July 2010

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About a month ago, I made a promise to you all that I would be authentic. No false superhuman Christianity acting like I had it all together. Well, today’s the day–the day when I don’t have it all together and the inside of my heart resembles a nasty old garbage can rather than the cleansed vessel it is designed to be. And as a result, my worship and prayer time has been dead. Cold. Emotionless and forced. And although I’m tempted to hide out in the shadows until this ugly monster is sufficiently tamed, authenticity and transparency doesn’t work on an agenda.

Last night at church we talked about how much deeper we feel things involving our children. We may give up our place in line or a new pair of shoes, but it feels like our world’s ended when our child is asked to do the same. Just watch the face of any parent whose seen their child drop an ice cream cone. Or even worse, watch a daddy who’s being told about a school bully. All talk of forgiveness and turning the other cheek goes flying out the window.

So that’s where I am, only God is starting to break through. He has a funny way of doing that. Of gently, yet consistently reminding me that I am the adult–the one He has chosen to train this child entrusted to my care. Not just how to make her bed or how to follow a budget, but how to live life. Most specifically, how to live the Christian life. And living the Christian life means forgiving the unforgivable, biting our tongue when we want to lash out, and demonstrating the unconditional, no-strings-attached, love of Christ.

It’s funny how much time we spend training our kids on so many inconsequentials. We’ll make sure they can catch a ball by three, can ride their bike by six, and can slam dunk by fourteen. And we’d never dream of handing them a calculus book, saying,  “Call me once you’ve figured it out.” But somehow when it comes to relationships, we think they’ve got it down. Like at twelve, thirteen–even sixteen, they’ll suddenly know how to make wise decisions and communicate effectively. But then thirty-five roles around and they’re throwing the same childish fits and pulling the same manipulative pranks we saw at twelve. But then again, if they’ve never been trained, should we really expect any different?

So that’s what I did today–I trained. And it wasn’t easy. Even though everything in me wanted to feed the bear, I fought it back and sought out my daughter. I think she’s grown to hate those, “We need to talk”, conversation starters. Almost as much as I hate starting them. Encouraging her to take the high road even if she didn’t want to, even if her heart fought against it, was even harder than fighting back my own dragon. But when she was done making that phone call we both dreaded, we were able to talk about it, with peace, knowing that God would take care of the rest.

In Kristen Heitzmann’s latest novel, Indivisible, one of the characters provides an interesting analogy. He equates our warring emotions to two wolves. One wolf is that of bitterness, anger, and unforgiveness. The other wolf is love, grace, and forgiveness. And, according to Jay, (the character who made the statement) the wolf that wins is the one you feed. How true that is! So starting today, I’m going to actively work on starving the wolf of bitterness so that my other wolf–my loving, gracious and forgiving wolf–will grow stronger. No matter how loud the mean wolf’s tummy growls. And even more importantly, I’m going to purposefully train my daughter to do the same.

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I must have a very short, easily distractible attention span. Hand me a newspaper and I’ll have it read in ten minutes. Jennifer-read, that is. Which means I’ll skim the headlines, maybe glance at a few paragraph headings, check out the photos and captions, and call it good.  And then I let my imagination take care of the rest. Probably not the best idea, I know, especially when it comes to politics or world events, but it certainly is anything but boring. I’ve always been like that–quick to retreat into a world of my own making. Perhaps it is the childish side of me, or maybe I suffer from some kind of personality disorder. Regardless of the cause, I have found the images and scenarios created in my mind are much more entertaining than the real life version. And when I read a book, even more so. I don’t want to be given every detail of the forest as the heroine hikes through it. I want to be given just enough to allow me to relive the forest I hiked through as  a child, or the forest I’ve always dreamed of visiting. Basically, I want my imagination to be sparked, not dumped on.

I started reading a new book the other day and the first two pages were filled with details. Lots of details. Every character was described, even the ones I met in passing, and most of them were given very unusual traits. Seriously? Does every character have an eagle like nose or elf ears and some sort of unusual gait? Honestly, I started envisioning a side show and not the small town environment the author was trying to portray. And I did a lot of skimming. It’s pretty sad when you can skip large portions of a novel and still follow the story. Luckily the book got better as I continued, but honestly, if I hadn’t been reading it for a review site, I probably would have tossed the book aside after page two.

It is the same with characters. I’m not sure how other writers do it, but characters fill my imagination long before they make it to the page. Which can make it hard when I’m trying to find an image to portray them. (I like to have printed images of my characters, their houses, the areas they visit, on hand when I’m writing.) Nothing on istock photo or google images quite fits the visual painted in my mind, so usually I’ll have to print out multiple photos for one character with little notes to myself explaining which feature is being portrayed. I imagine my readers are similar. After reading a few details, and seeing my characters in action, their minds have already formed a visual. (And then three chapters in we pile on more details, shattering the image they’ve come to know for the past three chapters! Ouch!) So what’s the solution? Give just enough to trigger images, then leave the rest to the reader’s imagination.

Knowing our details should be used purposefully ought to motivate us to choose those that evoke strong, or telling, images. For example, if my heroine is hiking through the forest and I want to convey a sense of peace or solitude, I might focus on a gently flowing stream or a Blue Jay resting on a nearby branch. If, however, my heroine is frightened, or lost, I’ll focus on the shadows caused by thickly clustered trees and the thorny, intertwining blackberry bushes blocking the partially hidden trail.

The same goes for characterization. If my character is snootty and superficial, I may focus on her nail polish, jewelry, or hair style. You would be surprised how many other details your reader will fill in, especially if descriptive dialogue and emotion-invoking action is added. Show them a lady with long, painted nails and four-inch heels–ah, you’re already picturing her, aren’t you? Okay, what if I add that she has bleached blonde hair with black roots? A slightly different picture, perhaps? How about a woman with long, painted nails and her hair swept back in a french roll? Given those details, do you really need to hear about her pants, blouse, and purse or has your mind already filled in the rest?

And yet, at the same time, lack of details can sap the imagination just as quickly as an overabundance of them can. One afternoon I was reading someone’s work in progress about a man who had fallen on some ledge that led him to a secret passage. Very little detail was provided, and when it was, it was in such general terms, images weren’t evoked. I heard there were jewels and stairs–in much that way. “There were jewels and a long stair case cut from stone. A passage way led outside. He followed the passageway.” What did the jewels look like? And what kind of stone? Was the passageway dark? Were the walls also made from stone, or was this tunnel cut from crumbling dirt that felt gritty to the touch and left a film on your fingers? Was it even a tunnel or more like an arching exit/entry way? What if they had said, “To the left of the large, arching cavern, rubies and grape-sized topaz glistened in the pale light of his torch. A narrow stairwell, made from thick slabs of limestone, disappeared into the darkness, beckoning him to follow.”

Here’s two opposing examples.

TMI: (Although I’m tempted to tell you to consult the urban dictionary on this, I’ll explain it. Too much information) The sun trickled through the Western Hemlocks which stood like towering giants, their thick, heavily barked branches extending on either side like giant arms. The few rays that managed to penetrate through the trees warmed the otherwise shadowed forest floor, adding splashes of light much like a two year old would add splashes of color to a canvas. Thick clumps of brown pine needles hid most of the path from view. They crunched beneath Kaitlyn’s feet as she walked. Every once in a while patches of dirt, covered by brown, green or black moss, poked through, revealing what once had been a well-trodden trail. The branches, heavy with pine cones, bright green needles, and the occasional nest, were still in the mid-afternoon air. More pine cones littered the ground and lay in clumps around smooth, gray stones and partially rotting logs. Mushrooms and dried sap covered many of the logs, signaling decomposition. Kaitlyn paused to study one log in particular and watched as a colony of ants scurried across it. In the distance she could hear the soft bubbling of a stream, the kind that flowed gently over smooth stones and tugged at the moist, rich soil. Blackberry bushes wove their way around emerging seedlings and old-growth trees, their thick, thorny vines choking the very life out of the tender shoots, devouring them in a tangled mess of green. Plump berries glistened in the sun, filling the air with the scent of fresh baked pies. More lay clustered on the ground like giant blobs of spilled paint.

Now,

Using a little dab, interspersed with dialogue and action: The sun trickled through the Western Hemlocks, warming the otherwise shadowed forest floor. Kaitlyn paused to orient herself. Thick clumps of pine needles hid most of the path from view. In the distance she could hear the soft bubbling of a stream, the kind that flowed gently over smooth stones and tugged at the moist, rich soil. She licked her lips, already tasting the cool liquid on her parched tongue. Pausing to pluck a ripe blackberry from a nearby vine, she popped it in her mouth and closed her eyes as the sun-baked juices exploded across her tongue. Yes, taking a morning to herself had been a great idea. Perhaps if she had done so earlier, she and Devon would not have quarreled.

Notice also, the trees were named, hopefully evoking clearer images. (Example, instead of flower, say roses or lilacs. Instead of trees, say adlers, elms, or hemlocks.) And in the second paragraph, some details are provided through action, hopefully action that helps characterize as well.

Why don’t you try it? Use details to help the reader paint a picture, instead of painting the picture for them. I know you all like photographs, but I’m not going to provide one. I’d rather you provide one for me! Using your words. And remember, our visual image will be sparked by action, description, and dialogue. Use all three to spark (not overpower) the reader’s imagination.

First: An old man at the barber shop. That’s all I’m going to say.

Second: A teen girl at a county fair.

And as always, you can add your story as a comment, send it to me in the body of an email or send it to me on fb. I can’t wait to take an imagination vacation with you!

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Thanks Shannon, for highlighting one of my favorite marriage stories of all time–the Day My Husband Knocked Me off My Feet. Reading it again today brought back such sweet memories! Considering where my husband and I were twelve (or thirteen, not sure) years ago, the love and intimacy we share today is nothing short of miraculous.

I can’t wait to read your soon to be released, White Roses!

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Wednesday night, after sharing my prayer requests with my small group at church, one of the ladies giggled and said, “Ah, so you’re giving God your agenda.” I had to laugh because this article about making plans lightly in order to be more pliable to God’s leading was already in the rough draft stage. I laughed even harder the entire drive home as I thought of countless other times I’ve done the same thing.

I like to give God a to-do list. And sometimes (okay, so most times) I’ll even tell Him how I think things should be done, so focused on my ant-sized view I forget that God’s perspective is galaxies beyond mine. And yet, when I look back over my life–the six moves my husband and I have made in our fifteen years together, my daughter’s journey from homeschool to Christian school and soon to be public school, the various churches we’ve been a part of and experiences we’ve had along the way–I realize that none of it has gone according to plan. My plan, anyway. And yet, in hindsight, I wouldn’t change a moment. Even the times when things appeared so bleak I thought my heart would break.

Okay, so maybe I would change part of it. Not the circumstances, but my reactions. And my long-term agenda, because every time I allowed myself to get caught up in plans of where I’m going, I lost sight of God. And in those brief moments when my false expectations and human ambitions crowded out His voice, the emptiness and restlessness that ensued was worse than any trial I have faced. And yet, conversely, when I allow myself to rest in God’s hand, the peace has been amazing. Enough to keep me turning my eyes upward regardless of what is before me.

The Bible says, “In his heart a man plans his course, but the LORD determines his steps.” And all I have to say is THANK YOU, GOD! I think I would be amazed if I were to catch a glimmer of all the sand traps God has directed me away from! Although I suppose we have the choice whether or not to follow. We could go our own way, could we not? Shove our fists in the air, shake our heads, laughing to ourselves at how foolish God must be to think that job, that move, that ministry, is worthy of our time. He’s just the Creator of the universe, after all. Surely we, His human creations, know far better how to manage our own lives!

The other day as I was finalizing an interview of gospel singer Lynda Randle, something she said impacted me. (Don’t worry, you can read it on Monday. I’m putting it up on Reflections.) She talked about how she “fell” into singing. There wasn’t an earth shattering voice pouring down from heaven saying, “Lynda Randle, thou shalt sing.” True, God had tugged on her heart, drawing her closer to Him, and she responded to that call–the call to total surrender, willingly. But she had no idea singing would be part of it. She stepped out, in faith, willing to follow God wherever He directed, before she caught sight of the road.

Lynda’s obedience has led to great success. Pop on over to her website and take a quick glance at her upcoming tour schedule to see for yourself. But that doesn’t mean obedience will always lead to success. And least, not success as the world would coin it.  We may never have that five hundred thousand dollar house, or New York Times Best Seller, and if we filter our views through the eyes of the world, we may be fooled into thinking we have failed. But if we are firmly planted on the path God has designed for us, without venturing to the right or the left, we will experience success. And there is joy in that. When our eyes are on our Leader and not all the off-roads trying to distract us along the way.

One of my favorite verses is Proverbs 3:5-6 “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your paths straight.”

My understanding, my plans, even my desires, are tainted and distorted. How can I possibly expect to see clearly? But if I trust in God, and allow Him to guide me, and at times, when the road gets extra rough, to carry me, He will never let me fall. He will fulfill the plans He has for me.

So what do I do when earthly expectations cloud my vision and allow dissatisfaction or disappointment to seep into my heart? I draw closer to God and let His Spirit fill me until it has pushed all else aside. As you probably know by now, music is a huge part of my prayer life. As I wrote this, two songs came on that really spoke to me. I’m going to add a link to them here, along with another one I find especially fitting…

Give It All Away

My Savior, My God (I’m not skilled to understand)

You Never Let Go

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As I’ve mentioned before, our church is reading over Francis Chan’s Crazy Love. It is a phenomenal book. If you’ve never read it, I highly recommend you do. It’s inspiring, challenging–life changing. The whole thrust of the book is falling deeper in love with God. On a human level, this can be hard. We are run by our emotions and our emotions are roller coasters. Just look at the current divorce rate. We’re madly in love with someone one minute and ready to kill them the next. But that doesn’t mean our emotions in themselves are bad. God created us to be emotional creatures and it’s a huge part of who we are. Personally, I believe emotions are a gift intended to bond human hearts with one another and with God. The only problem is our emotions are tainted by sin and selfishness. I wonder what our world would look like if we were able to have the emotions without the sin. Ah, but that is what heaven is all about. And I can’t wait. To be able to connect with others and my God without any barriers, no false expectations, no baggage.

Baggage is a big emotion-distorter for me. Looking back at all my temper tantrums over the years, I have found most of my reactions and hurt feelings have very little to do with the actual event. Most often, it is my interpretation of the event that causes me the greatest pain. (Wow, is everything about taking our thoughts captive and making them obedient to Christ?) This baggage that I lug with me wherever I go, a torn and ragged suitcase filled with past hurts and failures, taints the way I love; God, my husband, my family, my friends. It’s like watching the world through a sin-filled veil. Only half the time I’m not even aware my vision’s blurred. Until I catch a glimmer of what love is–not the tainted, human, selfish version of love that seeks only emotional pleasure rooted in rules of reciprocation, but real love. Agape love. Initiating, unconditional, transparent, accepting love. The kind of love given to us by the Father through the Son.

To be honest, I don’t really even understand that kind of love. Every once in a while, like when my husband and I are walking hand in hand down the street, or my daughter is nestled in my arms, I’ll catch a tiny glimmer of it. But most of the time my affections are tainted with self-love. And that’s the hardest item in my long-toted suitcase to give up. In fact, if left to my own resources, my love for self only grows. The harder I try to fight it down, the harder it fights back. So what can we do? Surround ourselves with a list of to-do’s: Spend time with daughter. Check. Write husband note. Check. Read your Bible. Check. In the hopes that over time our hearts will follow? I don’t think so. As Francis Chan pointed out in his book, when we try harder the focus is on ourselves, not on the object of our affection.

Just think about it. I say I’m going to love my husband so I create a plan. As I work out my plan, doing those little things throughout the day to shower him with affection, I become rather pleased with myself. Look at what a great wife I am. (See the self-love pop up?) In fact, I’m such a great wife, I deserve a little reciprocation. After all I’ve done, the least he can do is…(ah, and then comes the conditional love based on mutual back-scratching!) Nope, this kind of love doesn’t work.

So then what do we do? Give up entirely and settle for partial intimacy? Or perhaps we opt for total isolation. And yet, there has to be a solution–a way to use our God-given emotions as they were intended to be used, as wonderful gifts designed to bring us pleasure and unite our hearts with one another and with our Creator. And that’s where prayer comes in. One of my favorite verses is: “Not by might nor by power but by My Spirit says the Lord.”  (Zech 4:6) Admittedly I am using this verse out of context here, but I believe the principle remains. Anything that is good in me comes from God. And yet, my human nature propels me away from God. Therefore, I need God to overcome my human nature.

If you’ve read my marriage column, you’ll remember how God helped align my heart to my husband’s. He’s also used prayer to draw me closer to Him. I’ve come to realize, on my own, I’m a sold out lover of self through and through. I’ll grab, hide, strive and pout, resulting in isolation. But when I turn to God, and ask Him to change my heart, to draw my heart, not only to Him but to the others in my life, filling me with love and longing, He does. And eventually, my emotions align. Just as He promised in James 4:8 “Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.”

You want more love in your life? For God and your family? Don’t try harder, just love more. Having trouble loving the way God desires? Ask Him to help you.

Love Letter From God

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Have you ever read a chase scene that made you feel like you were taking a Sunday stroll? Or maybe the intended Sunday stroll felt like a choppy river ride. Although this can often be due to word choices and faulty imagery, sometimes a few slices to a long, run on sentence can do the trick. When we’re frightened, our mind moves quickly. We think in fragments, with one thought jumping to the next with little, if any, time for retrospect or analytical thinking. Our writing should reflect the natural tone of thought.

If you are writing an intense scene intended to elicit fear or suspense, choose short, even choppy sentences. And strong verbs.

Ex: The light turned green. He gunned it. A flash of movement to his right turned his head. Gripping the steering wheel tighter, he gave a jerk, narrowly missing a side-on collision. The high-pitched blare of a horn pierced his eardrum. He accelerated until buildings and warehouses blurred into indiscriminate bands of color. Faster, faster! Red and blue lights flashed in his peripheral vision. Sirens squealed. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eye. He blinked it away.

Not: The light ahead of him turned green. He knew the speed limit was thirty five, but his fear urged him to break it. He thought about all the tickets he’d received over the past year. Tanya would kill him. (Really? He’s gonna think about this now? Or is he caught up in escape?) There was a flash of light to his right as he sped across the intersection. It was an oncoming car. (Won’t we make this connection ourselves?) He turned the steering wheel (which verb paints a better picture of action? turned or jerked? Which sounds more panicked?) to miss the oncoming car. The driver honked his horn. He pushed his foot on the grass to go faster. A police man turned on his lights and siren, adding to his anxiety.

Okay, so now let’s try the same scene but with a different tone.

The light turned green. Pressing on the gas until his car accelerated just below the thirty-five mile per hour limit, he draped his hand over the steering wheel and replayed Jenna’s words in his mind. Was she really busy, or was she looking for a convenient way to avoid him? Things had been so much easier with Tessa. Maybe she was a little loud and rough around the edges, but you always knew where you stood. No more guessing and light footing it, studying every eye-twitch for hidden messages.

A flash of light to his right followed by the familiar “whirl-eeee-weee!” of a siren drew his eyes to his speedometer. The dial hovered just above eighty. Great. Here came his third speeding ticket for the month. One more and he’d set a new record.

Wanna try it? See if you can create two conflicting scenes (one intended to elicit fear, and one with a more relaxed or analytical feel. Or perhaps anger and then sadness.) using the following:

A (lit or unlit) stair well, a (dead or alive) flower, peeling wall paper, an extension cord, a workbench with tools of your choice and an old rusted chest. Ah, what’s inside?

As usual, email, facebook or comment your answers. Who knows, maybe one of these prompts will turn into a 90,000 word story!

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I just finished reading A Simple Amish Christmas by Vannetta Chapman. I finished it much quicker than I had suspected, primarily because I couldn’t put it down! And to be honest, I was surprised. I’ve never read an Amish fiction novel before. I have always thought they were a bit to goody-two-shoes for my taste, but the characters Vannetta created were so real, I was hooked from the very first chapter. Despite the tremendous differences between myself (runner, biker, computer addict, facebook feign, etc, etc, etc) and Annie Weaver, the traditional, very feminine and somewhat shy, heroine, I related to her difficulties and understood her longings. In many ways, this book made me think of the 1900’s women’s lib movement, but it also reminded me of the struggles many women face today. As emotional, nurturing women, we long for family and acceptance, and yet, as intelligent, ambitious creatures, we want more. We want to succeed and achieve, to contribute in a tangible way. Perhaps it is just me, but it seems there will always be a struggle between those two worlds. Not that you can’t be intelligent and raise a family, but it can be hard to feel a sense of accomplishment after making the bed. In A Simple Amish Christmas, Vannetta helps the reader realize the complexity of womanhood. Yes, we long to nurture and be cherished, but we also want to contribute, to make a difference in our communities and world, not just within our homes. I loved the way Vannetta addresses these issues through effective characterization.

Annie Weaver, a young Amish woman, leaves her community for three years to live with her aunt before committing fully to her church. During this time, she pursues a life-long dream of medicine and attains a nursing degree. Working in a local hospital, she grows very attached to a very sick little boy. Even though it breaks her heart to see this child suffer, she feels fulfilled knowing she is using her skills to bring comfort to another. And yet, despite all the intellectual and emotional fulfillment her new lifestyle provides, she feels a deep longing for her home and the community she had once depended on. When her father is injured, she rushes home to care for him and finds everything just as she left it. Back home among her family, her longing intensifies to the point that she is willing to give up on her dream in order to regain the deep sense of love and acceptance that comes from being part of such a close-knit community.

It is during this time of deep searching that she meets the strong, opinionated, and at times bearish, Samuel Yoder. His false judgments and rude comments, which verge on patronizing, infuriate and intrigue her at the same time. What is it about this man that sets her heart aflutter every time he glances her way?

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Sometimes it’s very hard to sit down and write. I feel like one of Job’s friends, tucked away in my nice, air conditioned house, married to a man who treats me like a princess, surrounded by special friends, and connected to a vibrant church, telling everyone “trust God and everything will be okay”. I know many of my readers are hurting, and many of them due to circumstances that are out of their control. You’ve done all the right things, said all the right things, and life smacks you upside the head anyway. And to be honest, I don’t have much to say. Oh, I could tell you that God is with you, holding you, loving you, whether you feel Him or not. And I could pop off a bunch of verses about how God will turn all things to good for those who love Him, but you know all that. In your head. But sometimes the pain is so deep, it blocks the truth from settling in our hearts.

Perhaps it is the sign of the times, or maybe I’m just becoming more aware of the pain around me, but ever since I started my weekly marriage column on Reflections, I’ve encountered numerous broken marriages. Shattered by infidelity. And to be honest, I don’t know how to respond to something like that. It broke my heart, made me sick, just to think about it. Caps left off toothpaste, socks on the floor, toilet seats left up, I can handle. Violated trust? Wow, that cuts deep. And it’s easy to blame ourselves. Maybe if I were prettier, more attentive, cooked more, cleaned more, whatever, my spouse wouldn’t have strayed. True, all of us could do a better job in some of those areas, but boundaries are boundaries and just as the bank teller isn’t responsible for the room full of injured people, neither are you responsible for your spouse’s choice.

I’m sure I’ll get lots of teeth-gritting, nasty comments hurled my way for this post, but that’s fine. My Mac will shield me from even the most rotten tomatoes. And I’m not saying throw in the towel. Nor am I saying hold on with both hands. What I am saying is I have no business saying anything, except run to Jesus and rest in His arms. He’ll tell you what to do.

About a year ago, a dear friend was dealt a devastating blow. Her husband was caught up in addiction–an addiction that was destroying him, their relationship, and her children. After much prayer, she decided to leave. It broke my heart to see my friend suffer, but what hurt me even more was all the “well-intentioned” advice thrown her way, clouding out God’s voice with human expectations and obligations. Oh, how clearly we hear the voice of God for someone else.

A few years ago Casting Crowns came out with a song called, “What If My People Prayed.” One line has stayed with me ever since. In the song, they ask, “What if families turned to Jesus and quit asking Oprah (or Melba, or Gramma, or Jennifer Slattery, grin) what to do.” This got me thinking, does God really need me to speak for Him, or would He rather speak directly to my friend Himself? Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying God doesn’t call people to speak truth. And I am not saying that God doesn’t speak to us through others. I am saying, however, that He probably calls us a lot less frequently than we think. And yet, God always, always, always, longs to speak to our family and friends Himself.

So, the next time we’re tempted to pop off some religious mumbo-jumbo, what if we pointed our friends to Jesus instead? He’s big enough, strong enough, and loving enough to speak into their lives Himself. And yeah, they may make a mistake. They may even hear Him wrong. But they’ll be one step closer to their Creator, and in the end, isn’t that what it’s all about? Learning to sift through all the garbage noise in order to hear God’s voice more clearly?

And for those of you who are barely holding on today, turn to Jesus. Seek Him out until His voice breaks through. Record His promises to never leave you nor forsake you on three by five cards and pull them out when the fears and insecurities threaten to overwhelm you. And know I’m praying for you.

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I know, I know, I know! I said Tuesday’s were going to be creative writing days, and your brain is ready to explode with fun ideas and flowing words, and I disappoint you with some devo about surrender. But I also said I wasn’t going to be blogged down (hahahah) by a schedule, remember. And besides, in case you haven’t noticed, surrender, resting in God’s loving arms, is my absolute favorite topic to write about. Annoying or not, it’s been the single most ingredient in my Christian walk that has carried me through the many potholes and mountains along the way. However, I had so much fun reading all the ideas from the last photo I posted, I realized the opportunity to do it again was way too tempting to pass up. But to be totally honest, you all left me hanging last time with the whole characterization thing. But maybe I was too vague. Or you were too busy.

What do you say we try again?

Our readers want to see, feel, hear, taste (yuck!) and smell what our characters do. They want to experience our stories first hand. As I was running on a nasty old, sweat-drenched treadmill, (I know, tmi!) it got me thinking about locker rooms and our old high school gym. If you’ve ever spent any time on a sports bus after a long meet or basketball game, you know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s one of those smells you’ll never forget. This single, nasty as it was, smell, inspired a slew of future story ideas–of a man in a wheelchair desperately clinging to the past, of a teen pounding the pavement day after day to please the father who’s never home, of the woman joining one aerobics class after another to save a dying marriage.  Or how about a one with a happier slant–the woman who found true love after ten years of sifting through Mr. Wrong’s, excited to fit into the wedding dress of her dreams. (Next time I run I really need to bring my iphone with me so I can use the voice memo app. Love it!)

How about I throw out some choices and you pop off a paragraph or two, planting yourself smack dab in the middle of the scene, then tell me what you hear, see, smell, feel and, if applicable, taste. And here’s a picture to help you out.

For all my mushy romance writers: A remote mountain trail on a cool spring day with the man of your dreams. Ah, so sweet!

For my suspense writers: A remote mountain trail at dusk. Oooh!

For my young adult writers: A thickly forested mountain trail, back loaded down with a fifty pound pack, at a youth camp.

For my paranormal/(not sure the genre, but spiritual warfare type) writers: A remote, forest hiking trail with a big old demon lurking in the bushes. Or however you wanna spin it.

For my fantasy writers: a fairy dancing on a pine cone tucked behind a thick cluster of trees.

And even though I’m knee deep in eye-blurring edits, here’s my go of it. Although it’s gonna be a little short. No where near the wonderful stuff Terry gave us (thanks!) But I’ll add some parenthesis to help you see what I mean by see, taste, hear and smell.

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Tyler shrugged off his backpack and rummaged through match boxes, wrinkled topographic maps, and empty water bottles for the pack of gum he’d stashed inside. His mom would have thrown a fit if’n she’d seen it. But like Pa said, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her none. Course, what she found out about hurt him plenty!

Branches crackled behind him. (hear) Tyler spun around and searched the thick underbrush, images of angry Momma bears flooding his mind. He held his breath and strained his ears against the silence. His lungs emptied when a bushy tailed squirrel climbed up an adjacent tree. A drop of dew fell on his forehead and trickled between his eyes and down his nose. (Feel) He swiped at it with a grimy hand.

The sun was just beginning to dip over the horizon, casting long shadows across the still forest. There was no time to waste, not if he wanted to make it to camp before dark. Closing his pack, he tossed it over his shoulder and angled his head. In the distance, he could barely make out the sound of gently running water. He licked his cracked lips in anticipation. Adrenaline heightened his senses as he continued towards the sound, branches scratching at his legs (feel) and pulling at his clothes. Thick, clustering vines on either side of him stirred, sending the scent of sun-roasted blackberries to his nose. (smell.) He reached down to pluck the ripe fruit and plopped it in his mouth, closing his eyes as the warm juice exploded across his tongue. It was sweeter than cotton candy. (taste)

And as usual, you can add your versions as a comment, can send to me via facebook or can shoot them to me via email at slattery07@yahoo.com