Writing Lessons

By day, Liz Johnson works as a marketing manager, and she makes time to write late at night. Liz is the author of nine novels—including her latest, The Red Door Inn (Prince Edward Island Dreams, book 1)—and a New York Times bestselling novella. She makes her home in Nashville, where she enjoys exploring local music, theater, and making frequent trips to Arizona to dote on her nieces and nephews. She writes stories of true love filled with heart, humor, and happily ever afters. Connect with her at www.LizJohnsonBooks.com or www.Facebook.com/LizJohnsonBooks.

Writing Lessons

I was standing in line for coffee (well, in line with others in line for coffee—I prefer the near milkshake version) at a writers conference several years ago. The woman behind me was also alone and also wearing a nametag identifying her as part of the same conference. Feeling a little more extroverted than usual, I asked, "What do you write?"

I expected a quippy response—the kind of single-line identifier writers spend years perfecting. What I got instead was a tirade on the ills of Christian publishing and the narrow-mindedness of some editors not interested in books about missionaries in Africa.

After five full minutes, she harrumphed. "I just don't understand why God would call me to write this book, when no one seems to be interested."

I thought that probably translated into, "I had a couple painful editor appointments,” but I didn't say as much. Instead I gently—I hope I was gentle, anyway—suggested that perhaps God had called her to write the book so He could teach her something new.

To which she snapped, "I've already learned the lessons I wrote about in my book."

Thank goodness it was then my turn to order. Double that whip cream, please.

I wonder about that exchange every now and then. It was years ago, and I probably wouldn't recognize the woman again if she introduced herself. But I think about what I really meant to say, and if I'm listening to my own advice. You see, I think God uses the very process of writing and editing and pitching books to teach us amazing things. Even on the surface level, I've learned some incredible lessons, like perseverance pays off, flexibility is important, and big computer screens can hide bad hair days.

But there’s more to this whole putting thoughts to paper thing. Here are three lessons God has taught me through the course of writing my books.

1. My worth isn't in sales or how many books have my name on the cover.

Who I am is not how many people recognize me on the street (none, by the way) or what conference I'm asked (or not asked) to speak at. Doing the hard work of writing a book isn't about making a name for myself or being told I'm a wonderful writer (although that's nice to hear every now and then). Because in the darkness (I write best at night) it's just me and my computer and God. That time alone is 95% of my writing life. And in that time, when the enemy whispers lies into my ear (like I’ll never amount to anything or I’m not worthy), I cling to the reminder that my worth is wrapped up in one thing. I am a child of God. And I do what I do because it's the call He's given me. I’m called to use my talents and not bury them in the ground. The process of writing reminds me whose I am and whose voice I heed.

2. God's good gifts don't always come in the form of five-star reviews.

Matthew 7 talks about how God is a good Father, who wants to give His children good gifts. It’s easy to think that those gifts always come wrapped in red ribbons and blazing with stars. But sometimes the sweetest gifts come in a spurt of writing or an unexpected inspiration. My favorite of his gifts are epiphanies that fill in gaping plot holes I couldn’t fill on my own.

The passage I mentioned in Matthew follows the familiar “ask and it shall be given to you” line. I’ve discovered a joy in asking God for help and waiting to see how He’ll show up. Sometimes it’s through a kind word from a reader. Other times it’s in a brainstorming session with a fellow writer. And then there are the times when it’s a meal made by a friend who knows I’m on deadline and just need real food. When my eyes are open to them, I see His gifts everywhere.

3. I don't have to fear rejection.

Writers know the acute pain of dismissal better than most. We wrack up rejection letters with a butterfly net and wear them like a badge of honor. But that doesn’t mean they stop stinging. We pitch to our dream editors and agents, hold our breaths, and let out loud sighs when we hear back. “It’s not right for me.” “Your manuscript isn’t quite ready.” “It doesn’t fit into the market right now.” Or a reviewer plants a one-star review on your work, their words harsh and overly critical.

Industry experts tell us these aren’t personal rejections, but how could they not feel that way when we’ve poured our hearts into these stories? They hurt. Even after the 12^th and 25^th and 99^th. (And they don’t hurt any less after you’ve published a book or six.)  What I’ve come to learn is that a rejection may burn, but it’s not lethal. It may leave a bruise, but it’ll heal. And in the midst of that pain, I continue to turn to one truth. God has promised never to leave me or forsake me. No matter what pain this life brings, His love is everlasting. I don’t have to fear rejection because He’ll never reject me.

Join the conversation. What have you learned through the process of writing, editing, and pitching your work?

The Red Door Inn

Marie Carrington is broke, desperate, and hoping to find sanctuary on Prince Edward Island while decorating a renovated bed-and-breakfast. Seth Sloane moved three thousand miles to help restore his uncle's Victorian B and B--and to forget about the fiancée who broke his heart. He wasn't expecting to have to babysit a woman with a taste for expensive antiques and a bewildering habit of jumping every time he brushes past her.

The only thing Marie and Seth agree on is that getting the Red Door Inn ready to open in just two months will take everything they've got—and they have to find a way to work together. In the process, they may find something infinitely sweeter than they ever imagined on this island of dreams.

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Lessons from Dogs

Sometimes when I’m goofing with my two dogs, Baxter and Taffy, God will snap his fingers, hold his hand over my nose, and tell me to “Sit. Stay. Listen.” And when I do, I learn valuable lessons.

Almost every morning I have the same breakfast—two slices of peanut butter toast. I love peanut butter. At one point in my (much younger) life, I was going to marry peanut butter. My siblings still make fun of me for this—I do not care.

However, during the year I was unemployed (except for freelance work), every morning Baxter and Taffy would come and sit attentively near the table, convinced  I would either give them some toast or drop a bite accidentally. Their faith in my generosity (or sloppiness) never wavered.

Taffy, the trusting one

• Lesson 1: Faith looks a lot like perseverance. If I would sit at God’s feet every morning and believe He’s going to give me something good—even if he hasn’t for a while—then I’m right where I need to be just in case he does. This lesson also applies to prayer requests.

Eventually, the dogs’ faithful attentiveness prompted me—not out of guilt, but out of a desire to share with my faithful companions—to reward their faith with one bite of crust each from both pieces of toast. Every morning.

• Lesson 2: God does not share his bounty with me (not defined as anything related to money) because I beg, but because I am his child and he loves me.

The first time I offered the dogs their pieces of crust, Taffy came to me immediately, without question, and took the bite from my hand. Baxter held back. He looked at what I offered, sniffed it, and finally took it from my hand, hesitantly, as if he expected me to take it back.

Let me be clear. I am a soft-hearted man. I have never given my dogs reason to fear me or to wonder if the good I give them will be taken away. We have had Baxter five years and Taffy eight. They know what to expect.

So, they are not reacting to me with trust or hesitation. It is their nature. It’s the way they were made. One trusts completely and has since Day 1. One holds back, assessing and analyzing, and has since Day 1.

Baxter, the hesitant one

• Lesson 3: If I immediately take up God’s blessings and run with them in joy—or if I hesitate to accept the good things he has for me, it is not a reflection on God. It is the way I am. The way I was created. My nature.

Yes, I can (with God’s help) change my nature somewhat. For instance, I can train myself not to lie. But my nature—my default position, if you will—is what it is. Without the sacrifice of Christ, and the ministry of the Holy Spirit, I would remain largely unchanged until the day I die.

“What do these lessons mean to me, as a writer?” I found myself wondering one day as God held his hand over my nose.

• My characters don’t have to show a strong, unwavering faith. Few people are gifted with that. But, when they face doubts and have questions, perseverance—moving forward from the last place they heard God—is a form of faith. Taking action based on what they know to be true of God is faith, even if he is silent.
• Regardless of how much my characters pray for a certain outcome, God is under no obligation to provide it. I do not have to give my dogs crusts—I could give them carrots instead, or nothing. Our prayers do not obligate God; our prayers bring us into alignment with his will.

This one may be controversial, but I think it’s true.

• My characters should not change by leaps and bounds, but by small incremental, sometimes nearly invisible, steps. Each one’s basic nature is their basic nature.

Can God do deathbed conversions of atheists? Of course. But the more likely outcome is that a lifelong, militant atheist, will go to his or her death an atheist. Can an abusive husband experience a turnaround, repent, and abuse no more? Certainly, but the more likely—the more realistic—outcome is that he won’t.

Redemption is still redemption even in (and sometimes especially in) those smaller life changes that pull our characters not in a new direction, but just slightly off the course they were on. Even a tiny course correction, over time, will significantly alter a character’s destination.

Resist tying up all the loose ends and ending your books with everyone happy and in harmony with God. The Word tells us the world won't end that way. Why should our books?

Your turn: What writing lessons have you learned from your pets?

Michael Ehret loves to play with words and as editor of the ACFW Journal ezine, he is enjoying his playground. He also plays with words as a Marketing Communications Writer for CHEFS Catalog and as a freelance editor at WritingOnTheFineLine.com. He has edited several nonfiction books, proofedited for Abingdon Press, and reported for The Indianapolis Star.

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Growing Pains ~ Sibella Giorello

Sibella Giorello grew up in Alaska and majored in geology at Mount Holyoke College. After riding a motorcycle across the country, she worked as a features writer for the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Her stories have won state and national awards, including two nominations for the Pulitzer Prize. She now lives in Washington state with her husband and sons.





Growing Pains

by Sibella Giorello


I can still remember the ringing phone.

Coming through the front door from vacation -- sand still in my hair -- I lunged for the telephone, always certain somebody has just died.

But it was my editor at Revell.

"You won!" she exclaimed.

It will sound disingenuous but the truth often embarrasses: I didn't know what she was talking about. Several significant moments of silence passed. Then an idea dislodged itself from my beach brain.

Oh. Christy Awards. This weekend.

My first novel, "The Stones Cry Out,” was nominated for best first novel.

"What's wrong?" the editor asked, as the silence stretched on.

"Nothing."

"You’re probably in shock. Isn’t it great news?!"

Yes.

And no.

Despite the nomination, I never expected to win. Given the great novels competing in the same category, I didn't think my book would win.

Actually, I didn't think it should win.

My first novel reminded me of a knock-kneed colt struggling to stand up on its own feet. That it would win an award like the Christy seemed absurd. I wondered if a mistake had been made.

Ever since, I've felt a certain ambivalence about winning that honor. I figured my problem was pride (I’m human; there is always pride). But four novels later, I can see some sense in my ambivalence. And I can share three important lessons.

One: Pray that your first book is not your best.

Despite the award in my hand, I remained busy grieving my novice abilities. Fortunately, God countered the sackcloth-and-ashes with a spirit of perseverance. I decided the only way to get better was to keep going.

“Most people won’t realize that writing is a craft,” said Katherine Anne Porter. “You have to take your apprenticeship in it like anything else.”

Of course, you will find your own ways of enduring the early apprenticeship, but one of my favorites was The Tour of First Novels.

One day, at my most frustrated, I stormed into the library and checked out first novels by my favorite authors. Within hours, relief was humming through my veins. Not that schadenfreude sort of relief, but something productive.

Most of those first books were bad. Some even stunk. And none matched their author’s later output.

Like most first novels, those first books read like seed pods yearning to bloom.

Or: knock-kneed colts struggling to stand.

Two: In the modern era of e-books, the first book might not be so final.

Some months ago, the copyright to "The Stones Cry Out" returned to me.

Here came my colt, running for home.

Unfortunately, temptation was riding with it.

The rationalization went like this: It won a Christy. Received good reviews. Launched a successful series. You should just put it on Kindle. As-is….

But we’re called to be workers who need not be ashamed, “rightly dividing the word of truth." (2 Tim 2:15). Since I still didn't love my first book, it was my responsibility to do something about it.

With prayers for humility and discernment, I proceeded from Page 1 and continued to the end, rounding out scenes, adding flesh to characters, trying to bring the story closer to what followed in the rest of the Raleigh Harmon series.

And when "The Stones Cry Out” was put on Kindle, I didn't hesitate to add the Christy Award honor.

Because it looked different to me now.

Not only for the new work done, though it played a large part. The difference was lesson three.

I didn’t write that first book to win an award; I am grateful for it. But I am also grateful that the honor didn’t fill me with (more) pride. The simple fact is, I write because God made me a writer. That's what I’m supposed to do. Any honors, awards, or leading positions on the best-seller list can only be viewed through the lens of grace.

Completely undeserved: And yet, there it is.

And the apprenticeship carries on accordingly.

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