Precarious Yates's Blog: Precarious Precipices, page 13

Guest Post with Staci Stallings

What Are Faithful Friends Worth?

The Gospel reading last week was about the paralytic man who was carried by his friends to Jesus.  I love the spin our pastor put on the story.  “What is a faithful friend worth?”

Wow.  Good question.

Here is this man who literally cannot help himself.  Now, note, his friends are working on the situation.  They are not back home feeling sorry for their friend.  They are ACTIVELY trying to find a solution.  Plus, there’s more than one of them.  His friends hear that Jesus is in town, and they pick the man up on his mat to carry him to Jesus.

Do you have friends like that?  Do you have friends who will carry you to Jesus in faith?  Do you have friends who ACTIVELY look for ways to help you?

If you do, then you know the worth of those friends.

As Mastercard would say they are… Priceless.

You cannot put a price on faithful friends.  You really cannot because what they give you, no money can buy.

They give you hope when things look the bleakest.  They give you words of peace and comfort in times of trouble and strife.  They are faithful when everyone else has gone.  They are ACTIVE in your life.  Not just when things are going good, but even when you’re hopeless lying on a mat!

I also love that they worked together.  Notice this didn’t devolve into fights about how to proceed or what to do.  They saw the problem and the solution, and they teamed up to make it happen.

I think often there are stories in the Old Testament that parallel stories in the New.  The parallel for this story is the story of Job and his friends.

Note the difference.

Job’s friends tried to talk him OUT of loving and serving God.  They told Job that obviously it was some sin he had committed that heaped the condemnation and punishment on him.  In short, they were the antithesis of these faithful friends.  The faithful friends did not look at the cause, but for the solution.  They didn’t condemn the man.  They helped him.  They didn’t sit on the trash heap with him and commiserate about the hopelessness of the situation.  They picked him up and carried him to God.

The amazing thing is what happened once they got to Jesus.

See, I think some of us would be friends like this if it was easy to be so.  If all we had to do was say a few prayers or a few good words, we could probably be that kind of friend.  But what happens when we get them to Jesus and there is a barrier?  What happens when getting our friend to Jesus is not easy?

Do we say, “Well, we tried.  Good luck”?

Or are we, like the faithful friends, willing to go to all lengths to get our friend to the feet of Jesus?  No matter what.  Think about climbing that roof, and figuring out how to cut that hole, cutting the hole, lowering the friend down… These friends were COMMITTED friends!

Do you have faithful, committed friends?

Are you a faithful and committed friend?

Both are great questions and both are important to work toward.  After all, friends like that are priceless!

Copyright Staci Stallings, 2012

Staci Stallings, the author of this article, is a #1 Best Selling author and the co-founder CrossReads.com a new website that gives Christian readers and authors a place to meet and fellowship. With a newsletter, a blog, a forum, and other exciting, inspiring areas to visit, CrossReads visitors can find fabulous Christian books they never knew existed.

Come over on Feb. 12-14, and enter to win one of 169 virtual baskets of ebooks, gift cards, and other prizes!

Click here to enter

the CrossReads Rafflecopter giveaway

I Won’t Dodge This Character Issue

Can We Market With Integrity? Ever?

Last week, American’s gathered around their appetizer-laden coffee tables to watch the annual competition of commercials. I mean the Superbowl.

Yes, there was an incredible game. Yes, there was a blackout. Yes, there was a trashy half-time show. But thanks to Apple, who back in 1984 made a movie-like commercial that stole the hearts and minds of millions, commercials are a major sideshow competition during this sports-food-fun-fest we call the Superbowl.

Commercials during the Superbowl are everything from shampoo to snack chips to new movies to cars and trucks.

Right now, I don’t want to discuss those who use lust and shock to hawk their products, but I do want to address those who use the heart-string-tug to market.

I don’t usually soapbox these sorts of things, but I’m going to soapbox this, and I hope you forgive me.

I’ve been studying marketing for the last few months, and I don’t at all claim to be an expert. Frankly, I’m a rather pathetic marketer. But one thing I can’t stand is marketing in such a way that says:

“You are an amazing person. But you will be a better person if you buy this product.”

I saw this twice in two car/truck commercials during the Superbowl.

First, the truck commercial.

Yes, farmers are hardworking individuals. I know. I am a farmer, even though I don’t have my cow yet. But using sentiments like they did in order to sell trucks is an insidious form of manipulation.

Paul Harvey is probably turning in his grave.

My husband put it this way, and I was glad for his wisdom:

“This nation has such a deficit of character that people are drawn toward any show of character, even if it’s used to manipulate them.”

The kind of character Paul Harvey talks about in this solute to farmers: we desperately need that kind of character in this country. Even if it’s just grassroots and hardly anyone sees it. And we need to solute character like that. But should we use that solute to sell stuff? Isn’t that manipulation? Isn’t that turning our backs on the idea of character that we were just praising?

Then there was the commercial about cars and soldiers. In fact, we don’t even know it was a car commercial until the very end. I’ve never been a soldier, but I’m thankful for solutes to our country’s brave men and women. They defend my freedom to be able to write this, and all the other things I write. God bless them!

But I don’t want to drive a vehicle simply because a solute to soldiers made me teary.

If you’re curious about these two commercials, here are the links:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMpZ0TGjbWE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FadwTBcvISo

I’ve had a good, hard, honest look at my marketing strategies this week. I write about the issues of sex-slave trafficking, so we’re talking about an issue that not only tugs at the heartstrings, but actually grips your gut until you cry out to God to send a deliverer. In the midst of marketing my books, I DON’T want you to buy them because, “You’re a wonderful person, but buying my book will make you better.”

Only the Holy Spirit will make you a better person.

But I do want to let you know about my books. And I want to let you know about these books with integrity, honesty and a clean conscience.

Do I want you curious about my books? Sure I do. This is how I make my living.

Do I market in the best way? Probably not, but I’m trying, I’m learning, and I’m leaning into the Lord. I don’t want to dodge this character issue.

So, Christian authors, while we’re marketing our books, let’s not take our cues from the world’s methods of marketing.

Thoughts? Wisdom? I’ve probably stepped on dozens of toes. If you disagree with me, I’d love to hear what you have to say!

Beyond the Complaints

And since I’m on the topic of listening this week (I’m not sure how that happened, but let’s just go with it):

Listening to the Desires Beyond the Complaints

I’ve moved 53 times in my life. That’s almost twice a year on average. There have been years that I’ve moved five or six time. I’m not talking about the times where I floated between houses with a majority of my belongings in one spot, I’m talking about moving everything every time. No, it wasn’t for the military, but I can sympathize with those in the military who have moved twice as much as I have.

I’m not complaining about moving. I have a feeling there will be some more moves in the future, and I’m excited about the journey God has my family on. But I do want to say this about moving:

A person experiences so many changes, whether it’s moving down the street our across the ocean, and in the adjustment period there are bound to be complaints. However adjusted some of us may be to change, none of us are so adjusted that we’re without complaint. Some of us turn these complaints into prayers, some of us turn these complaints into a venting session, some of us incorporate a lively combination. But all of us who have gone through this kind of upheaval can relate to the Israelites in the desert.

Change isn’t easy.

But there’s a genuine desire beyond the complaints. Water is a real need. It takes a great deal of character and trust not to complain if you’ve wandered in the desert for three days without water. Primal needs often drive primal responses.

Then there’s the forty years of wandering in the desert.

If I didn’t have Christ in my life, I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to withstand forty days in the desert, let alone forty years.

You don’t need to listen very hard these days to hear people complaining. Facebook is a cesspool of vents, and I’ve contributed my share.

Complaining is contagious. Yuk.

But there are genuine desires beyond complaints. Sometimes, people just want to be listened to. Really listened to.

Here’s a version of the golden rule I heard from John Paul Jackson:

Listen to others as you would have them listen to you.

When we give of ourselves fully in that way, by listening with an engaged heart, some surprising things begin to take place.

First, we may hear their desires beyond the complaints.

Second, they may stop complaining.

Third, they may pay it forward.

It took me years to begin to pay it forward, and I’m so thankful to those who gave listening ears in the interim.

Have you ever had someone genuinely listen to you in a way that changed your life?

Thank You for Not Listening

Yes, I did say this to my husband the other day. “Thank you for not listening to me.”

And he said the same thing back to me.

First, his story:

The last two jobs he’s had are because I sent in his resume when he told me not to. He’s forgiven me for the first instance, and thankfully he didn’t get any permanent scars. He did get a broken bone, a severe rug burn and a black widow bite, but he’s forgiven me for getting that job for him. Some forever-friendships came from that job.

The second time I sent off his resume when he said not to, it was for his current job. Have you ever seen someone doing what God designed them to do? Doesn’t it make your heart warm all the way down to your toes? I feel that every time my husband comes home from work. He was made for this job.

No, I’m not usually such a non-submissive wife. My husband makes the Ephesians 5:22 principle quite easy, since he tries his best to love me as Christ loves the Church.

But sometimes he doesn’t listen to me. And sometimes I’m thankful for that.

A year ago I was feverish and achy, sicker than I’d been in years and unable to do much more than lie on the bed and moan.

“I’m going to get a dog,” my husband declared. “It’s a two hour drive, and I’ll bring Kenzie with me so you can rest.”

“Please,” I croaked through a dry throat, “please don’t get a dog right now. Please. I beg you. Please.”

He didn’t listen to me.

He knows me well enough. Before an animal arrives I fight tooth, claw and nail against it. When the animal shows up, well, a different story unfolds.

“We have a dog named Faith,” my husband said. “Shall we name this next one Peace?”

“No.” I had said please so many times I couldn’t form the word any more, and Peace was too close. “Name her Hope.” I fell back into a feverish sleep, not even able to worry that they were heading out on a Friday evening through the worst possible traffic area in middle America.

Six hours later they returned.

With Hope.

And I instantly fell in love.

“Thank you,” I said to my husband. “Thank you for not listening to me.”

This dog has been a huge blessing in our life, and a huge promise from the Lord for the future:

Hope.

Me, feverish, adoring my new dog.

After one of her many baths. I bathed her twice a week when she was young, since mud tended to cling to her beautiful white coat.

Hope’s favorite place to sleep for her first month here.

She’s twice this size now, but so gentle and patient.

Sometimes we desire things that we fight against. Have you ever done that?

Practice What You Write – guest post for GNFA

I’m a guest today at Grace & Faith Author Connection and you can find my post here:

http://graceandfaith4u.com/2013/02/04/practice-what-you-write/

How Shall We Love? An excerpt

As I mentioned in my last post, I just published a new book:

How Shall We Love?

I will be officially launching this book later this month. Within these pages you’ll find a young girl’s wild journeys across the globe and across her heart as she searches for an answer to this question. There’s profound heartache, disappointments, a cameo of a famous nun and romance with a skater-punk.

Of all the books I’ve written, this one was the most difficult. From conception of the idea during NaNoWriMo one year to date of publication this week, it took me almost seven years. Other novels came quickly, but How Shall We Love? needed time and special attention. Cornelia is a unique sort of genius and hard to pen on the page. Shepherd, Cornelia’s father, broke my heart more than once as I wrote.

This is one of my favorite scenes from the book, which takes place very early on. I hope you enjoy it! And if you do, the rest of the book is free on Kindle today.

Chapter 4

   Shepherd was away almost constantly from my ninth birthday until my eleventh. His new book, The Leap of the Poisonous Frog Prince, gained instant popularity, and he was in constant demand for lectures and book signings. The anti-war themes struck a chord with most of the audience he hoped to reach, and his giddy excitement was unquenchable for the first six months after publication.

It was hard to ignore when the secret kisses with Trisha diminished and the public ones looked forced. I pretended not to notice the dwindling love between them, but I had less drive for my extracurricular lessons, and my violin gathered more and more dust.

When he came home for three days a month Shepherd gave most of his attention to me. I tried ignoring Kurt’s jealousy, though it pained me, and I lectured Shepherd on occasion. He needed to spend time with his son as well as with his daughter. He always smiled, almost patronizing in his assurance that he would comply with my request.

At the same time I loved these moments alone with my father. He treated me as his equal, and never tried have me perform for his friends like Trisha occasionally did.

Every time we stole away for father-daughter time, Shepherd asked me how my research was going. He hung on my every word. He even asked my permission to use an idea or concept in an article or book, and then would show me the places where he gave me credit.

He often asked me about the connections I saw between birth and pain.

“With every birth there is a death,” I explained, sitting across from him in the café, crossing my legs, sipping my spiced chai tea in the pause, and holding as much sophistication as a ten year old girl could work up. “There is a severance of connection, and that loss of connection is like death. And so there is pain.” I felt like a professor at the University where he taught. And probably looked like one, with my turtleneck sweater, faded blue jeans, dark brown Mary Jane shoes, and my hair in two French braids along the side of my head. I could concentrate better when my hair was in French braids. Shepherd never argued with such statements.

“And Jesus, who I’m studying right now, said that to be born of God you must die to yourself,” I continued. “Buddha said that in order to be reincarnated closer to Nirvana you must deny yourself bunches of stuff, like food and friendships. So that’s even more of a connection. But to do all this you must love, or so I’ve concluded so far. I still have more research to do. I’ve almost connected all of them together, Shepherd.”

I looked up with a wide smile and saw my father’s disappointed expression again. I was working it all out in my mind even as I talked with him and hardly noticed his disappointment. His expression caught me off guard. I chalked it up to the fact that he disliked phrases like ‘bunches of stuff.’ My words had poured forth as fast as my conclusions came, and it slid out before I could catch it.

“Is your mother letting you study religions now?” he asked, smiling flatly.

I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s part of my research… I do my research in my spare time… I mean, well, Trisha and I are looking at religions as part of women’s history.” It made me uncomfortable when he called Trisha ‘your mother,’ as if he no longer felt a connection with either of us.

His smile was sardonic. “Women’s history, huh? Well, it was her major in college for a while, until she switched to literature. But how does she link that to religious studies?”

“She’s been explaining how women throughout history have been suppressed by most of the religions in the world.”

“Too true, unfortunately. Tell me, upon which supposition are you undertaking these studies?” He demanded an answer with his tone. I guessed long ago that I had inherited his manner of asking questions.

“Explain suppositions to me once more?” I asked, more to stall the conversation than to hear the definition.

“A supposition is the fixed idea or belief upon which you build your research,” he explained. He smiled, extending his lower lip as a plea for forgiveness for having demanded. I always offered him the information he sought when he smiled like that. When I was five and six I use to ask him to make that face every night before bed or I would withhold kisses and refuse to sleep. Then I’d giggle wildly once he did, pulling at his lip when he retracted it again. I knew he made that face when, though often truly penitent, he wanted answers, and wouldn’t let up until he got them.

“I have to do my research on the supposition that there is a god of some sort, or many, as the ancient Greeks, and some indingeous—I mean indigenous tribes in Africa believe.”

His deep chuckle made me laugh. “Where did you learn the word indigenous?” he jabbed playfully.

“Trisha taught me. She teaches me about Africa all the time, since she studied that in college, too. I’m going there, one day,” I declared. “For research purposes, of course,” I quickly added. “Or maybe to work.”

Shepherd nodded. His straight expression told me he expected me to go on with my previous explanation, but had tucked this declaration in his mind somewhere.

“If I don’t have the susposition,” I stumbled over the word this time, but quickly corrected myself, “the supposition that there is a god of some sort, then I would have to discard my fifth assurance in life, and I would have to find one to fill its place, and I cannot find another fifth.”

“Do there have to be five?”

I nodded in my matter-of-fact way. “I’ve already spent five years studying five assurances, and there can’t be any less now, or any more. Five is a beautiful number, mathematically.”

“You can’t argue with that: five really is a beautiful number. But what about mathematics as one of your assurances?”

She shook her head. “Can’t. Nope.”

“Why?” He looked perplexed by my certainty.

I continued to shake my head and sighed heavily. “There are imaginary numbers. You can’t put assurances in something that contains imaginary components.” I hoped to sound sophisticated enough to be taken seriously.

“Are there not imaginary gods?”

I shook my head and smiled. “But there’s a real one somewhere, and he fills the whole universe, canceling out all the notions of the imaginary ones. Imaginary numbers are real and scientifically proven.”

“And yet a god is not.” He dipped his head to look at me over the rim of his glasses.

I was ready with my own arsenal of answers, and showed my confidence with a smile. “And there are irrational numbers. You can’t put your assurance on something irrational.”

Shepherd laughed heartily. “Love is irrational, Cornelia, I can assure you of that.”

“Shepherd!” I gave a mock scowl, and huffed.

“You’ll need every rebuttal I can give, my Cornelia, because men will be intimidated by you and will look for any and every loop-hole they can find to make you look unintelligent. And my daughter is smarter than all of them.”

“So you’re helping me?”

“Of course.” His smile had to be the handsomest I could ever imagine. I determined long before that day that one day I would marry a man like Shepherd.

I felt my ten year old heart melt as I gazed into his eyes. “So do you love me irrationally?”

“On days like today, absolutely.”

I kicked him playfully before resuming my air of sophistication.

I’m Just So Tired

I don’t know if I’ve ever felt as exhausted as I did this week. It was the sort of exhaustion where I wish I had the option of either draping myself lazily onto a couch for three days or screaming at the top of my lungs for three hours.

Why was I so exhausted?

Over the weekend I finished writing one of the most difficult novels I’ve ever written. For one, it took me seven years to write this book. I usually can write a book a year, but this one took seven years. I kept trying to make the book different from what I knew it needed to be, because I was scared. Terrified. This book is sure to offend nearly everyone who reads it.

So when I finally wrote it the way it needed to be written, I felt. So. Free.

And exhausted, as if I’d just given birth.

Pleasing people has me exhausted enough to want to go to sleep. Right now. I’m so tired of this drive to please.

I’m tired beyond reason at the successive waves of disillusionment crashing against me. The decade of my thirties seems to be the magnet for disillusionment. Before I turned thirty, I believed I was always a decent, kind, loving person with only the best intentions.  I don’t blame you for that laugh that you just gave. I’ve had almost six years since that lovely disillusionment came my way, and I’m well used to laughing at myself over it.

The pendulum swung so hard over that disillusionment that I had to remind myself again and again: I do love.

The most difficult and exhausting disillusionment came through witnessing the clash of ideologies, and how militant people become concerning what they believe.

Militant.

They’ll know we are Christians by our what?

Lately it seems that Christians are known by fears and prejudices (and not just our own, mind you, but the prejudice of others toward us). Then there’s our infighting and the fact that we can be swifter to turn on our neighbor than to turn our cheek.

I don’t think I’m the only one to feel disillusioned about this lately.

But I believe that the opposite of disillusionment is encouragement.

So, how can we encourage one another?

The Last Potluck Supper, Part 3, a story

The Last Potluck Supper
Part 3

a story

(Find Part 1 HERE)

(Find Part 2 HERE)

Evelyn rubbed her thumb against her fingers throughout the symposium, remembering where Aiden’s hand had been entwined with hers. She chided herself the entire time.

It didn’t help that tonight’s symposium discussion was on the patience of love.

Patience. She could fake it well enough, but in her heart of hearts, Evelyn was ANYTHING but patient. How many years did she have to wait already? Hadn’t she been patient enough?

Yet again, she had no comments to add to the discussion.

At least she was over Bobby Washington. Sheesh! That took a long time. And one bite of Aiden’s chicken and black bean pasta dish.

As soon as the symposium portion of the evening finished, Jimmy Kradin bounced to her side. Ugh. There were a few people more annoying, but not many.

“Hey, I lived through the sushi last week. Good stuff. I shouldn’t have given you such a hard time about it. What was that green stuff by the way?”

She gave him a coy smile. “Why? Did it make you cry?”

Jimmy looked away. “No. Not even a little. I can handle the spice!”

Not for one second would she spare him a stiff roll of the eyes. Why didn’t someone just marry him so he’d be out of the singles’ group once and for all. Hm…maybe someone like…Madison Filmore who kept talking to Aiden. Or Gladys, who seemed to love Jimmy’s cooking.

“I loved your sauces tonight even more.”  Was he still talking to her?

Gladys appeared from nowhere. “Ooh, that one with the chili flecks, what kind was that? I loved it, Ev!”

Praise indeed! But she couldn’t help her smile. “It was a mango chili dip.”

“It was righteous, girl. Keep it coming.”

“I agree,” Aiden said, appearing from out of nowhere. Where did come from? And how would she keep him in the conversation? “That mango chili dip was dope stuff.”

Madison also jumped into the conversation. “And what was that coconut-y dip? It reminded me of the Caribbean! Absolutely divine, Evelyn. Absolutely divine.”

Aiden grinned. “You keep making sauces like those and it won’t be long before you’re not in the singles’ meetings, but walking down the aisle.”

Evelyn’s face flushed hot. “I…I made them all from scratch.”

Madison clenched onto Evelyn’s arm. “You have got to let me come over so I can learn some of your cooking secrets.”

Somehow, in the midst of all this praise, all the praise she’d been yearning for, Evelyn realized it wasn’t about the food. It wasn’t about the praise, either. All this time, she had been yearning for the One who gave her everything and blessed her so mightily with these friendships. God is love, and love was all she needed. God had been so patient when she had been so bitter.

It was the first time in weeks that instead of crying herself to sleep after a Potluck Symposium, she skimmed through the pages of her bible to 1 Corinthians 13.

Love is patient.

Love is kind…

Evelyn’s Protest sauces and dips

Mango Chili Sauce:

Ingredients:

2 c. mango slices (3 mangoes)
1/2 c. sugar
3 c. rice vinegar or distilled vinegar
2 tsp dried red pepper, or 1 tsp chili powder

Method:

Heat the vinegar in a sauce pan.
Add the sugar and stir until it’s dissolved.
Add the mango slices and cook until tender.
Remove from heat and puree.
Stir in dried red pepper and allow to sit for at least 1 hour until flavors meld.

Divine Caribbean sauce/marinade/dip:

Ingredients:

1/2 c. vinegar
2 tbsp. sugar
2 pieces candied ginger, sliced
2 bananas, sliced
juice from 1 lime
1/2 c. pineapple slices
1 can (14oz) coconut milk

Method:

Heat the vinegar in a sauce pan, and stir in the sugar until it dissolves.
Add the sliced candied ginger, banana, pineapple slices and lime juice.
Puree mixture.
Return to heat and add coconut milk.
Cook until the mixture bubbles.
Cool completely before using (unless you plan to use it as a glaze over roast chicken, then apply 5 minutes before the end of the chicken’s cooking time).

Character Interview: Matthew Cho from Revelation Special Ops book 2

Transcripts from the Interview with Matthew Cho from Pharmacia: Those Magic Arts
Book 2 of REVELATION SPECIAL OPS
TOP SECRET
MUST HAVE CLEARANCE

Transmitter for the interview provided byLuzak.

Interview by Aaron Cooper, co-founder of Revelation Special Ops.

HIGHLY CLASSIFIED

SENSITIVE MATERIAL

M. Cho: Mr. Cooper, are you there, sir?

A. Cooper: Matt, it’s so good to hear your voice. But you don’t sound so healthy. How are you?

M. Cho: I’m keeping. Holding steady. (coughs) Please, I have to know–how’s Hadassah?

A. Cooper: Right after you were captured, she was recruited by Israeli Intelligence. She’ll be working with them for six months.

M. Cho: But how is she?

A. Cooper: She’s doing well, considering what happened to her dad, and then to you.

M. Cho: I saw her dad. Pastor Asher. He’s gone again.

A. Cooper: Is there any hope of you coming back to us, Matt?

M. Cho: Unless I become feed for the Velosiraptors, I’ll be back as soon as I can. They had me cleaning up after the Brachiosauruses for a while. This place, this rebuilt Babylon, it’s so freakish, man, I can hardly begin to tell you. You’ll see it from my journal pages soon enough.

A. Cooper: The journal pages made it to us.

M. Cho: I haven’t found my dad yet, but I’m recording everything I see. These underground prisons where they keep all of us…so many of the prisoners and slaves are sick. Mr. Cooper, I keep praying for them, but it’s so awful. It’s so awful. The smell. The stench of it all is making me sick. No one is healing, even though I keep praying. Please, I’ve got to get out. I don’t even know if God is still listening to me here. Sometimes I have visions of Him. Sometimes I feel His presence. But he seems so far away from me.

A. Cooper: Don’t let go of God, Matt. Hold onto Him with everything you have. We’ll be coming for you as soon as we can.

M. Cho: I’m going to be transferred soon.

A. Cooper: We’ll find you.

M. Cho: The first seal, Mr. Cooper, the first seal has been opened. The white horse and the arrowless rider.

A. Cooper: We know. The whole world was watching that.

M. Cho: I have to get out of here, Mr. Cooper. There are so many other girls here that need to be rescued from modern slavery. And boys. There are so many children here in Babylon. I can’t take it. If I’m not working to free them, who will free them?

A. Cooper: I’m glad for your heart, son, but it’s not all up to you. Keep praying. Someone else is coming to free them. That’s a promise we can hold onto.

This interview is based on some of what lies within the pages of Pharmacia: Those Magic Arts.

FREE Today & tomorrow for the

Kindle.

HELP! I have a book inside me!

I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to hear these words from a friend. You know that moment… the one where a friend comes to you and asks for help with something you ACTUALLY know about.

So many people have held my hand on this journey to become a writer (a shout out, here, to the amazing and illustrious Logan Smith, prominent hand holder). I become giddy when it’s my turn to hold someone else’s hand on their journey toward sitting down to write that first sentence, all the way to ‘The End’.

By the way, once you write ‘The End’ on your first novel, it’s only a matter of time before you write the first sentence on your next novel. If you haven’t done so already!

So how does a person begin?

Here are five steps I recommend for becoming a writer:

1. First and foremost, pray. Pray with all your might. I dare not do any of this without the Lord, especially since I seek to honor Him in all I do.

2. Second, take the expectation off your self that the first sentence you write has to be the first sentence of the novel.

3. Third of all, practice some discipline and diligence in your writing. This can be done in several ways:

Blog twice a week, or more.
Write three pages every day. I woke at 5am every day for 3 months to write these three pages. If you don’t know how difficult that was for me, ask my mom. I was born a night owl. But inflicting this sort of discipline on myself helped. Immensely.
Take a course (this can often help you gain confidence as you finish assignments and receive feedback).
Meet with other writers who are WRITING, and write together. Don’t TALK about writing together, actually write in each other’s company. Listen to their work and read your work aloud to them.

Do what fits you best. If you want to be private in your process, start with the 3 pages. If you want to build an audience, start blogging. If you want to network and get regular encouragement, take a course or meet with other writers.

4. Fourth, get to know your own creative process. There’s a spectrum of creative processes in writers, from those who plot every detail before they write the first sentence to those who figure out what the book is actually about when they’re 3/4 the way through the first draft. You don’t have to have the same creative process as Stephen King to be a great, or even a prolific writer. My awesome crit partner (love you, S. T.!) is a plotter, and I adore her books. I’m a seat-of-the-pants writer of sorts, where I know what will happen in a vague sort of way, but I dare not write that down before I write the actually story. Be okay with who you are. One process or another will not squash your creativity, unless it’s contrary to how you roll.

5. The fifth, and probably one of the most important parts for us introvert writers, is this: GET A TRIBE! I couldn’t have survived the indie-pub process without a tribe of supportive people.

Now pick up that pen, or open a word document, and GO!

Books I’ve written:

Pharmacia: Those Magic Arts is FREE for the Kindle

Tues-Thurs, Jan 15-17