The Secret to Writing

I've always known I wanted to be a writer.

I loved reading, I loved creating "Karen's Kronicle" for Mrs. Friesen's sixth-grade class. I saw the power of journalism when my article in the 7th grade newspaper about our ancient multi-use track and basketball uniforms (we had the same uniforms for both sports) resulted in new track-only uniforms (with no numbers, yea!).

Much to my chagrin, Hillsboro High School discontinued its newspaper, The Oracle, right before my freshman year. I signed up for yearbook instead.

At Tabor College, I joined The View staff right away, and spent three years as managing editor and editor.

As an English major, I wrote countless papers. On several Friday nights I remember lugging books up the concrete stairs of the administration building to the deserted second-floor computer room. Deserted, that is, except for Melodie Hofer, head editor and English education major. We commiserated as we knocked out our assignments or wrote the next week's editorial or column.

But once I graduated, I didn't find a way to be gainfully employed while writing. I took a job to help pay the bills and enrolled in a few journalism classes from Les Anderson at WSU.

In my spare time, I wrote and edited Youth Horizons' newsletter for about five years. When I was a stay-at-home mom, I put together a newsletter for our church, River Community, a gig that lasted for at least a dozen years.

But at different points along the way, I would try to get more serious with my writing.
When my youngest started kindergarten, I visited my former Tabor professor, Katie Funk Wiebe, for bi-weekly mentoring sessions in her apartment 3D. I always thought that was the coolest apartment number ever, and would play with essay titles in my head, like "Mentoring in 3D."
I remember Katie asked me when I wrote, and I said I was planning to write in the mornings after my run. The answer satisfied her.

Putting that into practice was another matter, however.
I had always thought I was disciplined, but without deadlines imposed by a professor or someone on the church staff, I was adrift. Working up a freelance article for a magazine that might or might not want to publish it somehow slipped down the "to do" list after grocery shopping, laundry, and driving for field trips.

Blogging came along, and I started this one so I would have a creative outlet. I could write every day!

Or, at least, once a week.

Time between blogs stretched to a month, then several.

My book club read "Surprised by Motherhood" by Lisa-Jo Baker. I think much of the book grew from her own blog, which she wrote after putting her small children to bed. From what I remember she was working full time and had a two-hour commute--each way. "Well, good for you, Lisa-Jo Baker," I thought.

A few years later at my suggestion my book club read "Notes from a Blue Bike" by Tsh Oxenreider. I remember Tsh described how she purposely would go to bed early, soon after her kids, so she would be able to get up and write on her blog for several hours before her kids woke up. Nearly everyone in my book club disliked this book. I didn't like it very much either, mainly because I figured out Tsh started her blog only a year or so before I did, and she was supporting her family with it. How in the world?

A few months ago I was reading several of Delia Ephron's books (she and her sister, Nora, wrote the screenplay for "Sleepless in Seattle" and several other films). In her book of essays, "Sister Mother Husband Dog" she says her shrink taught her how to write. He told her to sit at her desk from 10 a.m. to noon, then do it again from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. Apparently that worked.

My book club recently read "Bel Canto" by Ann Patchett, so I was especially interested when I heard an interview with her on NPR. Ann was mainly promoting her newest and most autobiographical novel, "Commonwealth." but she also answered some questions from listeners. One asked about writing, and she mentioned that she put all of her writing advice in an essay "The Getaway Car," which is found in her book of essays, "This is the Story of a Happy Marriage." I checked it out. She said when people who want to write talk to her, she tells them to write for an hour every day for a month, and then get back to her. Few people do.

She also had a lot of things to say about writer's block (doesn't believe it exists), and how she has these beautiful, ephemeral ideas for a novel that float around like butterflies, then she pins them down and kills them.

Strangely, I am encouraged. Perhaps because over the years and across a range of writers I am seeing a pattern emerge in their advice.

In fact, it's the same advice Nike has been advocating for decades.

Just do it.

A Father's Love

This morning when I was going through my email, intending to read over the Sunday School lesson I would need to present to my 2nd grade class, I got sidetracked by a post from Gospel for Asia. It was about Ruth, who was rejected by her father because she was his fourth daughter and he had wanted a son. In the interview, she says she was a "beggar for love."

But she met some missionaries and eventually was introduced to the one true God who loved her. The women missionaries mentored her and encouraged her to go to Bible college. Before she left, she went to her father to ask for his blessing. When she bowed to touch his feet, a cultural sign of respect, he kicked her in the face.

Several years later, after she graduated, her pastor asked her to return and work in her home church. She declined, saying that her dad was not kind to her. The pastor said her dad had changed. He now believed in Jesus.

When she got off the bus, her dad was there to meet her. He greeted her--for the first time ever--with a warm embrace. "I feel like Heaven has come down," Ruth says.

I was in a puddle of tears by this point. You can hear the story for yourself on my link from earlier today.

But as moving as her story is, I think, "How lucky am I?"

I haven't gone for a day without knowing that my father loves me. I haven't ever thought of questioning it. He's always provided for me. He's corrected me when I needed it (we had a dreaded spanking stick with a hole at the end, so it could hang on a nail, always at the ready).

He went with me to the Pioneer Girls father-daughter basket dinners (note to self, see about having something like that with our church youth group), he read us the Christmas story every year before we opened our presents, even though it was late on Christmas Eve. He sat with Mom when she read my sister and me Bible stories at bedtime, and prayed with us every night until we were well in to elementary school. He read devotions every morning when we were eating breakfast.

He didn't make it to most of my basketball games or track meets, but he didn't miss many choir or band concerts. And when he couldn't attend, I never doubted that he didn't love me. I knew he worked really hard and would have come if he had been able.

And after I'd gotten married, he heard Dobson or someone talk about how you should take your daughters on dates, and I think he felt bad that he'd missed an opportunity. And going on dates with him would have been nice, but I still knew I was loved.

But I think in part to make up for lost time, he and Mom have made a great effort to attend my kids' events. They have been to countless wrestling meets, swim meets, football games, basketball games, band concerts (no choir concerts with my kids), and graduation parties. And they were there in 2009 when I finished my first marathon.

Because I always knew I was loved, it wasn't hard for me to see God as a loving Heavenly Father. So while the Gospel for Asia's story about Ruth is an amazing story of transformation, my story of lifelong love and acceptance is equally amazing.

I remember the moment before my dad led me into the sanctuary at my wedding. He was escorting me and we paused at the top of the stairs. He smiled at me, and while I was clutching his arm, with his other hand he patted my hand. I am so thankful that the very alert photographer captured this moment, because it encapsulates my relationship with my dad perfectly. I am blessed.