Writing as a Calling, Offering, or Encouragement: Finding your niche in 2013

Writing can be a calling, an offering, or an encouragement,
but if there is no joy in it you may find yourself wondering what the point is.

I read a blog post recently by Book Agent Terry Burns titled “Is writing a calling, an offering, or something else?” In it, Terry posited that a calling is a specific project that is confirmed to the writer in more ways than one. An offering is a gift, something the writer wants to do out of a labor of love but not one that has necessarily been placed before her as a specific task to complete.

Then there’s the third category — one that’s equally important, but perhaps not as specific as a Calling or Offering. Terry referred to this sort of project as an Encouragement.

In this case, Terry writes, “It is possible for God to make it clear that He wants us to use our writing skills for Him, but does not give us a specific book to write. He leaves that up to us.”

This can be incredibly freeing for a writer, or it can make writing even more challenging. It all depends on how we choose to look at it. For many of us, we can’t imagine a life in which we didn’t write, but there are many days we sit in front of the computer and wonder just what words we should commit to the page. It’s not uncommon to question at some point if being a writer is even what we’re supposed to be doing with our lives.

“Where do I fit in?”

This is a question I found myself asking multiple times during the past year. I always pictured myself as a middle grade writer. The fantasy I’ve poured so much time and love into remains an incredible passion of mine but it has yet to catch the heart of the publishing industry despite an editor showing some interest in it last spring. I keep telling myself I’m going to let it go, but I just can’t bring myself to do that yet.

For years I thought that book was my calling, my purpose for being a writer. What if perhaps it was an offering instead? One that taught me invaluable lessons and has done much to hone my skills as a writer.

And then there is The Writer’s Wellspring, which I created to learn how to blog and at the same time to encourage my fellow writers. I’ll admit I’ve often wondered if I’ve utilized it in the manner I’m supposed to. There have been so many times I’ve lost track of my original goal and have gone off in different tangents. During the month of December I strongly debated discontinuing posting here, but have since decided otherwise. I just started another blog called Jots and Thoughts, which I can use for more personal topics, thus allowing this blog to be what it was intended to be, a place for writers to find fresh inspiration.

What will your writing look like in 2013?

The lesson I took away from Terry’s article is that it’s okay to write for the sake of writing. Not everything is meant to inspire millions of readers around the globe. Sometimes it’s enough just to encourage a single soul. Even if that soul is your own.

Writing is a gift. Whether you’re following a calling this year, presenting an offering, or simply just releasing your thoughts into the void, writing should also be a joy. It’s too hard a craft to continue on with if it isn’t.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, but what does that mean to us?

We’ve survived the biggest sales day of the year. We’ve shared viral videos of the mayhem and brawls in stores over this year’s “Must Have” items. Homes are lighting up with festive decorations and food flows both ways through the door as we gather together to celebrate the season.

It’s both one of the best times of the year and one of the worst.

We hold the end of the year up as a time to gather together and give thanks, to focus on thoughts of peace on earth and goodwill towards mankind, but sometimes it seems we’ve forgotten what compassion looks like. And so much is lost as a result.

As I walk through the streets of my town, I’m more and more aware of just how much I’m surrounded by eyes filled with hurt, with a longing for recognition and a simple word of kindness. And I’m not just speaking of the homeless. It’s in our nature to crave a gesture from someone that affirms we have value, that we’re important no matter where our lives have taken us.

The need to know our worth seems especially great this time of year.

Christmas is a season to focus on the needs of others. It’s a time to reach outside of our comfort zone and into the lives of complete strangers. It’s a moment in time that allows us to experience deep joy and a sense of fulfillment that only comes when we freely give of ourselves to others — with no expectation of any reward in return. 

The holiday season offers us a moment to say, “Your life has a purpose and it is valuable.”

For me, that’s what the birth of Christ is all about: God coming to earth to affirm our value.

It doesn’t matter if he was born in winter, spring, summer, or fall. God, in need of nothing, ruler of all creation, willing chose to become one of us. He experienced cold, heat, love, joy, grief, sorrow, pain, rejection, and abandonment by those he counted most dear. He knew what it meant to be homeless and hungry. To be hated by some and selfishly used by others.

He experienced it all, not to satisfy his ego, but because he simply wanted to know and be known.

The Christmas Story isn’t just about a birth in a stable, a sky filled with singing angels, and the worship of shepherds and wisemen. Like all the best stories, it’s a story of sacrificial love — the most powerful “magic” ever known to humanity. It’s the only kind of love that can battle through the darkest, coldest night imaginable against the strongest, vilest villain anyone could think to conjure up and emerge victorious in the light of the morning sun.

It’s that type of love story I want to write. Not on paper, but in life. And not just in this season, but in every season beyond.

Eureka! Finding fullness in a moment of emptiness

History tells a tale of how the Greek scholar Archimedes was stymied by the problem of determining if a goldsmith had cheated the king with a crown made supposedly with only the gold the monarch had provided. Like many of us, he took his quandary with him into the bath and our understanding of volume and density changed forever that day.

I had a similar moment a couple of weeks ago. Although the situation did involve water, it didn’t take place in the bathtub. And I didn’t run through the streets naked, yelling at the top of my lungs afterwards.

The Tale of the Water Pitcher

©2011 gjphotography via Bigstock Photo

I’ve always liked checklists for the simple reason that I love crossing things off. It allows me to look back and see all I’ve accomplished in a day. At the lodge, I cross off the same items every day. One of those items is filling water goblets and placing them out for the morning guests. I’ve determined that for every ten glasses I fill maybe one is emptied. The rest go untouched. Why drink water when you have coffee, tea, and juice available?

Because of this, I end up dumping out and washing dozens of cups that have only my fingerprints on them.

On this particular day I had over thirty guests coming to breakfast and the pitcher I had been given to use on my first day filled four glasses at most. Having sprained my knee recently I was acutely aware of how much walking I was doing refilling water pitchers every morning.

That’s when I remembered seeing a large stainless steel pitcher hidden on the back of one of the shelves in the kitchen.

Based on its size I guessed I could fill all of my cups with only two trips back to the sink and I marveled at my brilliance. Little did I know I was about to have an object lesson play out before me that has stuck with me ever since.

I loaded my tray with the first ten water goblets, filled them with ice, and then added the water. A glance in my pitcher showed that I could easily fill another five to ten more, so I set out the glasses, came back to my station and started again. After filling the next set, I looked in the pitcher again expecting it would be time to refill it.

There was still a quarter of a pitcher of water left.

I was stunned and as I set out my second load I wondered how many more glasses I was going to get out of that one pitcher.

One. Two. Three…Seven…Eight…Nine….

Each time I poured I looked inside to check the water level and could not believe there was still something inside. And with each filled glass I became more and more excited.

It’s in our lowest moments that our biggest blessings are usually found.

I was reminded of the widow who had only a handful of flour and a little oil when Elijah approached her and asked for some bread, and how that handful of food was replenished every day until the end of the famine (1 Kings 17).

I recalled another impoverished widow whose sons were about to be taken from her to cover her debts. Elisha told her to gather as many pots as she could find then fill them with what oil she had in her one little jar. The oil didn’t run out until she had filled every single jar, and so her family was saved (2 Kings 4).

And then I remembered a little boy in a crowd of five thousand who stepped forward to share his two meager fish and five tiny barley loaves, and whose gift resulted in enough leftovers to fill twelve baskets (Matthew 14).

That’s when it hit me—I was the pitcher.

I’d been feeling so drained that I wondered how on earth I could be of any encouragement to others and yet, when I considered the last year, I realized I had never witnessed so many moments of fullness coming out of the supposed emptiness in my life.

And that right there was the catch.

Pitchers don’t fill themselves. They are filled by a main source so that they in turn can fill other vessels.

The same is true of my life. I will never find fulfillment in myself. I have to tap into the Life Source. It’s from that connection abundance flows out of my life and into others (John 4:14).

Like the individuals above, it took a moment of near emptiness to realize just how incredibly blessed my life really is. I don’t have to sit waiting for the right opportunity to come around to make a difference in my world. I can be that difference now.

I’ve come to the conclusion that if what I write or do each day affects only one life, the effort is more than worth it. Just as a pitcher can’t fulfill its purpose by sitting on a shelf, neither can I. And like the pitcher, I don’t have to be overflowing to fill a single glass. 

A little bit goes a long way.

By the time I’d set out all the water goblets I had enough left over to fill three more, and still there were a few drops left at the bottom of that pitcher. I had all I needed for the day, plus some!

So there you have it. My Eureka moment won’t go down in history for changing the world of mathematics, and it may never solve any global problems, but it did improve my perspective.

P.S. To this day, I’ve never been able to fill as many water goblets as I did that morning. But that doesn’t mean I’ve quit trying!

How a stranger's life changed my perspective on writing

I’ve spent the last few weeks caring for a gentleman transitioning from this life to the next. He was a man who up until June 27th I had never met. He quickly became someone I will never forget.

Due to the nature of Don's care I didn’t have much time to do anything but scribble out a few thoughts in runes (which resulted in some good-natured teasing when his grandsons caught me at it), but I was afforded quite a bit of time to think.

           

The life I saw before me this past month was the culmination of more stories than could fit into a library of books. Stories of triumph. Stories of loss. Stories of friendship. Stories of a nature that was beyond generous. Stories of a man who was by no means perfect but who always seemed to consider the needs of others…including complete strangers.

I find it fitting that during the church service I attended this past weekend the pastor spoke on Hebrews 13:2 which reads “Don’t forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.”

The Greek word used in this case was Philoxenos or “Love of the strange,”  so another translation could easily read: “Don’t forget to care for the needs of those who are unknown to you, those who exist outside of your comfort zone…” It's a statement that seemed to describe Don perfectly. It also cemented a thought that I'd been mulling over for some time now:

What am I regularly doing to show love and compassion to those outside of my inner circle of comfort?

I can't speak for everyone, but many writers are very schedule oriented. We tend to worry about deadlines. We get frustrated when our writing time is interrupted by "just this one little thing." There are just days when people become irritants instead of living, breathing individuals with wants and needs very similar to our own.

One of the reasons we write is because we want to add something of value to a life of a complete stranger, so we spend hours pouring through books, reading blogs, attending workshops, and working our craft in order to do just that. While that is in fact a noble ideal to aspire to, I think there is a point in which our quest results in us isolating ourselves from what's really important. When that happens we have a major problem on our hands.

It's time to re-evaluate our purpose as writers.

My favorite quote by Henry James Thoreau is "How vain it is to sit down and write when we have not stood up to live." Don's life was full because he lived his life in the world. He worked incredibly hard and he dedicated himself fully to every task he embarked on, but he managed to find that rare balance between finishing each job he started to the best of his ability and making each person he came into contact feel loved, appreciated, and important. 

Don's life was blessed because of his care for others, as were the lives of the countless individuals who streamed through his back door or called to wish him well during the last two weeks of his life. As I kept my vigil through his last night on this earth I found myself wondering if the same would be said of me someday.

So my question to us as writers this week is this: How can being more active in our relationships with loved ones (and strangers for that matter) improve our writing lives? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

A Declaration of Conviction

“…Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.” –The Declaration of Independence

When thinking of the document that marked the beginning of our nation, our minds often bring to the forefront the Continental Congress’ declaration of certain inalienable rights: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. We forget about the weight of responsibility, the careful consideration of intent, and even the evidence of men wrestling with an impossible choice that colors each and every word on the page.

The Echoes of Conviction

As I read through the Declaration of Independence in its entirety again this morning I was struck by the power of a conviction so strong it is still palpable after more than 200 years. These men had come to a difficult decision, they made their case before God and men, and although they were ready and willing to do what they saw they must, you can feel the ache of sadness and the overwhelming desire that the situation did not warrant the course of action they were about to embark upon.

I can’t see the Founding Father’s faces. I will never be able to interview them on their thoughts as they drafted, penned, and signed such an explosive document. And I don’t need to. Everything I need to know is already on this page.

Which left me wondering: Should any of my writing survive centuries into the future would my words capture the depth of my convictions, or would they simply be letters on a page?

The Quandary of the Writer

It’s probably safe to say at some point every writer has thrown hands to air and moaned, “Why would anyone ever want to hear what I have to say?”

Whether it’s after a particularly difficult day of writing in which the internal editor vetoes every sentence or it’s the result of receiving another “pass” on a project, there will just be those days when we wonder why we even bother.

A dear friend of mine faced one such moment during a difficult critique session. Afterwards one of the members of the group stated that she would never purchase a book dealing with the written subject. What made it even harder to hear was that the critiqued piece dealt with something the writer had difficulty facing herself in the first place.

Questioning our purpose isn’t limited to just writers. The Old Testament prophet Jeremiah is dubbed the weeping prophet for a reason. There was little that happened during his lifetime to rejoice over. He spoke the words he was called to speak and was ignored, rebuked, and rejected by his people. In a fit of despair he even accused the Lord of trapping him in an impossible position.

He lamented, “…if I say, “I will not mention his word or speak anymore in his name,” his word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in, indeed, I cannot. (Jer. 20:9 NIV)

As writers we all face moments in which we have to answer for ourselves if our calling is worth the heartache and pain.

It’s one thing to write for entertainment; however, the words that ultimately hold the most lasting value are those which hold up a mirror and cause us to look at uncomfortable things about ourselves and the world in which we live.

Words that reveal a truth we may not wish to see.

As a result, there will always be someone who, intentionally or not, will cut you down. There will always be moments we look at our work in progress and say “I cannot write about this. It’s too hard.” 

This is especially true when writing about something that’s controversial or sensitive in nature.

In speaking with my friend we both learned that sometimes the question we ought to be asking is not “Who would want to hear what I have to say?” but rather, “Am I willing to listen to what is being spoken to me?”

Sometimes the very thing we write is meant for our personal growth and healing. When that process ends up helping someone else it’s just an added bonus.

In the end it may not matter if what we write goes on to be published to raving acclaim. Sometimes all that matters is that we finish what we start. And finish it well.

30 Days of Thankfulness in Writing – Day 1: Professors

During the past few years I’ve seen several of my friends embark on a 30-day Thankfulness challenge for the month of November. The idea is to post on their Facebook page one item each day for which they are thankful. I was so intrigued by this that I decided that this year I would attempt to update my blog every day with something or someone that has been a blessing in my writing life. I’d love to have you join me by visiting each day and perhaps posting something for which you are thankful for in the comments section below.

Today I am thankful for four college professors I had who saw a talent in me they decided to foster by pushing me harder than I at times thought fair.

I am thankful for Rick Thompson who saw in a ridiculous and very short story an ability to engage the imagination and create a world he thought children would love to explore. It is because of him I first started dreaming of becoming a real writer.

I am thankful for Luis Perotti, a World Lit professor who realized I just needed someone to sit down and explain a few simple mechanics in order to really excel in writing, and who opened a whole new world for me as a result. I only had one class with him, but he always stopped me in the hall when he saw me to catch up with me and see how my education (and writing) were progressing.

I am thankful for Mada Morgan who introduced me to the joys of writer’s manuals and gifted me with my first Moleskine notebook upon graduation. She also taught me the fundamentals of rhetoric and editing, and worked alongside some fellow students and me as an advisor while we created a departmental e-zine and two annual writing competitions for English & Writing majors.

And I am thankful for Craig Wright who never allowed his students to use five words where one would suffice. Who taught me the difference between having a well-rounded vocabulary and flipping through a thesaurus. I am thankful for all the times he forced me to cut a story in half, then in half, and then in half again until I finally discovered that in order to write one must first have a story to tell.

I am thankful for these four individuals because they are the beginning of my story. It is through their efforts, their patience, and their guidance that my eyes were opened to see the first archway in my three-act play, and it is because of their encouragement that I had the faith to step through it.

Finding purpose as a Writer

My heart is stirred by a noble theme as I recite my verses to the King; my tongue is the pen of a skillful writer. (Ps 45:1)

One of my first writing mentors told me every writer should have a mission, a purpose for writing other than for self-enjoyment. He encouraged me to create a mission statement, and he also directed my attention to the above verse saying it would be a good motto for me. “What is my purpose in writing?” is something I ask myself every time I sit down. I might have various ideas, but the underlying principle is always the same: to build up and encourage others.

I was three when I first dedicated my life to Christ, but it wasn’t until the end of high school that I really had any idea what that might mean. All I really knew was that from the time I was small I wanted God to use me to bless the lives of others. At first I thought that might be through medicine and missions and I threw myself into that field whole-heartedly. Over time I came to realize I was really more interested in caring for the emotional and spiritual well being of others. I could splint and bandage and try to make people more comfortable all day, but my greatest joy came through building relationships and encouraging others.

When I finally decided to pursue writing as a profession I realized that being a writer was so much more than being someone who scribbles words on a page. It is an identity. And I wanted nothing more than for that identity to be centered in Christ. As the years have progressed I’ve noticed something about my writing: everything I do has God’s fingerprints on it. My words echo his love, reflect his creativity, and in some way retell the story he spoke into existence on the day of creation. What nobler theme could the heart be stirred by?

Not everything I write will be for the “Christian” market. In fact, that’s a term I’m not overly fond of personally because it sounds so isolationist. If we have an important story to tell, shouldn’t it be for everyone to hear? That is my mission, to write in such a way that it blesses the lives of others and somehow points them back to my King, no matter where they are in life. And better yet, I never have to get in their face to do so.

What is your purpose? What is your theme? If you haven’t found it yet I’d like to encourage you to take a break from your writing and do a little soul searching. Once you’ve found it you may discover that it adds an entirely new perspective and joy to who you are as a writer.

The Professor and the Equation

Image Courtesy of ThinkGeek.com

I had to take a calculus class my sophomore year of college. At the time I was a pre-med major with aspirations of living in a mud hut while saving children’s lives; a noble goal but ultimately not the correct life path for me. Math has never been my strong suit. In school, I could never get past letters being mixed with numbers in algebraic equations. In my mind, X is a letter, not a space holder, and A + B – C holds no numerical value so how can it equal 15?

So there I was, two-thirds of the country away from home, going to class every day trying to bail my sinking grade out with a thimble of understanding when one day the professor didn’t show. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Fifteen. At this point about half of the class got up and walked out, thrilled with the prospect of a free afternoon. The only ones who stayed were the brainiacs…and me. Twenty minutes. A few more students who didn’t need to worry about passing with anything less than a 95 slipped out the door, but instead of whooping about playing Frisbee golf, they were planning on filing a report. It was at that point I slipped my own two-hundred-dollar textbook into my thirty-dollar backpack. I no sooner zipped it closed and stood with the remaining four or five students when who should coming running through the door short of breath, loose-tied, disheveled-haired, and red-faced but the professor.

The door slammed closed behind him as he stretched his arms to block our panicked escape. “Nobody move! I’m so sorry I’m late. I got so wrapped up in this equation I’ve been working on I completely lost track of time! I’m giving you all an A for the day for waiting. Now let’s make the most of these last twenty minutes.”

Apart from being relieved about getting a few badly needed extra points, it baffled me how someone could be so engrossed in a math problem he could forget about his class. And then this week came along. Tuesday came and went without me updating my blog, then Wednesday…it’s now Thursday and I realized I’ve been so wrapped up in a new project of my own I’d completely forgotten about you!

I’ve come to realize over the course of the past eight years, it doesn’t matter if its writing, playing music, saving lives, or even solving complex math equations — if you’re truly passionate about something, you’re going to lose all track of time at some point. I loved working as a volunteer in the Emergency Room. I enjoyed helping others and shadowing the doctors as they listened to the patient and tried to determine exactly what was wrong and how to best treat the illness or injury. But looking back, I was never as passionate about medicine as I have become about writing. I have never felt more at home with myself as I do with a pen in my hand and words on a page. And with one other exception, it’s rare that I’ve felt as passionate about a specific project as I do about the one I’m working on right now. A project I hope to share with you very soon.

What are you passionate about when it comes to writing? Do you thrill at the thought of creating a brand new world? Do you forget about the roast in the oven while carefully crafting a devotional article? Or do you tend to seek the truth through non-fiction? Whatever it is, I hope that like my professor, you throw yourself so fully into your writing that everything else is forgotten for a few extra minutes today. And then again tomorrow.

Oh, and by the way, my professor managed to solve that equation by the end of the semester and I walked out of that class with the only C I’ve ever been proud of despite bombing the final, and largely due to the kindness of a man who saw me diligently struggling through the concepts and continually asking for help from him and a couple of other classmates.

Disturb us, Lord...

God can testify how I long for all of you with the affection of Christ Jesus. Phil 1:8

While walking this morning, my brother and I spoke about goals. Specifically about where he is currently in life versus where he’d hoped to be at this point. The subject came up because of something his pastor talked about during Wednesday night’s Bible study.

His pastor shared that each morning he asks God to guide his steps for the day because his plan may not always be what God had in mind. For example he used the Apostle Paul. Paul was active. He wanted to be in the trenches working alongside the young churches, but between shipwrecks, imprisonment, and various other roadblocks, that wasn’t always possible. So instead he wrote letters. Not a single one of those early churches remain, but his letters have served as a beacon of light and a tool of instruction for countless generations.

Paul had a vision. God’s was even bigger.

Our conversation reminded me of a poem attributed to Sir Francis Drake:

Disturb us, Lord, when


We are too well pleased with ourselves,

When our dreams have come true

Because we have dreamed too little,

When we arrived safely

Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, when

With the abundance of things we possess

We have lost our thirst

For the waters of life;

Having fallen in love with life,

We have ceased to dream of eternity

And in our efforts to build a new earth,

We have allowed our vision

Of the new Heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,

To venture on wider seas

Where storms will show your mastery;

 Where losing sight of land,

 We shall find the stars.

We ask You to push back

The horizons of our hopes;


And to push into the future

In strength, courage, hope, and love.

To that I would add:

Disturb us, Lord, when

We feel that the work You’ve call us to serves little purpose,

When we content ourselves with mediocrity

Rather than boldly seeking

The path You’ve set before us,

Fully realizing the gifts You have bestowed upon us,

And instead blindly attempt to find our way alone.