor.
Even so, come Lord Jesus. His plan is perfect: today or in ten thousand years, or ten thousand times ten thousand years. Whether technology continues to increase at this breakneck pace or grinds to a sudden and excruciating halt; whether the hands of time seem to slow or speed; whether our bodies become vessels of communication again or we come to a place of being separate physically but connected by technology--even so, come Lord Jesus.
On Christmas Day, come. On Easter, come. On a day of no particular notice, come according to God's perfect plan. We feel the pangs of birth, perhaps as Mary did. We have no idea if our labor will be short and intense or long and wavelike. We live by faith, preparing our hearts, not wanting to be caught unprepared.
Merry Christmas. As we celebrate Immanuel, Jesus' first appearing, our souls yearn for the next. Happy Birthday, Jesus. Even so, come.
I have no idea the day or the hour Christ will come again. No man (or woman) should claim such knowledge. But the notion that God could use one of the most recognized holidays in all the world to point us to His Son--indeed to see His second coming--has occurred to me.
My family wandered through a store full of technology recently. As always the technology amazed and befuddled me. Large pictures on the wall showed young people simutaneously texting on cell phones, sitting in front of laptops, and wearing earpiece phones. It's possible they chatted with a friend online, talked to another on the phone, and texted a third.
I shook my head, my breath caught in my throat. All the models wore big grins. All were alone. Yes, there's communication, which is wonderful (look at the many online friends I've made here). But where's the warmth of human contact, the comfort of touch?
From the beginning of human history we've tumbled over one another, our bodies in close proximity: husband and wife, mother and child, siblings sharing sleeping quarters for warmth. From the beginning of human history our very survival depended on this close-knit community, even reflected in the birth of Christ: Joseph delivers the firstborn Son of his wife. I imagine that Mary held Jesus close to her skin for warmth, because mothers' instincts are to hold those newborns as close as skin on skin.
We live so far from our God-given instincts now. Our world changes so rapidly. It astounds me to remember that I went to college with the best typewriter on the dorm floor--me, a woman not yet forty years of age. Look at the advancement of technology in a twenty-one year span of time....twenty-one years. Not a blink of an eye. Not a drop in a bucket. Yet so much has changed.
Consider the world in Jesus' time. Mary lived as her mother had, simply. Joseph worked as his father had, arduously. They lived as their parents had, and as their grandparents had, and as their ancestors had for generations before. Time still moved--God's plan was spoken and fulfilled-- but time whispered, unfurling like the slow unrolling of the white runner for the bride to trod upon.
Now time screeches. Time careens. Perhaps time even groans with the ever-increasing pangs of labor.
Even so, come Lord Jesus. His plan is perfect: today or in ten thousand years, or ten thousand times ten thousand years. Whether technology continues to increase at this breakneck pace or grinds to a sudden and excruciating halt; whether the hands of time seem to slow or speed; whether our bodies become vessels of communication again or we come to a place of being separate physically but connected by technology--even so, come Lord Jesus.
On Christmas Day, come. On Easter, come. On a day of no particular notice, come according to God's perfect plan. We feel the pangs of birth, perhaps as Mary did. We have no idea if our labor will be short and intense or long and wavelike. We live by faith, preparing our hearts, not wanting to be caught unprepared.
Merry Christmas. As we celebrate Immanuel, Jesus' first appearing, our souls yearn for the next. Happy Birthday, Jesus. Even so, come.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Leap
Writers, is there a moment in your story when a character unexpectedly leaps to life? Does that moment change your story indefinitely--either in plot, character, theme or some other way?
In the novel I completed this summer, the male hero leapt off the page with a single unexpected action about halfway through the first draft. Prior to that moment, I had an idea who he was; certainly I knew who I needed him to be. But it wasn't until that moment of surprise that I knew him in a deeper way.
In the novel I'm currently writing, the defining moment occurred in a line of dialogue. This time it happened much sooner than halfway through the rough draft and involved an endearment the male hero uses for the female hero. The term is one I wouldn't have dreamed before, but out of my character's "lips" it seemed perfectly suited. In using the endearment, the character reveals not only who he is, but who she is as well.
Today, on the way to a grocery store, I solved a plot problem for my new novel in my head. The theme was in place; the characters seem to have life, but the ending kept befuddling me. The "aha" caused me to first exclaim, then mutter, "I hope it works out."
My son replied, "Just think it through, Mom, before you write it."
"I do think through my stories," I said. We all climbed out of my van and into the damp Michigan day. "But I have to see if the story works out as I write it."
"Why don't you figure it out before you write it?"
"I can't. The story comes to life under my fingers."
Two very confused children stared at me. They often have those looks on their faces when I talk about writing, but that's okay. At least they're interested, even if they think I'm half crazy.
"It's like this," I continued. "An artist might think 'I'm going to draw a flower'. But they won't know what the flower looks like exactly until they start putting the brush to the paper. They might have an idea, but until they begin seeing colors, shapes and forms--they don't really know."
This they understood. I finished with, "The story comes to life under my fingers when I type, just as the painting comes to life under the brush of the artist when they paint. I only discover my story when I type it out."
Writers, can you define a moment when your characters or stories leapt to life? Chime in with your experiences. I'd love to hear them!
In the novel I completed this summer, the male hero leapt off the page with a single unexpected action about halfway through the first draft. Prior to that moment, I had an idea who he was; certainly I knew who I needed him to be. But it wasn't until that moment of surprise that I knew him in a deeper way.
In the novel I'm currently writing, the defining moment occurred in a line of dialogue. This time it happened much sooner than halfway through the rough draft and involved an endearment the male hero uses for the female hero. The term is one I wouldn't have dreamed before, but out of my character's "lips" it seemed perfectly suited. In using the endearment, the character reveals not only who he is, but who she is as well.
Today, on the way to a grocery store, I solved a plot problem for my new novel in my head. The theme was in place; the characters seem to have life, but the ending kept befuddling me. The "aha" caused me to first exclaim, then mutter, "I hope it works out."
My son replied, "Just think it through, Mom, before you write it."
"I do think through my stories," I said. We all climbed out of my van and into the damp Michigan day. "But I have to see if the story works out as I write it."
"Why don't you figure it out before you write it?"
"I can't. The story comes to life under my fingers."
Two very confused children stared at me. They often have those looks on their faces when I talk about writing, but that's okay. At least they're interested, even if they think I'm half crazy.
"It's like this," I continued. "An artist might think 'I'm going to draw a flower'. But they won't know what the flower looks like exactly until they start putting the brush to the paper. They might have an idea, but until they begin seeing colors, shapes and forms--they don't really know."
This they understood. I finished with, "The story comes to life under my fingers when I type, just as the painting comes to life under the brush of the artist when they paint. I only discover my story when I type it out."
Writers, can you define a moment when your characters or stories leapt to life? Chime in with your experiences. I'd love to hear them!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Tag
My writing friend Rosslyn Elliot tagged me! I'm to list seven random things about me. Here they are, very random and not all that interesting:
1. All my creativity manifests in writing and music. And I mean ALL. I love clothes, but have no eye for decorating my house, no talent in cooking...nothing domestic.
2. I fall asleep praying and wake with praise on my lips. That's the Spirit at work and not my own efforts at being a "good Christian"...just so it doesn't appear that I'm attempting to be "holier than thou".
3. I eat chocolate every day after breakfast.
4. I don't care for the Christmas season until about December 20th, then I get excited. I know, I know: Bah, humbug.
5. In fact, I'm ambivalent about most major holidays. I like regular days. I like the rhythm of everyday life.
6. I drive too fast, talk too fast, walk too fast and my footsteps sound super loud coming down the hallway at school. And I'm quite petite....go figure. Guess I'm the opposite of "walk softly and carry a big stick": I walk heavy and carry no stick. :)
7. I truly love the simplicity of children's music--the honesty of it speaks to me. And I've studied all the classics and sung opera. Give me "Skip to my Lou" any day. After all, when there's a fly in the buttermilk, you have no choice but to shoo, fly, shoo. :)
I have no idea who's been tagged or not tagged, but I don't want to be responsible for the demise of this tag! So, if any of my readers want to step up and join the fun, please, please let me know in the comments. I'm thinking Avily or Lynn? Let me know!
1. All my creativity manifests in writing and music. And I mean ALL. I love clothes, but have no eye for decorating my house, no talent in cooking...nothing domestic.
2. I fall asleep praying and wake with praise on my lips. That's the Spirit at work and not my own efforts at being a "good Christian"...just so it doesn't appear that I'm attempting to be "holier than thou".
3. I eat chocolate every day after breakfast.
4. I don't care for the Christmas season until about December 20th, then I get excited. I know, I know: Bah, humbug.
5. In fact, I'm ambivalent about most major holidays. I like regular days. I like the rhythm of everyday life.
6. I drive too fast, talk too fast, walk too fast and my footsteps sound super loud coming down the hallway at school. And I'm quite petite....go figure. Guess I'm the opposite of "walk softly and carry a big stick": I walk heavy and carry no stick. :)
7. I truly love the simplicity of children's music--the honesty of it speaks to me. And I've studied all the classics and sung opera. Give me "Skip to my Lou" any day. After all, when there's a fly in the buttermilk, you have no choice but to shoo, fly, shoo. :)
I have no idea who's been tagged or not tagged, but I don't want to be responsible for the demise of this tag! So, if any of my readers want to step up and join the fun, please, please let me know in the comments. I'm thinking Avily or Lynn? Let me know!
Friday, December 5, 2008
Hugs
About once a day it occurs to me that I have the best job in the world.
Yesterday it was during lunch, while I prepared to travel from school to school. On my way out of my "home school", I stopped in the cafeteria to buy a bag of pretzels. As usual, my thick Michigan coat and heavy tote bag full of lesson plans and CDs weighed me down.
No matter. One first grader spotted me--outside the music room. I think my youngest students believe I'm a fixture there, like the piano. I am the music teacher. I belong in the music room. Therefore, anytime I am spotted outside of the music room is a cause for wonder. They gasp to see me in the hallway and tell me about it later ("I saw you by the art room!").
(The disbelief they experience when they see me at the grocery store or in a restaurant is a post for another day.)
So there I am in the cafeteria--not in the music room. One first grader clunks and swishes in heavy boots and puffy snowpants to wrap his arms around my waist. First and second graders don't hesitate. You cannot have boundary issues with these children. You are their music teacher. You teach them music. Therefore, your waist is meant expressly for their arms to wrap around. There's no asking: you will be hugged.
One child sensed a hugfest beginning and here comes a second. And a third. I dropped my tote bag. One after another, "Mrs. Stewart!" (interpretation: "She's out of the music room! We must hug her!")
"Quick hugs," I said, smiling, "I'm on my way to another school."
This does not register with my students. Another school? How can that be? I'm their music teacher. So the words bounced around the noisy cafeteria but never landed in their precious little ears.
I hugged every comer. Then I gathered my tote bag and smiled all the way out to the car. Today promises another, "best job in the world moment", as well as some less than that I'm sure...but I cling to those hugs. And thank God for every chubby arm that wrapped around me yesterday.
Yesterday it was during lunch, while I prepared to travel from school to school. On my way out of my "home school", I stopped in the cafeteria to buy a bag of pretzels. As usual, my thick Michigan coat and heavy tote bag full of lesson plans and CDs weighed me down.
No matter. One first grader spotted me--outside the music room. I think my youngest students believe I'm a fixture there, like the piano. I am the music teacher. I belong in the music room. Therefore, anytime I am spotted outside of the music room is a cause for wonder. They gasp to see me in the hallway and tell me about it later ("I saw you by the art room!").
(The disbelief they experience when they see me at the grocery store or in a restaurant is a post for another day.)
So there I am in the cafeteria--not in the music room. One first grader clunks and swishes in heavy boots and puffy snowpants to wrap his arms around my waist. First and second graders don't hesitate. You cannot have boundary issues with these children. You are their music teacher. You teach them music. Therefore, your waist is meant expressly for their arms to wrap around. There's no asking: you will be hugged.
One child sensed a hugfest beginning and here comes a second. And a third. I dropped my tote bag. One after another, "Mrs. Stewart!" (interpretation: "She's out of the music room! We must hug her!")
"Quick hugs," I said, smiling, "I'm on my way to another school."
This does not register with my students. Another school? How can that be? I'm their music teacher. So the words bounced around the noisy cafeteria but never landed in their precious little ears.
I hugged every comer. Then I gathered my tote bag and smiled all the way out to the car. Today promises another, "best job in the world moment", as well as some less than that I'm sure...but I cling to those hugs. And thank God for every chubby arm that wrapped around me yesterday.
Monday, December 1, 2008
December
Today the landscape is a postcard. The evergreens and spindly branches hang with heavy, white snow. The hush and snow of December falls as if on cue this year, exactly on December first.
We're so eager to fill the hush. Jingle bells, Christmas carols, laughter and the bustle of the season: shopping and cooking, wrapping and party-going. Yet I wish to step into the middle of the quiet instead: to don boots and warm gear and exit my cozy home; to trudge through the inches of snow and turn my face to the stars, breathe the silver air, contemplate why snow has a sound--and the sound is 'hush'.
Perhaps the snow echoes the hush of two thousand years ago:
Mary on a donkey, heavy with pregnancy, perhaps even in the early pangs of labor. Imagine: a virgin, very young. Each rocky step jarred her as she rode on the back of a lowly beast of burden. Imagine the cries she uttered at the pain of that ride. Imagine the cries she held back. "Hush," she told herself. "Hush."
Joseph in the inn. Could they not see that his wife faced great need? That her time had come; that even in that moment she held back the cries of labor pains? Yet they declared "no room". Joseph, a man whose every protective instinct must have risen at the declaration. This was his wife, his wife of high honor. They gave rooms to those in far less need. "Hush," he told himself when is anger rose and he longed, just for a second, to pound his fist on the innkeeper's desk, a man protecting his God-ordained wife. "Hush."
Mary giving birth in a stall, holding back the cries of a virgin birth. "Hush." Joseph trying to help, praying frantically, hoping he could ease his beloved's pain. Wanting to take that pain from her, put it on himself. Holding back the frustration of a husband unable to do so. "Hush."
A Baby's cry. The mother sings a lullaby, her pain dispelled, her mission completed--and begun. "Hush." The animals low. Joseph looks on, amazed and humbled. He married a pregnant virgin. He delivered her child among the animals. He bids them quiet, so God's Son and his wife can rest. "Hush."
The shepherds tremble. "Hush," the angel implores. "Listen."
The kings enter, and fall down. "Hush."
We've made Christmas into a noisy, unfettered celebration. Oh, let's celebrate indeed! God sent His only begotten Son--there is no better news than this!
But in the hustle and bustle, I wish you also the quiet of December. I wish for you a moment so profound in this season that your soul bids you hush, to take it in.
Happy December. Ring the bells and sing the songs. When the hush bids you still, listen--and wonder at the Miracle of God.
We're so eager to fill the hush. Jingle bells, Christmas carols, laughter and the bustle of the season: shopping and cooking, wrapping and party-going. Yet I wish to step into the middle of the quiet instead: to don boots and warm gear and exit my cozy home; to trudge through the inches of snow and turn my face to the stars, breathe the silver air, contemplate why snow has a sound--and the sound is 'hush'.
Perhaps the snow echoes the hush of two thousand years ago:
Mary on a donkey, heavy with pregnancy, perhaps even in the early pangs of labor. Imagine: a virgin, very young. Each rocky step jarred her as she rode on the back of a lowly beast of burden. Imagine the cries she uttered at the pain of that ride. Imagine the cries she held back. "Hush," she told herself. "Hush."
Joseph in the inn. Could they not see that his wife faced great need? That her time had come; that even in that moment she held back the cries of labor pains? Yet they declared "no room". Joseph, a man whose every protective instinct must have risen at the declaration. This was his wife, his wife of high honor. They gave rooms to those in far less need. "Hush," he told himself when is anger rose and he longed, just for a second, to pound his fist on the innkeeper's desk, a man protecting his God-ordained wife. "Hush."
Mary giving birth in a stall, holding back the cries of a virgin birth. "Hush." Joseph trying to help, praying frantically, hoping he could ease his beloved's pain. Wanting to take that pain from her, put it on himself. Holding back the frustration of a husband unable to do so. "Hush."
A Baby's cry. The mother sings a lullaby, her pain dispelled, her mission completed--and begun. "Hush." The animals low. Joseph looks on, amazed and humbled. He married a pregnant virgin. He delivered her child among the animals. He bids them quiet, so God's Son and his wife can rest. "Hush."
The shepherds tremble. "Hush," the angel implores. "Listen."
The kings enter, and fall down. "Hush."
We've made Christmas into a noisy, unfettered celebration. Oh, let's celebrate indeed! God sent His only begotten Son--there is no better news than this!
But in the hustle and bustle, I wish you also the quiet of December. I wish for you a moment so profound in this season that your soul bids you hush, to take it in.
Happy December. Ring the bells and sing the songs. When the hush bids you still, listen--and wonder at the Miracle of God.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)