(First posted December 2013. I wanted to revisit a Christmas post from a few years back that is just as pertinent today.)
At Christmas, it’s easy to get caught up in all the celebration and miss the real meaning. Our lives are so busy and sometimes, when life is rough, it hits hardest at Christmas. Our non-Christian friends will look at us not understanding why we say they should have hope when their world gets rocked. Sometimes it seems that Christians get a reputation of being people who blindly follow without closely examining their faith.
“Your church is great when everything is going well, but what about in my life? When things get off track? It just won’t fit.”
How do you find God at the children’s cancer ward, the mortuary, Christmas morning after a bitter divorce, or a night at the bar? After calling nine one one, or an ambush in (fill in the city).
Praising God is easy(?) in church on Sunday morning, but does He really exist in our world, now?
To me, in any circumstances, I have to praise Him, proclaim him. I’ve met Him.
I can’t say He doesn’t exist. I’ve met Him.
I can’t say He’s not relevant today. I’ve met Him.
I can’t say He doesn’t care. I’ve met Him.
And He’s given us all a message that he’s here with us, in any situation. Even in a manger. Emmanuel doesn’t just speak about His physical presence, but also His emotional presence. He does care.
That’s what Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem “I Heard the Bells” was all about. He was one of America’s most beloved poets, but his life had been rocked the year he wrote this. His wife had died and the Civil War had just broken out.
Where does anyone go to look for hope at a time like that?
In two of the strangest, most illogical places. A manger and a cross.
Jesus is still here with us. Just sometimes it’s hard to see Him through the dust, smoke, and tears.
The life of a writer is demanding and forces you to be a little different. Vonda Skelton, at the Asheville Christian Writers’ Conference, said that all writers are a little weird. That ‘s why we need to get together occasionally. No one else can understand us.
This has me thinking about some things that I’m facing as a writer.
First, the life of a writer is, like a lot of things, a dichotomy. Much of being a writer is private. You are alone in front of your keyboard and screen, or with a pen and paper. Oftentimes at the cost of being away from your family and friends. You have to carve out time and guard it closely so that you will have enough alone time to write.
But writing it also makes you very open and public. Usually you write so that others can read it. Sometimes very private thoughts or feelings that other people are smart enough to keep to themselves. You write it and share it publicly, with your name attached.
And because it is private and from your soul, you are attached to it so that any time you share it, it is with trembling hearts and sensitive feelings. If they don’t like it or accept it with thunderous applause and hallelujahs, then they don’t like you and you are garbage or the stuff you step in when you’re wearing your good shoes.
Second, a lot of writing happens between the ears. The writing process to me is fascinating. You have to come up with something to write. You think, staring at a blank wall or into space. Your friends and family pointing at you, whispering, and shaking their heads. I do a lot of this looking at the back ends of my dogs as I take them for their walks and hope that no one is looking when I walk into a tree or bush because I am into
So you spend days and weeks writing furiously. And your spouse looks at the blank page and asks, when are you going to start? And you look back like they should see what hard work you are doing, staring at the ceiling.
Third, why is it that my thoughts and what I write, aren’t always the same? Once you get it in your brain, you try to put it on paper. Which becomes a real struggle because the partial thoughts now have to be clarified and put totally into words, because your reader can’t get inside your brain. Heavens no.
So you struggle to find just the right words to truly say your thoughts, and once you come close and are happy you got it just right, you read it out loud, or courageously let someone else read it. And you realize you either left out words and ideas, or that wasn’t the story you had in mind, or you misquoted yourself. But it was so clear before. Maybe.
Fourth, the real work begins after the first draft. You rework it, edit it, reword it, and rearrange it. You crumble it up and throw it away, before digging it out of the trash and restarting the next morning. And you try to quit thinking about how the calendar keeps shedding pages as you work on this thing that you adore as an only child, that becomes something the world may want to see, then a burden that must be completed, then stinky garbage, then a holy and sacred mission, then an orphan that no one else cares about but you will not quit on it, to an American classic that needs to be in every school, all in one
Finally, the goal of the writer. And then finally you complete it. You are a novelist. You write those two marvelous words, The End. You try it in different fonts. It’s like you’ve lost weight. You stand a little taller. You’d swear that other people thought you had become smarter.
And now you take your baby out of its papoose and sterile nursery and try to find a publisher. And they all agree, it’s garbage. Or at least that is what you hear. But they’re really saying they aren’t looking for this now, or they will publish it when you pay them $5000, or they don’t do this genre, or they are a pub, not a publisher.
But then you find a publisher who agrees it isn’t garbage, in fact it is exactly what they’re looking for and they want to buy it. With real American money, or at least a good check. And they like you. You have a pal. You become friends on Facebook. You call your mom. You reward yourself. You throw a party with the advance that should be coming.
Then they suggest maybe your story will sell better with just a few minor changes. Have you thought about making your hundred thousand word historical novel into a graphic novel? Or a western with a werewolf atmosphere set in New York? And can the heroine’s service dog become a cat?
Or a sea turtle? They may be hot next year.
And, by the way, they ask, what are you working on now?
I would love to read your comments below. And thanks for reading.