The Writer Who Wasn’t

Unlike many writers, I wasn’t born with a pen in hand or books on my brain. Not like Louisa May Alcott and her character, Jo, or Lucy Maud Montgomery and her creation, Emily. Yes, I started a novel or two as a teenager, but my top ten list of life dreams didn’t include writing. Instead it came quietly in the back door.

Perhaps it began with the fact that my love language is words. It got fed by the rich and steady diet of good books I read growing up. As a teen, I wrote enough letters that I began to think that it had become, in a small way, my ministry.

In high school, I took a course called Wordsmith which told me how (in easy bite-sized pieces) to make my writing vivid. My descriptions got more vivid, but it did nothing to help my stunted imagination. I wrote a few stories, but the characters were sweet and flat, even to me. No wonder I never finished those novels.

Oh, I did write a play. My cousin and I worked together, taking alternating scenes, and writing a part for each of our classmates. Our teacher was a bit bemused at our idea of tying off a story neatly. Marry everybody off, of course!

One year I was required to submit a journal entry every school day. I filled it with the boring events of my life and, as often as I dared, with nonsense poetry. No gems there.

Then I got to Bible School, but was I a writer? No way! I had major writer’s block. I remember sitting on the top step of the basement steps in the dark in an effort to get my brain to focus enough to write an assigned essay. Perfectionism buster: pretend I was writing a letter to my teacher.

I didn’t really even keep a diary. Between eighth grade and my first year of Bible School, I filled perhaps two thirds of a red cloth-covered book. It took a girls’ meeting and a little turquoise notebook to get me started on that. Perfectionism evasion tactic: only write five sentences a day.

Fast-forward past the end of Bible School. Note that I loved tutoring my brother in English, but not much other writing activity. Then it was suggested to me that perhaps I needed to study something. A correspondence course? I didn’t know what to study, but I’d keep it in mind.

Well, my sister Katie had had a writing aptitude test in her drawer for years. On the phone to order a new one for herself, she turned to me. “You want one too?”

Me? I shrugged. “Sure.”

And from there it went like the house that Jack built. I took the test; I was accepted. I remember being terrified that I’d never have the discipline to complete the work. This is the girl who can’t even keep a journal unless it’s baby sized. Two years of writing assignments? I put out a fleece – unexpected provision of money – and within days or a few weeks I was offered a job.

I took the course.

Faithfully, God provided the grace to keep me mostly on top of the work. I changed location five or six times. My writing came too. Usually I had to grit my teeth every time I made myself sit down to write, but once I sat down and got absorbed in the process, I had fun! In fact, I began to feel a sense of rightness when I wrote. This, I thought, is what I was meant to do.

I even came up with another novel idea. There’s no way I’m ready to write a book, I thought, but this is my chance to pretend I can – while I’ve got a teacher. A chance thought: “How would someone whom Jesus had raised from the dead respond to His death? Would they expect Him to raise Himself?” It was supposed to be a story, but like Homer Price’s doughnut machine, it just kept on going. For this novel, set in first-century Israel, I’d soon be able to do on-the-spot research.

Yes, right after I finished my writing course, I went to Israel. That was on my top ten list of life dreams. It was so amazing and awesome that I just had to write about it. I turned to e-mail, where I learned how long-winded I am…and that, amazingly, some people are patient enough to read what I write anyway. I had an audience! Talk about motivation!

And I had something to describe, at last. No more boring tales from the homeschool day; I was all eyes, and there was still too much too see! As I experienced Israel, I wanted to share it. I wanted to put my readers in my shoes, give them all my senses, and let them enjoy my adventures for themselves. As I wrote, I fell in love with painting pictures with words. Perfectionism cure: splat those words onto the computer screen and rearrange them like puzzle pieces until the picture is just right.

In fact, now writing is an escape for me. Can’t sleep at night? Good time to toss words and ideas around in my head or even time-travel to ancient Israel. Sometimes it keeps me from sleeping, but it’s too much fun to mind much.

I have something to say at last. Nonsense poetry is, of course, necessary from time to time, but thanks to my Bible School experience, and a few more years of walking with Jesus, I have something deeper to talk about. Meeting people who didn’t have my spiritual heritage made me realize how rich I was. Thanks to a patient group of high school girls, (friends to whom I wrote a regular e-newsletter) I got to practice sharing it.

So now – “Surprise!” says God –I’m a writer. And my writing dreams have made it onto my top ten list of things to do with my life.

What are those dreams? Well, I’m not sure about my novel. It has so stubbornly refused to go away, that I may have to beat my way through my lack of imagination and write it anyway. It may morph some as I do (if I do), but that’s okay.

I want to write like Elisabeth Elliot does – with a down-to-earth, honest view of life and a voice that sounds like a friend’s. I want to make people laugh. I want them to realize they’re not alone. Maybe I can even paint a picture of life with Jesus that makes them want to dive into the adventure of knowing Him.

Of course, that takes time. I have to live that life before I can write it, and that’s challenging. But meanwhile I can practice by telling what I do know and what I have lived.

Yes, now I know that I’m a writer, and I know that I love it!