Will They Like My Writing?

Peter Leavell, a 2007 graduate of Boise State University with a degree in history, was the 2011 winner of Christian Writers Guild's Operation First Novel contest, and 2013 Christian Retailing's Best award for First-Time Author. Peter and his family live in Boise, Idaho. For entertainment, he reads historical books, where he finds ideas for new novels. For relaxation, he writes westerns. Whenever he has a chance, he takes his wife and two homeschooled children on crazy but fun research trips. Learn more about Peter's books, research, and family adventures at www.peterleavell.com.

Every writer has doubts.

Again. EVERY writer is mired in doubt.

You and I are sitting at my kitchen table, talking this through. We both have doubts. Sure, we’ve a few writing credits to our name. A blog here. Maybe a published book or a few articles. I’ve won an award or two. I share that one writer I spoke with is on his twelfth book and called me because he’s filled with doubts.

But not like our hero writer. Not like the one we emulate. Because she’s got it all together.

Ahhh, forget it. It’s been a brutal day at work, and I’m in no mood to write or talk, so I’m going for a jog. I'll talk to you in a bit. You head home.

My playlist rocks and rolls, pumping creative juices.

Cool winds brush across my skin, and my feet beat a steady rhythm to the music, awakening joy in my soul. But fears about my writing drive a frozen spike through any happiness. Worthless, pointless, unskilled and readerless—the doubts drift through my mind. My running slows and I lower my head. Writing is everything to me.

Then a song jars from my absurdly awesome playlist. Muppets.

Mahna Mahna. Do doo be-do-do.

A fun song, no doubt, but not for this run. I reach up to skip it.

Mahna Mahna. Do do-do do.

DON’T CHANGE THIS SONG

I pause. It’s God speaking. The song continues.

Mahna Mahna. Do doo be-do-do.

I hold my thumb on the clicker. LEAVE IT

Come on, God. I have some amazing music on this playlist. Some Christian tunes even.

LISTEN

I stop running and listen. There’s not a real word in the entire song. Mahna Mahna is just dribble. Worthless, pointless, unskilled, and amazing dribble. How could the writer of that silly song know the meaningless words would make millions upon millions of people happy?

My mouth opens wide. I play the song again as I sprint home to call you.

Listen, I say in a rush. It’s not about the work and the edits and the story. Sales aren’t our problem. Reviews…pshhh—we can’t control them—and they weren’t written for us, anyway. In fact, it’s not about us at all. God’s given us a passion. It’s inside us, and He wants us to write. That’s it. There’s nothing more. Sure, we’re going to do our best to learn the craft and market and stuff, but in the end, who knows how our writing will influence people? Yep, that’s right. Only God.  

Good point, you say. You end the call, sit down, and push away your doubts. Because you’re a writer. And the rest is in His hands.

Read More

A Father’s Concern for the Details

Marcia Lee Laycock lives with her husband, two golden retrievers and a six-toed cat, in central Alberta Canada. She was the winner of the Best New Canadian Christian Author Award in 2006 for her novel, One Smooth Stone. Her devotionals have been endorsed by Mark Buchanan, Phil Callaway and Janette Oke.

I was browsing in a store the other day, looking for a graduation card for a friend’s daughter. Right beside the grad. cards was a colorful display of father’s day cards and gifts. As I scanned them, my mind took me back to my high school graduation long ago, and the role my dad played in it.

The excitement of the occasion was marred because my mom was in the hospital at the time, suffering from a mild heart attack. With Mom away, everything was up to Dad. He took me shopping for a dress, made reservations at a favourite restaurant for dinner, and made sure we scheduled things right so I could go to the hospital in cap and gown so my mom could see me in the traditional grad. attire.

Dad sat through the long ceremony and took the obligatory pictures to capture the milestone. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my dad made sure everything went as planned. The day was exhausting but good, the approval in my father’s eyes worth all the effort I had put into five years of high school.

My dad, like most fathers, wasn’t always good at arrangements. He usually left those kinds of details up to my mom. He would tag along for the ride, but it was obvious who was really in control. But when the need arose, he came through with flying colours. In fact, I had the suspicion that he was really enjoying himself. I know I was. I loved the attention that had often seemed lacking in the past. My dad was a busy man who didn’t take much notice of what we kids were up to. He ‘brought home the bacon,’ as the saying goes, but often seemed disconnected and detached from what was going on in the family.

Unfortunately, my perception of God was identical to my perception of my dad’s care and concern for us. I thought of God as an aloof entity somewhere “out there.” He’d make sure you were provided for, but it wasn’t wise to bug him with the details. It has taken a long time for me to understand that God is in the details of my life. He’s not only concerned with them, he has designed them just for me. His involvement in my life is up close and personal.

When I realized this was true I began to discover another aspect of God, just as I had with my dad as he arranged the details of my graduation. I discovered God loves being involved in my life, because he loves me.

The good news for us all is that he wants to do the same with each and every one of us. He loves us all as individuals. His care and concern are undying. He’s just waiting for us to turn, look up, and see the approval in his eyes.

Read More

Watching Someone Read by Marcia Lee Laycock

I was on my way across the country to participate in the School of Writing at Canadian Mennonite University. I was nervous about going, even though my work had been accepted and I'd been granted entrance to the advanced fiction class with Canadian literary icon, Rudy Wiebe. To gain that entrance I had submitted three short stories that I'd worked on long and hard, but I had chosen to workshop another ten pages - part of the sequel to my novel, One Smooth Stone. Would they like it? Would the writing be good enough?

As I settled into my seat on the small plane, the stewardess came down the aisle and asked us all to move forward, to balance the load. I ended up sitting one seat back and across the aisle from a young woman who took out a book to read. As she did so, the colour caught my eye. Hmm ... same colour as the cover of One Smooth Stone.

I watched out the window as the ground dropped away and the plane lifted off, then glanced across the aisle again. The young woman had turned the book. My book. It was a surreal moment. A comforting, though in a way, disconcerting moment. What did she think of it? She seemed to be reading eagerly enough. But did she like it? Was it good enough? For the rest of the flight I peeked over at the woman, trying to gauge her reaction. In the flurry of disembarking I lost track of her and never did find out.

Then I arrived at the University and was swept into the routine of classes and writing assignments. The day my excerpts were to be critiqued, my palms were sweating and my heart was beating a little faster than normal. My fellow classmates began to comment on my work. According to the rules I was not allowed to speak until given permission by the instructor. Staying silent was at once a relief and a hardship. Then Rudy made some comments, asking for further input from the class as they dissecting the excerpt.

Then his words, "This is good writing." Words from "the master." I could have danced down the aisle.

But now the euphoria has worn off as I'm continuing to work on the sequel. What will people think of it? Will it be good enough?

And then I go back to why I write - because it's the way I'm "wired." Because I can't not write. Because the images and characters and scenes and emotions flood out of me through a keyboard and I can't stop them any more than I could stand in a flood and stop the raging waters.
And then I remember who made me this way, who controls what happens to the words I type on this computer, and who will some day say, "well done," if I work in obedience to Him.

And I realize how much I want to hear that Master's voice and how much I want to some day dance down the aisle that leads to His throne. So I go on, trying to be obedient to the task of being a writer, fighting off the self doubt and the need for affirmation from men when the only thing that counts is affirmation from Him.

Read More