Divine Inspiration

It's a strange feeling when a story won't leave you alone. Like a child, he taps on my shoulder, begging me to 'play' with him, craft him into being with pen and paper, giving him a life.

But other times, the story slams into my mind like a bolt of lightning and I must write it down before the electric current disintegrates me into black dust. It comes from a word or a phrase that I've read or maybe a person walks by me at the store and something in her expression or they way she walks begs to be told. The story I've included in this post came from God. I read a writing prompt that encouraged me to write from a completely different point-of-view that who I am. Well, I'm a woman with a house and a good life. The total opposite of that would be a homeless, drug-addicted man. And "I Think I Just Met Jesus" was born.

Point is, when an idea comes, stop and work with it. If you don't have time to spend hours with it, keep a notebook close by and make notes as often as necessary. Not writing down and idea means it will be lost and a story will never be told.

Here's my story - or not my story because I don't believe it came from me.

I Think I Just Met Jesus


I know that it sounds crazy. And if you told me the same thing, I’d roll my eyes and get away from you quicker than you could say ‘buzz-kill”. I’m not lying. And I don’t think I’m crazy. But if you talk to Nate, he’ll tell you I do tell lies and my ex would declare me legally insane, but I’m serious, man. I met Jesus.

He bought me coffee. Who knew the dude would be at the corner café jonesin’ for a cup of jo. I’m mean, my God! Of all the places to meet Jesus, I never thought that dive would be it.
See, I came in all wired and broke and hopin’ that old gal who works the counter would just slip me a cup and then I’d down it and then leave when she wasn’t lookin’. Had it all planned out. But then he was sittin’ there, all in jeans and an old coat and drinkin’ coffee black. His hair was long, just like in them pictures, so I thought he looked familiar. So I said, “Dude, you from the shelter?”

He turned and smiled and looked me in the eye. “No. You need shelter?”

“No man, I just told you I’m at the shelter. I can stay there until the end of next month.”

He kept watching me and I knew I shouldn’t of said nothing.

So then that old gal came over. “Mr. Jonah,” like I look like a mister, “you have money today to pay for coffee?”

“Nah, granny. I ain’t got no money, but I’m hurtin’ for a cup. Can you spot me one?”

She shook her head, real sorry like. “I’m afraid I can’t today. But it’s cold. How about a cup of hot water? Can’t see the boss getting too upset about that.”

Sure was cold outside and I figure that hot water better than nothing so I said, “Sure.”
I sat down next to that long-hair dude. Granny set a cup of hot water on the counter. I closed my eyes and leaned over until the steam warmed my face. I breathed in real deep and tried to pretend that I was smellin coffee. It did smell good, all rich and hot and strong. When I opened my eyes, I see the blackest coffee in my cup. I looked round for Granny to make sure she’s not looking before I drink it down real fast. But it was too hot and burned my mouth.

“Slow down, brother,” that long-hair dude said. “Coffee’s my treat.”

“Thanks man,” and I took my time. I looked him over again. “You sure we ain’t met?”

“I’m sure we have, long time ago.”

“I knew it! I have a good memory for faces.” I took another sip. “Where you from?”

“Around here,” he said. “But I travel often.”

“You don’t look like no business man,” I said.

“I didn’t say I was.”

“So what’s your business that takes you off travelin?” I asked.

“It’s a family business. I travel the world looking for recruits.”

“Yeah?” I took another sip. “You offerin jobs or you one of them cult leaders?”

“I’m more of a consultant,” he said. “People in need call on me and I come and help out.”

“I don’t need consulting. I need a job.”

He nodded. “If I were to help you find a job, you would have to stay sober.”

“Man.” My hands shook as I took another sip.

“You sober, Jonah?” he asked.

I looked at him, his dark eyes and I told the truth. “No.”

“You want a job?”

“Man, I need a job. The shelter’s nice and all, but a man’s gotta have a place of his own.”

“What keeps you from staying clean?”

I laughed. “You musta never been tempted. Once you taste that sweetness, ain’t no turning away.”

“No temptation has seized you except what is common to man.”

“Like I said,” I held up my cup in a toast-like way and took another sip. “But I’m not going for no rehab.”

“Why not?” he asked. “It’s a place to stay, food, bed, and help. You’d come clean and then I’d be able to help you find a job.”

I set my cup down. “Dude, you crazy! I don’t need your help.”

“If that’s how you want it,” he shrugged and turned away. “No pressure from me.”

I took another drink. But it weren’t coffee. It was just hot water. “Man, how’d you do that?” I asked.

He looked in my cup. “You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too.”

“What you talkin about?”

“You want a place to call your own. I’m offering you a job. All you have to do is be clean. Why won’t you accept my help?”

“Cause no man should need help.”

“The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I don't need you!’ And the head cannot say to the feet, ‘I don't need you!’”

“You are one crazy man. You talkin in code or something?”

He laughed. “Something like that. Otherwise you might see with your eyes, hear with your ears, understand with your heart and in turn, I would heal you.”

“Heal me,” I laughed and took another sip of coffee, only it was still only water. I set the cup down. “Man, if you can heal me, then I got a cut on my arm that needs healin.”

“How did you receive that cut?”

I said the truth again. Weird. “Knife.”

“Were you justified?”

I picked the cup up again. “No, man. It wasn’t my coat, but it weren’t his neither. I had as much right to it as he did.”

“Do you regret the fight?” he asked.

“I learned that dude’s got kids. If he just told me, I’d let him have it.”

“Do you regret the fight?” he asked again.

“Yeah, man, ain’t you listenin?” He smiled and said he was. “So what kinda’ job you got?” I asked.

“Nothing until you’re clean.”

“I can’t afford no rehab.”

He waved to Granny for a refill. “My friend here could use a cup of coffee. Put it on my bill.”
Granny smiled and brought me a new cup of coffee. I added cream and sugar to it; you know, make it more of a meal.

“I know a place looking for maintenance help, comes with a place to stay and two meals a day. The man who runs the place is quite talented in rehabilitating people. I’m sure if you work for him for three months in exchange for keeping the grounds neat and clean, he would help you out.”

“That’s the job? Janitor?” I asked.

“Groundskeeper. Could work out to be a career for you.”

“Any grass or gardens?”

“Plenty. In need of some care. Been a long while since someone showed those flowers any love.”

“What’s it pay?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“What’s a man to do without a paying job?” I asked.

“He’ll pay you with a bed and food. Until you’re clean, that’s the best job I can offer.” He pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote on his napkin. “Here’s the man’s name and his address. If you decide you want a chance at this, go today.”

I laughed. “The offer only good for today?”

“What will be different tomorrow?” he asked. “The choice is yours, brother. You’re like a seed on rocky ground, being pecked at by birds. This is a chance to be on fertile ground, where you can come up, grow and produce a crop, multiplying thirty, sixty, or even a hundred times.”

“You talkin about me having kids?” Dude was blind if he thought I was the fatherly type.

“I’m talking about deeds.” He laid a five on the counter. “I’ll see you in three months.”

“How you gonna find me?”

He turned at the door. “If you’re where you should be, I’ll find you.”



“So I’m here for that groundskeeper job,” I told the man.

He looked again at the napkin with his name and address. “That’s quite remarkable. Long hair and dark eyes, you say?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

He smiled. “I believe I do. So tell me, Jonah, did he heal you?”

“You mean my knife cut? No. He can’t do nothing like that. That stuff’s for miracles and good people.”

“May I see your wound?” the man asked. “I have a first aid kit. If you agree to take the job, I can’t have you injured and working in the dirt.”

I took off my coat and pulled up my sleeve. “I’ll be…” I looked at the man. “It ain’t here.”

The man’s eyes got real red like he was about to cry. “I believe you are a blessed man, brother Jonah. Will you take the job?”

I looked at the goose bumps on my arms and I rolled my sleeve back down. “Yes, sir. I believe I will.”

Writer's Block

My question: Is writer's block for real?

I have many opinions on writer's block; the idea that there could be some obstruction in the brain of a writer that would keep ideas from flowing. The image of the boy and the leaking dike come to mind. There are days that my writing is like a tiny trickle of water, so weak that I can barely spell let alone write a compelling story. In my house, it's a girl (one of my three daughters) who comes along and sticks her finger in my 'flow of thought' and my writing is done.

After a busy day of homeschooling and householding, I can't wait to get to my quiet room and write. Somedays the words just don't come. My mind wants a break from the endless task of thinking of the next task. I'll admit that at times, the most powerful piece of writing I have to offer is an extensive To-Do list.

But writer's block is not just distraction or lack of motivation, it's a reason to set aside the pen and paper and read. Dive into a good book and find inspiration. Rent a few documentaries and learn something new. Read a genre you've never read before. Attend a poetry reading. Tour an art museum. Go to the zoo and look for people who match the behaviors of the animals they are watching.

I felt extreme guilt over this at first. The idea of not writing to become a better writer didn't make sense. It's not about always practicing a skill; sometimes we need to study the masters, search out new inspiration, deepen our understanding of the full world of art and nature. Then, and only then can we branch out into realms of writing we never thought possible.

Doesn't this go against everything you've learned about writing? Did you hear at the last writer's conference that every good writer writes everyday? Very true. Sometimes that writing time should be spent in reading good writing. If we can't identify good writing when we read it, how will we ever strengthen our own craft?

When writer's block strikes, the discouragement is overwhelming. That is unacceptable for me. Never will I allow writing to become cumbersome. Instead, I turn the tables for a few days and spend my writing time in reading and research. It will undoubtedly reveal a missing piece to me and I can immediately return to my notebook and write freely for hours.

Harry Potter and the Misguided Mother

Recently my daughter brought her Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix to our homeschool group enrichment day for show-and-tell. Who knew it would cause such a stir.A mom I have a good relationship with was stunned to silence when she saw the book. All morning she struggled to find the right words to let me know how she felt about my daughter bringing Harry Potter to show-and-tell. When I asked her what was troubling her, she paused and told me, “I teach my daughter the difference between good and evil. I teach my daughter that there is no grey area. Only God and Satan.” She went on to say that Harry Potter books are not something she would ever allow her daughter to read because they have things in them that are so purely wrong.

And that’s where my ears stopped listening. I was stunned and hurt and angry. I felt as thought this mother was telling me that I had handed my child a book on “how to become Satan’s friend” and we would both be condemned to an eternity in Hell. I felt belittled and stupid. What did she think my daughter was going to do during Show and Tell? Madeline didn’t read any part of the book, nor did she try to convince the other kids that magic is real.

Does this mother know that Harry Potter is a fantasy? Fantasy books are not real. Madeline knows that, too. So why are people so afraid of Harry? What has he done to offend so many?And as for the ‘grey area’? Don’t we live in the grey? God is white. Satan is black. We are neither perfectly good, nor perfectly evil. That’s grey. It’s where we are. And don’t books provide a road map? Can’t we learn through the characters of a book how to navigate through life?

Then I mistakenly tried to defend my reasons for allowing Madeline to read these books. I was caught off-guard by my perception of her accusations. Was she telling me that I was a bad mother? Was I condemning my child to a life of sin by allowing her to read these books?And more importantly, why did she feel the need to say anything at all? Madeline wasn’t offering to loan the books out. She didn’t try to convince her classmates that Harry was real and that we were heading to Olivander’s to buy her own wand. What purpose did her comments serve?

And then…retribution. As the students lined up to leave for their next class, one of the girls dropped a handful of tiny paper scraps. Madeline saw the distress on the girl’s face and immediately left her place in line to help. This girl has shown no signs of friendship to Madeline (a point she has worried about in the past), but that didn’t stop her from helping. I noticed this and encouraged the other students to help too, stating that it would be a great model of Christian Stewardship to help a friend in need.

No one helped.

Even after the other moms told their kids to get out of line and assist in the clean-up, the children only did so after sighing and rolling their eyes.

After class, I asked Madeline why she helped. She told me, “That’s what friends do.”

“And where did you learn that?” I asked.

Her answer was the most satisfying reply. She told me that she was learning how to be a good friend from the books she was reading. Laura Ingalls Wilder had many run-ins with other children. Judy Blume’s characters handled problems in funny ways, but Madeline saw how people react and has internalized that information for her own real-life situations. She also mentioned the friendship between Harry, Ron and Hermione. She said they always stick together, even when other kids make fun of them. They fight, but they always forgive each other.

Did you hear that? My daughter learned from a fantasy book. She learned that people need people and friends need help even if you lose your place in line. She is reading the problems characters have and learning the lessons for herself. Wouldn’t life be easier if we could learn those painful lessons before they actually hurt us? That’s what reading fiction (and, yes, fantasy too) can do for us.

And so, I need to take a page from my daughter’s book. I forgive my friend for accusing me of giving my daughter evil literature. I hope she forgives me for bearing a grudge against her for making me feel like a horrible mother. And I thank all the authors who write stories, real or imagined, that I have read and will read, that my daughters have read and will discover, for giving us the opportunity to live and learn about people and conflict through the safety of the written word.

Hours, Minutes, Seconds...

Ug. There just doesn't seem to be enough time in the day to read and write and be a homeschooling mom. I'm still working through Atlas Shrugged - slow start, I've been told, but with only 900 pages to go, I'm sure the plot will pick up.

Meanwhile, my children are out-reading me! My oldest has read 3 chapter books this week. My middle child is finishing up her 3rd book today, and even the 5-year old is plugging through her first Laura Ingalls Wilder book.

Lesson for today: time slips through my fingers when I allow my schedule to rule me. I need to keep the days clear of clutter so I can dedicate true work time to improving my writing. Today is pretty much gone, but tomorrow offers hope.

Noise

I found a writing prompt I thought I would share. Too often, new novelist (referring mainly to myself here) focuses too much on plot. We forget that the beauty of a story comes not from the strength of the plot alone, but in the language through which it's told.

So take Noise. It's everywhere. As I'm writing this, my iPod is blaring. There is an airplane overhead, the dog is barking, and the birds are busy just outside my window (it is still spring). Characters also hear nosies, but we forget to share them with our readers.

Write about a noise your character hears and tie it into the plot. Have the noise advance the tension and raise the emotional stakes. Here's a sample of what I did with this writing prompt. The character (I've written about her before) is stranded in a snow storm. No power, no heat. But the kitchen clock has a battery.

Tick. Tock.

The metronome of life. How it beats away each moment always and forever. But then I wonder, between feelings of hunger and frustration, if time would stop if every clock did? Absurd, really to even suppose for a moment that a man-made device could stop the divine unwinding of time.

Ticking and tocking and never stop-stopping. The void in my ears is engulfed like a snail in an undertow; where noise whitens my senses, dulling the tiny ticks until I no longer notice. Time, a silent killer, through a human invention becomes a constant drum .

Of all the things in this cabin that work, it's the battery-powered kitchen clock. I'm tempted to silence and embrace the fully (wo)man-powered life of chopping wood and melting water to drink. The basics of life - heat and water.

So I've left the battery alone. It seems almost cruel to remove the heart of the only working machine. Or maybe it's not compassion that compels me, but spite; to not trudge through these endless days alone, even if my only other companion is a tick-tock clock.

Spiders & Crickets

I switched gears today from adult literature (still plugging my way through Atlas Shrugged) to children's literature; children's magazines to be specific. The simplicity of the writing was refreshing. The ideas were to the point, vivid, and short. With as few words as possible, stories are told to enhance a child's understanding of the world.

As adults, it's easy to forget that children are not programmed to understand everything that goes on around them. Experience is necessary for understanding. Thunder is a big sound until a child understands that lightning and severe weather can follow it; then it becomes scary. Crickets are a thing of wonder until is hops onto your bare arm and you can feel the prickly feet, then the sensation of touch adds a memory. A child will eventually experience enough to learn love, joy, and compassion, but also hatred, anger, and fear. Stories can provide a means of learning about new emotions before they actually occur. Or, worse case scenario, stories give the child a tool as a means of understanding the sadness in his or her world.

I picked four different children's magazines today (I read them all. After spending hours in Atlas Shrugged and not even half-way through, it was refreshing to actually finish something.) The stories were about the world of nature mostly, sometimes friendship, and the ever-present threat of global warming. In past workshops, I've been warned that children don't like stories that are preachy. They don't like stories in which a parent helps the main character solve the problem. Children do like poetry that is rhythmic with rhymes. They like to chant familiar lines and hear the song in stories.

I've attempted to write a great amount of children's literature in the past. So I revisited some of my efforts. Using a poem I wrote for my daughter a few months back and following the rhythm of a poem from one of the magazines, I gave it a second try.

Spring Senses


Feel the sunshine on my face,
Melting winter’s icy hold.
Snow is now fading trace,
Casting sunny beams of gold.

Hear the birds’ new calling song,
Singing shrill from yonder nest.
Twittering voices high and strong
Never stop to take a rest.

Smell the flowers on the breeze,
Tulips, primrose, daffodils,
Breaking through the thinning freeze,
Clothing meadows and the hills.

See reds, yellows, and greens sprout
All along the grassy lane
Purples, blues and pinks shout out,
Blooming after April’s rain.

Taste red berries, Oh! so sweet.
Nature’s candy on my lips
Share with friends, this seedy treat,
Eat in bites, big chomps, and snips.

What I know...
- that the old advice: "less is more" is perfect for children's literature.
- that finding rhythm in poetry is like dancing...there are a few awkward steps before you find that inner beat.
- children love to hear stories that give them imagery. Use words that bring to life their senses.
- that I will continue to read books and magazines for the age group and with the genre that I want to write. What better way is there to learn what publishers are looking for?

The "Nature" of Writing

In my readings, I've noticed the use of nature to set the tone, the mood, the tension. It's a reassuring connection for me; nature is so closely tied to our well-being, whether we like to admit it or not. The use of it in writing is a seemless activity.

As I was reading ATLAS SHRUGGED, by Ayn Rand, a scene from my own story struck me... quite literally struck me - the image of this scene flashed in my mind, the words with it. The more likely reason for such a sudden inspiration would be Divine Intervention - I'll happily give credit where credit is due.

But it wasn't just the reading that brought about this writing piece, but the fact that I was reading outside. Just a simple change of location made all the difference. I read about the sound of the wind in the book as the wind around my house made a sudden appearance.

In the book I'm writing, the main character finds herself stranded in a snow storm. After several days of heavy snow fall, she finally ventures out into the woods and spends time in nature. I've been wanting to personalize her experience in that first walk through the woods, to describe the walk, the sounds, sights, smells. But I couldn't write: "It's smelled fresh" or "She heard the wind whistling through the trees". That falls under the "read that before" category. Writing needs to be new; describing experiences we might not all share, but writing it in a way that makes it real for all readers through the character. In doing that, we, as writers, are shaping a puzzle. Not only shaping it, but creating the master picture from which to work.

Here's what I wrote:

The wind blew genlty across the white fields. Not the angry wind that carried the snow clouds, but a cotton kind of breeze. The caressing touch brought images of her childhood summers along the shores of Lake Michigan. The smaller beaches were her favorite; a narrow strip of sand between water and woodland, a haven from the deep public beaches crowded with chatter and radios.

Her beach had no name. It was almost a two mile walk through a green and brown wonderland filled with the thrilling trills of Michigan birds and the sporadic crunching scatter of squirrles darting from hiding places under last year's leaves. The wind couldn't penetrate those woods, it only skipped along the tops of the trees, dragging it's fingers over the upper most brances like a harpist playing chords meant for only those with feathers.

But she had heard it then and she strained to hear it now.

The harpist was too early here, the trees were out of tune. Haunting sounds fell from above - a whistling of the ghosts of trees. I'll not be afraid of that sound, she reassured herself. It's just the beginning, the wake up call, Mother Nature's five-minute warning to earth-bound children that spring is almost here.


My question for today... What other places should I visit to write? Where should I go to read the next chapter of ATLAS SHRUGGED? How different would the book be if I bought a train ticket to California?