A Writer's Prayer From "The Valley of Vision"

If you follow me on facebook or twitter, you might know my love and affection for a little paperback, first published in 1975, called The Valley of Vision - A Collection of Puritan Prayers & Devotions. I try to share a few lines every Monday in a #mondaydevotion.

We have so much to learn from the spiritual giants who came before us. It was their wise and timeless words that guided my thoughts in a right and fitting prayer over my writing today.

Thy cause, not my own, engages my heart. 
Not my name, my reputation, my followers, my talent, or my success. Neither is perfection my cause, because I don't have it in me to make the story perfect. It will be full of mistakes, theological and artistic. The world may scorn it, but to the one who's eyes are open, or whose eyes are soon to be opened, it will make the Lord and his dealings with his people something beautiful. That's my hope, my prayer, and the cause which engages my heart.

And I appeal to thee with greatest freedom to set up thy kingdom in every place where Satan reigns.
There is no time and no place like the one I'm living in right now. No freer citizen of an earthly kingdom existed. I have so much time, so much access to information, so many avenues to proclaim his name, and so much freedom to do it without fear of persecution.

Glorify thyself and I shall rejoice, for to bring honour to thy name is my soul desire.
Lord, make this so in my heart, which is so dark, so bent toward my own glory. Destroy my pride so these words are always on my lips, so my joy is in you alone.

I adore thee that thou art God, and long that others should know it, feel it, and rejoice in it.
Lord, make my heart to ache for the lost, for my soul to weep over them, for my grief to be inconsolable. Let that be what drives me finish this work.

...To the eye of reason everything respecting the conversion of others is as dark as midnight, but thou canst accomplish great things.
My words, my story, are as refuse to much of the world. I am incompetent at best to tell the story I long to tell, and have it be used to soften hard hearts. Yet you can accomplish great things through feeble hands if you desire. It is only for me to stay faithful to the task and lay it at your feet to use or discard as you will.

The cause is thine and it is to thy glory that men should be saved.
Not mine. Not mine. Heaven forbid I would try to rob you of your glory.

Lord use me as thou wilt, do with me what thou wilt, but, O, promote thy cause, let thy kingdom come, let thy blessed interest be advanced in this world!
How good of God to put a version of this prayer on my ignorant, faltering lips many years ago when I first began to write. And how sweet of him to set my eyes on these words, written and preserved by men much smarter, holier, and closer to the Lord than me. How I praise him for this, and for his word which never changes.

Give me to grasp for multitudes of souls, and let me be willing to die to that end.
Can I truly make these words my own? Do I even understand them, after a lifetime of worshiping, working, praying, and writing whatever I please, without fear of persecution in America? The people whose story I long to tell were willing to die for this. Am I? If the world grows dark, and some wicked ruler puts my neck in a noose for the words I write, would I say, "Yes, those are my words."? Lord grant me the courage I require should that day come.

And while I live let me labour for thee to the utmost of my strength, spending time profitably in this work, both in health and in weakness.
O, how I need him every hour, every minute, every second, to stop my mind from being distracted, and my hands from being idle. There is so much in this world that seeks to destroy my productivity. Let me labor, Lord, to my dying day, stringing words together, crafting stories which honor you, if it pleases you to have me do it. And if it doesn't, take this longing from me, and set my heart on another.

Amen.

Hope to Keep Writing: Editing and Answered Prayers

I am in the editing stages of my second first WIP (that might actually become something worth reading). I've gone chapter by painstaking chapter, submitting them to my critique partners for the last seven months. That's probably twice as long as it took to write the first draft.

But first drafts are like this:

Not that it isn't hard. It is. But editing is sifting through all that sand. It's throwing out pieces of broken sea shell, scooping away big chunks of superfluous sand, and going in with a tiny brush to carve elaborate turrets, windows, brick facade, maybe even a moat to go around it that you didn't think to add before.

It's laborious, sometimes tedious. Some days I sit at the screen and stare at the same paragraph for three hours, and I don't know what to do with it until after I've left the computer in frustration and started doing the dishes, which have sat by the sink since breakfast because I was in a hurry to begin the day's editing.

But sometimes there are magical little moments, when I discover a gem I didn't know was there, and editing becomes exciting and energizing and I think maybe I'm on to something after all.

I was mulling over a chapter the other day, really struggling with it, knowing it wasn't where I wanted it to be. I read a line, maybe for the twentieth time since writing it. It wasn't an important line. It didn't stand out in any way. I stared at it until I saw the word, "her." Just a simple pronoun. It probably occurs 1000 times in the manuscript. But this one was different. It added a layer of meaning to the sentence I didn't fully understand when I wrote it, not even when I read it the first nineteen times. This day I saw it for what it meant. "Her," and no one else. Not the whole family.
Just her.
Plot twist.
New motive.
How exciting!
I added one more pithy line beneath it, a line of dialogue, which reveals a great deal about the character of the father, a characteristic the girl doesn't know yet, but the reader does. Now.

I've made maybe half a dozen little discoveries like this during the editing process. The light bulb goes on over a word or phrase, revealing a plot twist (usually a plot hole), and things come together in a beautiful new way.

I don't usually take any special note of these moments. I just squirm in my seat, rub my hands together, and smile wickedly as I type on.

I took note of this one because it felt distinctly like something outside myself, something smarter than myself, had a hand in that. I know there are lots of writers in the great big world who have these moments, but I am always praying over my writing, so when something like this happens, I wonder if God is answering my prayer to show me things I can't see. And then I wonder if God's hand is actually in my creative work, and if I'm being obedient to His calling, not mine, and if He's blessing me for it. I wonder if He's guiding me to the next step. I begin to think that this is not all for nothing.

It could all be my imagination, but it gives me hope. It makes me crave more time with my computer. It drives me to keep at it, even when I have normal things that normal people do that get in the way. I may have a day that's full with bible study, and picking up the dry cleaning, and stopping by the store to pick up ingredients for a meal for my friend who just had a baby. But all those normal things are punctuated by thoughts of my story. Dialogue streaming through my mind as I drive, feeling the sun on my character's skin when I feel it on mine, and using my one precious hour alone to unload it all in the Word document, and read it over four times to make sure I like it.

Whether or not God does anything with it, I think, for me, there will always be writing. It is a part of who I am. It is a part of how I function. The tap has been turned on and it flows constantly for me.

Lament of the Christian Artist

Overwhelmed today with the question--AGAIN--of what God has promised me. I'm studying the story of Balaam and his donkey, which I did not want to study this week. I put it off again and again. I even wrinkled my nose at it when I saw it sitting by my computer, and checked facebook instead. I finished it without putting forth too much effort and went to bible study not really understanding it, not sure what God was saying to Israel, or to me, with the exception of his steadfast promise: Blessed are you, my people; I am sovereign over every single thing. There was, I admit, a bit of a *yawn* response from me. It's the same word from God week after week, chapter after chapter.

But as I listened to my friends answer the same questions with such profound insight, I sat up a little straighter and reread some of those prophecies from Numbers

"The God who can predict outcomes is the God who is the author of history," my teaching leader said.

I believe this about my God. With all my heart, I believe this. But the old, persistent question came to me, like a dilapidated neon sign that blinks and splutters but never quite goes out.

What did you promise me? Am I to understand your words in light of eternal victory? Or in light of my small life, which only has purpose because you give me a job to fulfill? Do you promise to use me as a writer of stories that are worthy to be read? Do you promise that I will become a published author? Is that your promise to me?

When I got to the car with these questions in my mind, I groaned and asked God if he was tired of hearing me ask because, frankly, I was tired of asking. "If this is not your promise to me," I prayed, tearing up as I drove down Abercorn, "take from me this dream and set my heart on another task, another mission, another way I can be used." I am willing to do that. I trust him for that.

But if it is his promise...if it is his promise, I will strive toward that for a decade more. Two decades. A lifetime. But I cannot spend a lifetime chasing a fool's errand. I must know if my prayers are the prayers of a self-aggrandizing bag of hot air, or a (semi) talented writer who really may one day achieve publication.

It struck me on the drive home: what if I'm not the faithful donkey, with his eyes to see the Lord's angel, but I am really Balaam, who is so single-minded, so determined to go his own way that he will beat the gentle faithful one into submission? How do I know I am not a diviner, trying to create the path I want, and blind to the path God has actually set me on? How do I know the set backs and discouragements aren't the voice of the donkey, who sees more clearly than I, that God himself is blocking the way?

"The story of Balaam abounds in comic irony," my commentary says, and I suppose if I were a Jew, a recipient of the promise, on the other side of victory with Moab, I would see the humor in it. Though the promised Redeemer has come, and God's completed Word sits open in my lap, I don't know who I am in this story.

Have I kicked someone under me? Neglected them? Despised them for interrupting my course, for keeping me from my writing desk, and my pursuit of my own glory?

I want to say that I am not Balaam. Balaam sold his soul for riches from Moab and died by the sword because of it. Balaam was willing to take a bribe. Balaam exacted revenge through wicked means when he didn't get his way.

God knows my heart. He knows it beats for him. He doesn't really need me to tell him how desperate I am for a word from him, a hint of a promise, a glimmer that I have heretofore missed because I blinked.

In asking God for an answer, I am taking a risk. I did my best, most prolific writing when I was not concerned with agents and contests and contracts. For so long I have successfully pushed aside the fear that it would be wasted, that no one would ever read it. I have convinced myself to write something down, anything, even if it's terrible, knowing that I can go back and fix it later. It has been enough to keep my fingers on the keyboard through 4 1/2 manuscripts. All without knowing for certain if this was even God's plan for my life. Without the assurance that this is his promise to me.

I stubbornly hope despite the odds.

I look at books from the library sitting on my bedside table. I see their paper, their ink, their cardboard spine, covered in that awful plastic film. I see the cover art and the dedication and I think, "This is impossible." I'm just a housewife. A nobody. Every author was at one time, I suppose. Every author wrote a terrible first draft and stuck with it until it got better...and then the clouds parted, and the heavenly chorus sounded from above, and God set them on their path to the promised book deal.

I realize now that I am still on the pendulum that swings wildly from total narcissism to crushing self-doubt, only now it has become unhinged and swings in a new direction that is a combination of both. Narcissism and doubt.

I'm sick of thinking about it. I'm sick of thinking about myself.

I won't quit. It's not a question of my quitting. It's a habit now, to turn my brain to story mode in the car, or the shower, or on a walk, or lying in bed. There is a drive to finish that will keep me at the computer every available minute of the day, even if the answer is no.

Until I am sure the answer is no.

The things that have gotten me to this point, the ways God has worked things out for me, kept me encouraged, spared my crooked little flash drive, protected my time and my health, put inspiring things in front of me, kept my computer from crashing, built me up, torn me town, taken my hand as I rebuilt again, shown me things that made my work better, given me a husband who allows me to indulge in what I have always tried to pass off as a glorified hobby, plucked me out of my old life and set me down in one of calm, and peace, and ease, so that I have an over-abundance of time to develop my craft, which I have grown to love so much--I have not imagined these things. They are not the outworking of my over-confidence, or my ambition, or my own feeble attempts.

Can I say that being a writer--an actual, legitimate, recognized, (dare I say it?) published author--is his promise to me? A promise that I should fight and claw and scratch and sweat to obtain?

God has brought me to this point and until he tells me, "No," I am powerless to stop trying.

The Prayer of a Christian Writer

You know how hard I've worked. You've been there, all those dark, lonely hours while I pinged away at a keyboard. You helped me tell the story, sustained me with time, a computer that didn't crash, a crooked little flashdrive that has never been lost. You watched me type the first word and the last word, and You knew when I changed the first word through 16 revisions.

You know how my ego has swelled with every compliment and You know how hard I have fought the battle against pride. You've seen me struggle to make myself less when my heart cries out for recognition, admiration, and fawning praise. You know how I yearn for that "someone" to notice me and make my dreams of success come true.

Don't give it to me. The same way You denied Moses when he asked to see Your face in Exodus 33:18, because You knew it would be too much for him.

If You don't go with me on the difficult road to publication, don't send me. Don't let my ears be tickled with compliments that will skew my view of myself. Don't let me hear encouragement that will push me farther than You want me to go. Don't let others whisper empty promises that deliver false hope.

Just go with me. That's what I ask. You and me. Knowing You are there and You are pleased is worth more to me than a contract, more than the pleasure of seeing my words in print.

To be published, respected, and influential--those are good things and You will guide me toward that in Your time, in Your way. I am not like the others. There are talented aspiring writers in the great big world who don't know You. They clamber for attention and due praise, and buy followers, and fight for room on a tiny stage. But I do not cross my fingers for luck when I query. I do not receive rejection bitterly. I do not blame. I do not pout. I do not lose hope as long as You are with me.

Your ways are different and your presence separates me from the pack.

Your presence is all I truly want. More than success, more than royalties, more even than sincere praise. Because those things don't guide my steps. Those things don't linger. Those things don't care about the souls of my potential audience.

So, with humility, I ask for Your presence so that Your presence will supply the boldness I need to move forward in this pursuit.

My Greatest Desire as a Writer

The more I write and the more I think critically about what I'm reading, the lower my threshold for bad writing.  I can spot it almost instantaneously when I see the words, "derisively," "sardonically," "prettily," "languidly," or any such cringe-worthy, superfluous adverbs.  I also cringe when I come across short sentences such as, "She stiffened."  Or "His eyes pierced hers." 

Yuck.

I hate to say it but often times, this is the case with Inspirational Fiction, a genre that is close to my heart, but which I can hardly stand to read anymore.

It didn't used to bother me until I started taking note of what makes good writing good.  I began to see that wonderful, literary authors never do those things.  Good writers balance simple sentences with complex, they use interesting words but not in an arrogant way.  They describe just enough to let my imagination take over.  Their writing is so fluid, so fast-paced, so free from unnecessary clutter, that my fingers begin turning pages without realizing it.  I become lost in the world they have created without remembering that I'm supposed to be paying attention to their writing techniques.

That's such a wonderful gift, isn't it?  When the black and white, flat, hard object in your lap morphs into a world that you can smell, feel, and taste?  

I was reading a wonderful book this week that I was completely lost in. The writing was wonderful, the setting was historical and authentic in every way, the story was full of tension, the heroine was sympathetic and I ached for her.  It wasn't a Christian-themed book but it was clever and well-done, and I was enjoying it immensely.  

And then the most annoying thing happened.  In one awkward paragraph, the story became lost in a modern feminist issue.  I have been struggling to get through the second half of the book but I've completely lost interest in the story and I'm so totally disappointed.

This has happened to me so many times.  It seems that the best and brightest women authors happen to also be highly educated, intellectual elitist, feminist liberals.  Yes, I said it.  Their writing is spectacular, smart, funny, filled with the most artful, subtle, delicious similes and allegories.  I can begin and finish a mammoth book by one of these authors in one or two days of constant reading and I always feel smarter for having read them.  

But I'm also constantly barraged with women's politics: abortion, gay issues, equal rights, and on and on.  

Blah, blah, *yawn.*

I wish I could be a dissonant voice in the literary world.  This is my great desire as a writer.  Greater even than being published.  I could die happy never being published if I knew with confidence that my writing was smart enough to stand up to the great women authors of my day, telling stories that help young readers see that it's okay to want to be rescued.  It's okay to desire a man who is capable of rescuing you, and to admire the dignity in that man who would lay down his life for you.  It's okay to feel as if being married and having children is synonymous with living happily ever after.  It's okay to describe religion in a respectful and helpful way.

Those are the kinds of stories I write and as of this moment, I write them when no one is looking and they lurk in the shadows of my computer, rarely seeing the light of day.  I haven't had the guts yet to submit anything for publication--partly out of fear of being criticized (I think that would be worse than being rejected--it's strange how fragile my confidence is when I have enough of it to keep me typing for 80,000 words). 

But it's partly because I have a gut instinct that what I've written really does kind of suck. I mean, it's better than a lot of fiction out there, but it's not great either and SO WHAT if I can self-publish, if it's unreadable garbage? The whole point is to draw readers into a story that helps them know God better. If I'm unable to do that, what's the point of self-publishing?  Who would read it?  Who would want to?

I read books by great authors that are completely antithetical to faith and I think, "God, I want to do that in a way that glorifies you but I don't know how." Three years after I first starting writing fiction, I've improved a little but not much and I feel tapped out on what I've been gifted with. I can only do so much with what I have.  Somehow, against my better judgment, I've stayed encouraged and continued writing, but I struggle sometimes with the question of whether I should keep trying to make it better, or just accept my limitations and move on to something more fruitful.

More than anything, I struggle to understand why God would gift so many people who hate his truth while people who love him just can't compete artistically.  

Please tell me I'm not the only one.