ON WRITING FOR A DEADLINE

I was elbow deep in marinara at 6:30 in the morning when I realized how absurd it was that I'd decided to make several pans of lasagna before getting the kids off to school. The insanity of it all got me thinking, Why am I chopping garlic while even the sun is still sacked out? Then, a maniacal, malevolent little voice whispered, “You’re procrastinating again!”

That’s when I started making a list, a list of all the ways I procrastinate when I'm writing for a deadline. We all have surreptitious distractions. I’d love it if you’d share yours with me. Make a list (it’s actually another great way to procrastinate if you’re writing for a deadline, too).

Here’s mine:

YOU KNOW YOU’RE WRITING FOR A DEADLINE WHEN

1. You decide to make pans of lasagna for the entire neighborhood; and actually like the smell of garlic that has infused all of the curtains in your house.

2. You write the thirty best poems you’ve ever written in your life (and you’re not working on a poetry compilation).

3. You visit every possible writing website in existence, print out articles, read them and try to convince yourself that you're in the process of 'feeding yourself a sustaining inspirational meal-of-words.'

4. You get excited when you hear the buzzer go off on the drier, coffee maker, or the stove . . . when the doorbell rings, the mail arrives, or your most obnoxious neighbor stops over for coffee.
(If any of my neighbors are reading this . . . I'm not talking about YOU!)

5. You talk to your friend on the phone for four hours, analyzing a dream she had about Steven King, an auburn horse and the End Times.

6. You blog, you respond to all of your old e-mails, you check your e-mail (again). You read your friends' blogs. You check your e-mail (again). You respond to new e-mails. You check your e-mail (again and again and again and again).

7. You find Oprah particularly sagacious in an interview she’s conducting with Jim Carrey. As you watch, you’re rapt and convince yourself that this show is part of your research/incubating/character blah, blah, blah and that the exact nugget you need for your plot will probably come from this consequential hour of TV.

8. You actually look forward to exercising. Cher and Richard Simmons tapes from the 80’s are inspiring you to lose the 10 pounds you gained while eating chocolate donuts and writing the first half of your book.

9. You are awakened by wolves howling in the night. When you fall asleep you dream that your editor has grown excessive amounts of facial hair and is howling at the moon, chasing you, growling and asking where your manuscript is.

10. You take up knitting, take a trip, take your time when you walk the dog.

11. You decide to organize every closet in your house, make plans for a kitchen remodel and order seeds for the garden you’ve always dreamed of planting.

12. You make a list called YOU KNOW YOU’RE WRITING FOR A DEADLINE WHEN . . . and submit it to your favorite writing magazine.

13. You break into an anxiety induced sweat, finally put your butt in a chair, and start writing. Keys start clicking, kinks in your cerebellum unwind, words begin to flow like faucet water. You’re actually enjoying yourself when . . . your three-year-old enters your office and asks you to play!

After I posted this morning, I took my daughter Emily to breakfast at our favorite spot, The Red Apple in Wheaton. As we ate, I was thinking, Life is what happens when we're procrastinating! Isn't it?! And, Thanks be to God for procrastinating, 'cause without it our days wouldn't be bursting with fun projects, conversations, ideas and off-the-beaten-path adventures; and we might not discover our hearts' true passions. Besides, without procrastination there wouldn't be a lot to write about!

A Letter from God

The envelope was robin's egg blue. Inside was a letter from God:

Dearest Sally,

My precious daughter . . . I am so proud of you and the ways you've walked with me, especially throughout these young-mommy years. You have done much with the creative gifts I've given. What a wonderful choice I made in the beginning - entrusting you with the gift of word and Word. Seeds of truth and beauty sprinkle around the globe because of My faithfulness (and yours!). The fruit from your life is an orchard of sweet sustenance for so many.

I am writing to bless you, and to remind you that I never leave my work unfinished. I created you with a rich imagination and a poetic way with words. Your writing journey will not be aborted for two simple reasons: 1) I do not destroy that which I have created; 2) I cannot leave things incomplete.

I am a writer, too, and I know how difficult it can be to loose word in a sin-soaked world. But, I have promised that my Word will not return to me empty. Please trust that the garden of your life will bloom and grow through the cycling, weather-blessed seasons. The next writing project given will be the right one, winded and sown at the right time, so that lives will be seasoned and strengthened. The harvest is plenty, the workers few. You are being used, my faithful seed-sower.

I am water. I am wine. I am manna and miracle-maker. I call you to an even deeper place of peace and promise. Trust that what I have said is true. You bless and encourage me, dear one. Do not grow weary, but instead be strengthened by my perfect provisions.

Your vine and forever inspiration,

God

The words, written by my dear friend, stuck in the azure envelope and mailed to me, were the utterances of God for me. They landed in my mailbox during a week when I was worried, exhausted, bedraggled because it seemed that the fruit of my writing labor was shriveling on the branch.

The funny thing is that earlier that morning, I had taken my daughter, Emily, to the library for storytime. At the children's desk, I grabbed the February copy of CHICAGO PARENT MAGAZINE. (They chose one of my stories as the cover feature and I wanted to check out the layout and photographic treatment.) I stuck the magazine in my bag, enjoyed stories with Em, and once home tossed the magazine on my kitchen counter. As it landed, the magazine's robin's egg blue cover collided with - really kissed - the envelope that held my Letter from God.

Touching, the two papers of promise proved to be the exact same shade of blue. The serendipity was undeniable. It was as if God was in my kitchen saying, "I am giving you work. I am using your words. They hold all the promise of spring's bright blue vernal eggs."

Have you ever imagined what God might say to you in a letter? Use the letter beautifully penned by my friend. Replace your name and personal circumstances. Receive God's love and graces and Good Words for your life.

Or, perhaps, you have a friend in need like I was. Maybe, over the next few days, you'll find inspiration to scribble a Letter from God to her. If you do, and want to share, feel free to add your letter as a comment. I'm sure your words - on behalf of God - will be an encouragement to others who need a Good Word . . . a GOD WORD!

The Word was first,
lovethe Word present to God,
loveGod present to the Word.
The Word was God,
lovein readiness for God from day one.

The Word became flesh and blood,
loveand moved into the neighborhood.
We saw the glory with our own eyes,
lovethe one-of-a-kind glory,
lovethe one-of-a-kind glory,
lovelike Father, like Son,
Generous inside and out,
lovetrue from start to finish.

John 1:1 & 14 MSG

GRANDPA'S WATCH

Last summer my mom and I embarked on the arduous journey of sorting through decades - really lifetimes - of photographs in an attempt to create a family portrait montage for my dining room wall. Each picture was pregnant with story, each story birthed another. We talked and snacked and organized until our sides and backs ached.

As Mom was pilfering through one of her boxes, she pulled out an old watch, battered by time and use. "This was Grandpa Norberg's. He was wearing it when he died." She turned the watch in her hand, obviously taken by memories of grief and the loss of time with her father because of his sudden and tragic death. "I probably should've gotten rid of this old thing long ago."

I reached for the watch. To her it was a reminder of tragedy. To me it was treasure. Mom looked up and me and put the old watch in the palm of my hand. Immediately, I stretched its gold band and wrapped it round my wrist. Despite my grandfather's demise, when I put the timepiece on, a force seemed to reach through the time-space continuum connecting me directly to Grandpa. "I'm glad you never got rid of this watch," I said. "If you don't want it, would it be O.K. if I kept it?"

"Sure," she said. We continued our sorting, grouping, storying. Me with the watch on my wrist; Mom with sadness on her sleeve.

Seconds after donning my grandfather's watch the phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was the number of a huge publisher who I'd just sent a manuscript to the night before. Usually it takes months for editors with their paper-tower laden desks to get back to a writer. Why was he getting back to me so quickly? And why via phone & not just the typical e-mailed rejection letter?! I looked down at my wrist. A fleck of sun glinted off of my grandfather's watch. It was as if he were looking out for me; as if our new connectedness had connected me with this aloof, elusive, super-busy editor.

The machine picked up, I listened for a few seconds, "Sally, this is blah, blah, blah from blah, blah blah . . . I got your manuscript last night and wondered if you'd have a minute or two to talk with me about it . . . "

My heart racing, I picked up the phone and strange as it may sound, as I said, "Hi . . . this is Sally," I involuntarily dropped to my knees.

"Sally . . . thanks for sending your manuscript. I read it last night and sent it around the office for a few other editors to check out this morning. We all agree that you have a unique writing talent for creative nonfiction."

"Thanks," I said jumping up from the ground and then squeezing my lips into a lock-hold so I wouldn't start screaming into the guy's ear.

The conversation went on for a few more minutes. I mentioned that I had just put my daughter down for a nap; and that we'd adopted her from China. He shared that he, too, was an adoptive father. He asked about the sales of my last books. I did my best to give him figures. He mentioned that he'd been getting lots of creative nonfiction proposals lately, but that it seemed to be a difficult genre for writers to really master. I found that interesting and started dreaming about teaching a creative nonfiction course. He said that he'd get back to me soon. I floated back to the dining room and finished selecting pictures for the family picture wall.

I wore Grandpa's watch for a week straight after that. Then, set it on top of my jewelry box for several months. A couple days ago, on an impulse, I put the watch on again and wore it all day. After dinner I checked my e-mail. My heart dropped when I saw the name of one of my favorite editors - the publisher of a couple of my books, someone who has become to be a dear friend - in the subject heading of my first e-mail. The title of a recent book proposal in the subject heading. (If it was good news, a book deal, he would've called.) My heart dropped through my stomach, through the floor of my office, into our living room, then out the front door. In the coldest part of the night, my heart planted itself deeply beneath eight inches of snow that'd just stormed into our town.

Here's what I read.

Sally:

This is a difficult email for me to write because I REALLY like your latest book proposal. It feels like an important book and one that you should write…if not immediately, at least soon. But, I couldn’t generate a lot of enthusiasm for it with the team at ________. Everybody likes you and thinks you are a great writer, but they felt it was not a topic that ________ could sell easily. It is frustrating because our sales are down and that is causing even greater caution than usual, and less willingness to risk on a project simply because it is good.

The e-mail went on with friendly words that really meant a lot to me. As I walked down the stairs to our family room I was bummed that hopes for my next job had been dashed - or at least changed. Then, I felt Grandpa's watch gripping my wrist. That's strange, I thought. One of the last times I wore this heirloom I got the biggest book deal in my life. Today, I wrapped it round my wrist and got an unexpected literary rejection.

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Believing that our lives are always ripe with messages, hidden truths, spiritual similes, metaphysical metaphors; I wondered what it might mean that I was wearing Grandpa's watch for both of these significant life events. When I put the watch on for the first time (and got the mind-blowing phone call) I remembered thinking that the sad memories of the watch had been redeemed by my new memory; and that somehow the trinket itself had been transformed.

Anyone looking at Grandpa's watch would agree that that old "T and C in jewels" is just as battered as the day Grandpa died wearing it, though. Nothing has changed about the scratches on the face, the patinaed gold plate, the worn winder, its tender and temperamental tick. It still stutters and needs to be tapped a few times to get ticking at proper time-keeping speed. My fortuitous life events haven't refurbished the watch inside or out.

Battered, unlucky and ordinary as the watch may be, it held on to Grandpa and me during treasured and tragic moments. It was with us counting, keeping track of our seconds, minutes, every single inexorable moment of our lives just like God does.

love

My times are in your hands. Psalm 31:15

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CREDO
What Do You Believe?

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Cheri and I sent a crazy fiction proposal to a rather large Christian publisher several seasons ago. The editor we contacted was interested/intrigued in our out-of-the-box, slightly-unorthodox ideas (at least enough to ask for sample chapters). Still, we got the message that the guy was a little freaked out by our exceedingly grace-laced ideals when he asked us to e-mail our 'Statement of Faith.' After giggling a little; we created a modern paraphrase of the Apostle's Creed and sent it sailing through cyber-space.

I'd be remiss not to mention that though the editor's request kinda ticked me off in the moment. Today, I can fully understand his druthers. He had a reputation to uphold, the name of a reputable publishing house to protect. All he needed was a couple of insane stay-at-home-mamas to mess that all up with their loony imaginations!

Regardless of our solid barrings in the faith, our deeply dug Evangelical roots, our regurgitation of the Apostle's Creed, our distinctly Christian education from Wheaton College, and what we thought was a great idea; the manuscript didn't get picked up.

That's O.K.

My only regret is that we didn't have the poem I wrote this morning in church (during a kinda dry sermon) to send in lieu of our 'Statement of Faith.' Somehow, in a strange way and even though I completely embrace the Apostle's Creed, I think the poem is my truest Soul's Credo:

I Believe

I believe in Story, in stars, green grass & rain,

I believe in autumn leaves and natives on the plain

I believe in football games on Sunday & in my yard,

And milk-up-the-nose laughing that spurts out long & hard

I believe in arcs & whales & bread from bright blue sky

In caterpillars that get wings just after they die

I believe in Goldilocks & Three Bears in their den

I believe in One True Myth that died and rose again

Have you ever taken a moment to consider what you believe in the deepest, craziest, most honest, imaginative corner of your soul? If you have - and you're willing to share - post your thoughts here & I'll add them to my blog. Thanks!

Here, I'll get you started: I BELIEVE . . .

TREASURE IN A SUPERMAN BACKPACK

Today I found a treasure in my son Ben's backpack. It was two pieces of paper - the elementary school kind - with an extra dotted line to house wild, wondrous, some times indiscernible letters. The papers were scrawled with Ben's gorgeous, eye-pleasing, second grade scribbles and colorful illustrations. Stapled to the paper, a note from his teacher:

Dear Parents,

The class wrote personal narratives. First they brainstormed their ideas on a graphic organizer. They wrote a first draft and then edited it with me . . .

The writer in me perked up. I wonder how my son did with this assignment? Has he, perhaps, caught the Writers' Bug?! The curious mom in me stood at full attention. What could he possibly have written about?! What is racing 'round that juvenile, imaginative tabula rasa? I quickly flipped the teacher's note to the back of the treasure, almost liberating it with a riiiiiiip!

In the middle of the kitchen - one of the most holy, sacred sanctuaries of our home - I read:

THE DAY MY SISTER CAME HOME
by Ben

My sister came home from China at dinner time. At first she did not want us to see her. But then she ended up liking us.

After dinner my sister pulled me and my brother around the house. Finally we got to open our presents. They were panda shirts.

When we went to bed my sister cried. My mom asked her what was wrong. She said, "I want Ben." So I came in and I picked her up and took her in my bed.

But the only thing I do not like about my litter sister is she pinches me.

I love my sister.

As I post this blog entry I know that something has gotten lost in my transcription. It is Ben's handwriting: the tilting 'A's' and heavily filled-in periods, the reworked 'W's' and swirly 'O's' that speak so strongly of a brother's love for his sister who 'came home at dinner time.'