Last week I had the honor of stepping into Seth Haines’ recovery room to talk about my vocation and all the little voices constantly jabbering in my head.
The real struggle for me has been more practical–how does one navigate a life when your income fluctuates so severely from one year to the next, one month to the next? During good years I make more money than I ever thought I would make, but during difficult years we have occasionally (twice) gone 6 – 8 months without making anything. My wife and I have five children (almost six). Not making money for that long can be scary and annoying and stressful. It can quickly lead to voices of self-doubt and judgment.
Nothing has influenced my relationship with God more than my current vocation, precisely because of the ups and downs. One word makes itself known to me during those difficult patches: Trust.
Almost three months ago, my wonderful literary agent Ruth began approaching publishers about my book The Day the Angels Fell, the very same project that you all helped fund on Kickstarter almost a year and a half ago. Ruth read it and loved it and thought she might be able to find a home for it, so we sent out a book proposal to publishers. Initially, the response was strong. One publisher was immediately interested. I thought it was going to get picked up. I thought my longest-held dream, of being a novelist with a publisher, was about to come true.
But then the weeks passed. We still haven’t heard back from the first publisher. In the mean time, I received a kind rejection from one of my favorite publishers who said “the writing is absolutely beautiful, but…” Always “but.”
Right now there are two houses still considering it.
Can I be honest? I’ve felt a lot of disappointment in this process. The waiting has nearly paralyzed my creative ability. The weeks of silence and the few rejections (and even the vast, empty nothingness of no reply) rip at some raw place I didn’t know existed in me. I went into this feeling like a relatively self-confident person, someone who could take or leave whatever might happen, but I’m learning a lot about myself. I’m learning I’m not as confident as I thought I was. I’m not as independent as I thought I was. I crave this “one last” approval more than I thought I did.
And then, Maile. My wife is perfect for me. We had a long talk the other day about who I am as a writer, the kinds of things I want to put out into the world, the fact that I want to write literary YA that might not fit into today’s marketable mold. I told Maile I could sell out, write a fast-paced book that reads at a 5th grade reading level where the protagonist flirts with sex and drugs and makes fun of their parents. Maile laughed and said, “No, you couldn’t.”
And then there are my writing friends. People who remind me this book is good. Friends who remind me the only way is forward. Friends who tell me that The Day the Angels Fell made a tangible difference in the lives of their children and is a book their kids will hand down to their kids. Friends who remind me there is an eager audience waiting for book two, an audience who doesn’t care if it’s traditionally published or funded through Kickstarter.
On Wednesday of last week, something finally clicked. It was like I took a deep breath, came out of a trance, realized it is spring again. Spring always has a way of coming back around, doesn’t it? I started writing again, forging my way into book three, the final book of the trilogy that begins with The Day the Angels Fell and continues with The Edge of Over There (not yet released). I realized I have to keep writing through this process. I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Yes, I’ve been disappointed so far. Yes, if none of these publishing houses decide to take it, I will feel rejected and disappointed. But I feel like I’ve gone deeper this year into my writing life than I have ever gone before. I feel like I’ve found something there, long buried, something crucial. I’ve even discovered that I have a huge desire to make this book a success, with or without a publisher. That thought excites me. I can do this! (With your help, of course.)
And it all makes me wonder if we need to press in closer to our disappointment, if we need to get past the initial shock of it and ask why? Why is this disappointing to me? What does this disappointment tell me about what I think is important?
And is it possible that the location of my disappointment leads me closer to the location of my true hope?
Update: I wrote this post on May 12th, 2016. Four weeks later, I received and signed a 3-book deal with Revell to publish not only The Day the Angels Fell but also the sequel and a third book, yet to be determined.
The saints in the stained-glass windows look down on us, somber and subdued. Outside, it’s a cloudy day. I get to the front of the line and Reverend Lauren hands me the wafer.
“The body of Christ, the bread of heaven.”
Then I turn to the person holding the cup. It’s my son, Cade, and he looks a little nervous. Our eyes are nearly level to each other now, our shoulders nearly even. He is far from the baby I watched slip into existence. He is getting closer to the man he will someday be.
“The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation,” he says, and I dip my wafer in the cup.
* * * * *
I am halfway through my 40th year. This is difficult to comprehend. I know those of you in your 50s and 60s and 70s will wave your hand at me and call me a “young pup,” but this 40th year is passing heavy and opaque, like molasses. It’s been hard to grasp. I feel so old and so young, all at once.
I had one genuine moment of panic recently, after my friend Nelson passed away, in which I thought, “No! I don’t want to get old! I’m not ready.” But for the most part, I welcome what these coming decades have to offer. They seem kinder in a way, these recent and coming years, less judgmental, less demanding.
When I was in my 10th year, it was 1986, and all I wanted to do was play down at the creek and make it to the Major Leagues. I wore tennis balls out by throwing them up against the side of the barn and chasing them down. There was a tree by the creek that became a graveyard for my fishing line. Life was simple and fun and I spent most of it reading on the large front porch of the farmhouse where we lived. I wonder what I thought about then. I wonder.
When I was in my 20th year, it was 1996 and I was finishing my freshman year in college. I knew less about myself in those years than at any other time in my life. To say I was finding my way would be a huge understatement. I was about to start writing in earnest. I was about to meet Maile. I was about to become my own person, separate from the household of my parents. I stood on the edge of an abyss, and I had no idea the depths of it.
When I was in my 30th year, it was 2006, and we had just come back from England, and we were starting a new life with two children. We would find community and friendships in Virginia that were so beautiful and crucial. And still, God was preparing us for the most difficult time of our lives, in 2009.
And now, my 40th year. Some things seem easier. I know who I am, I know what I’m to do. I have the beautiful and unconditional love of a fabulous woman and five (almost six) children. We have, somehow, landed on our feet, even after many lean years. I wake up everyday and do what I love to do: I write.
But some things seem more difficult, too. My children need me in ways they never needed me before when it was all diapers and baby food and middle-of-the-night wake-up calls. Maile and I are hitting the long stretch of a marriage, 17 years in, when you have a better understanding of love in its toil and its wonder.
Perhaps most difficult of all, I’m coming to terms with my place in the world. I’m not sure how else to say it. I’m not sure why that’s a difficult thing, but it requires a real working through, like a puzzle you’ve never done before, one you haven’t got a picture for, one without even the straight-lined edges to start with.
* * * * *
I will not soon forget being served communion by my son. I will not soon forget the way he tilted that cup forward, that cup of death and life. There was something in that small exchange that fit into this, my 40th year. There was something in that small exchange that holds the key to many things. I’ll have to think on it for quite some time. I’ll have to work through it.
I’m at a unique place in life, experiencing things I don’t remember experiencing before. On one hand, I’m more confident than ever in my call as a writer, and I’m content with where I am: I have an agent; I have (relatively) steady work; I have a wonderful writing community. On the other hand, I feel unsettled. I have one project currently being shopped around to publishing houses and am working on a book proposal for a second project, one that gets to the heart of what I’ve been experiencing for the last four years.
Waiting is hard. I’ve had two or three rejections so far on the first project, and those are not easy to receive. As the waiting continues, I find it difficult to focus, difficult to do anything but stare at my inbox, eager for the ping of the next incoming message, the potential email that will validate my writing. Validate my story-telling. Validate…me?
Ouch.
Rejection is difficult. Waiting is difficult. Hoping is perhaps the toughest thing of all. Yet everywhere I turn, I am being reminded that I should not give up.
My friend Sarah Bessey shared the following on her Facebook page after speaking at the Festival of Faith and Writing last week:
…this is a moment of full circle redemption. Eight years ago, I experienced the death of all my dreams to write at this very Festival of Faith and Writing. It was hard and beautiful and reorienting. Writing simply became a place to meet with God, no expectations attached. So it’s hilarious to me that I’m now on stage, all these years later, to proclaim the truths I’ve learned: we’re all unqualified and qualified to preach the Gospel and to write about God.
The death of her dreams was “hard and beautiful and reorienting.” Reorienting. Maybe we all need that, to be shaken from our present course and redirected on paths that lead somewhere better.
* * * * *
Two weekends ago, I listened to the keynote speaker Robert Liparulo speak about a similar topic. Twelve years before, he stood at the precipice, wondering if he should quite writing the novel of his dreams, the one he was working on but barely halfway through. Quitting seemed very easy to him at the time.
But he didn’t give up. He decided he would at least finish what he had started. Three million copies later, he’s rather glad he kept on.
* * * * *
Seven years ago, Bryan Allain and I began having breakfast together once a month, and it became an immense source of encouragement for both of us. He wanted to get out of his day job, and I wanted to make a living as a writer (well, most of the time that’s what I wanted, but there were many times when what I really wanted was a regular paycheck and health insurance).
But we kept moving forward. We kept taking that next small step. Now Bryan makes a living as a writer, supporting authors as they launch books and create new projects. And I’m moving forward as well, testing the waters, trying new things, helping people tell their stories.
* * * * *
Something Robert Liparulo said has stuck with me: “It’s a tragedy when people give up on their dreams.” I think it’s true, but giving up is also so easy, so simple. Usually, when I want to give up it’s because the mountain of my dream rises up through the clouds, and I can’t imagine ever arriving at those heady heights. I can’t imagine the days, the weeks, the years it will take to chart my course and scale those sheer rock faces.
That’s when we give up. When we stare up at a peak we can barely see.
Stop it. Stop focusing on the dream, and start focusing on the next small step. The next chapter. The next page. The next word. Finish the business plan, the outline, the funding letter. Take the next photo. Paint the next brush stroke. Look at the path, the one that’s grown over, the one that few others have traveled before you.
Then take the next step.
* * * * *
Bryan Allain and I recently took our seven years of breakfasts talking about the writing life and made three free videos about practices that will help improve your life and your writing: Silence, Discipline, and Community. You can get access to those three free videos HERE.
Last week I was working. I had my laptop with me in bed, I was wearing my sweatpants, a hoodie, and I was obsessing over whether or not a publisher is going to pick up The Day the Angels Fell (commercial break – you can purchase it for your Kindle right now for only $2.99). I am terrible at…I have always struggled with…I am working on my ability to wait. Learning how to wait isn’t fun. It takes time.
There are plenty of areas of my life that aren’t exactly where I want them to be right now. There are many things I would wish into my present, if I could: a little more money, a few more projects, kids that all sleep through the night and don’t end up on your floor at various nope-o’clock hours. A box of Lucky Charms and a gallon of whole milk all to myself.
The temptation for me while waiting, with my personality and background and temperament, is to make drastic changes, either in an attempt to rush things or to so drastically change the game itself that what I was waiting for no longer applies. We’ll move! I’ll get a job! I’ll sleep all day! I’d rather blow up this beautiful life I’m living than sit around and wait.
This is a strange and scary concept I only just realized about myself as I typed that last sentence. I would rather change everything than keep waiting. See? Writing IS free therapy!
But instead of blowing things up and starting over again, I have to remind myself of what got me into this life, one that I honestly, truthfully, cross-my-heart really do love.
Trusting that God has this whole mess completely under control.
Consistently showing up and doing the work I can do (which for me looks like 1,000 words a day).
Choose hope (go on a jog or take the kids to the park).
Continue to believe in the necessity and power of shitty first drafts (thanks, Anne Lamott).
Embracing silence and releasing worry (don’t forget to breathe).
These are not concepts that apply only to writing. Maybe you’re a mom and the monotony or the schedule or the lack of adult conversation is killing you – keep showing up. Maybe you’re a business person writing your 100th business plan – choose hope. Maybe you’re trying yet another new idea – get that terrible first draft finished and behind you. Maybe you’re a pastor starting a new church and you don’t where the money will come from – release your worry.
But always remember – and this is coming from someone who’s been through quite a few of these waiting periods in my life – if all else fails, Lucky Charms will probably help, at least a little bit.
I received a mean email last week. I know. Gasp. I actually don’t get very many of them, especially considering the fact that I blog about religion from time to time. It’s the religion blog posts that bring out the angry in a lot of people, but the crowd that hangs out here is so graceful with me and my questions, my searching. Thanks for that.
But this mean email I got wasn’t in response to my faulty theology. The basis of her criticism wasn’t the fact that our family homeschools (I sometimes hear that, and I actually understand that criticism) or that by living in the city we subject our children to a dangerous environment (I’ve gotten that one, too). Her criticism was much more intense.
She focused on my grammar.
I actually get a handful of emails a year from kind people who point out a grammar or spelling mistake here at the blog, and I appreciate those. Usually it is a simple oversight on my part, but occasionally it is a grammar rule I’ve always gotten wrong or long forgotten, so it’s nice to learn something new. This is me saying I welcome your feedback. If you’re nice.
But the email I got last week was different. She insinuated that I must not know very much about writing, that I demonstrate carelessness, and that most 3rd graders wouldn’t make the mistake that I made. She is either someone who is completely tone deaf in how she writes, or she simply enjoys trying to make people feel small.
I’m glad I got that off my chest. Because it’s not even the point. The point is something very different. The point is this:
Why did her criticism bother me so much?
She’s a complete stranger. She’s not someone who I’m trying to impress, like the editor of a major publishing house or my literary agent (shout out to Ruth!). She’s not a family member or a friend whose opinion I value.
Why, oh, why, did her email make me crazy?
I have three suggestions.
1 – Her criticism involved a new venture, something I’m doing for the first time, and so her words struck a part of me that is already a little tender, a little unsure, and a little hesitant. The dastardly mistake I made was in the newsletter I sent out about an upcoming writers’ course Bryan Allain and I are creating. I know, right? A grammar mistake in the announcement I’m sending out…ABOUT A WRITERS’ COURSE. *sigh* These things happen, apparently. Anyway, I’m super excited about offering the course, but I’m also nervous. (You can sign up to get more details about the course HERE.)
Whenever we’re trying something new, I think we need to be aware that we’ll probably be a little more sensitive to criticism than we usually are. This is okay, but it should also inform our response. We should probably take a few days before replying. Trust me. And if the criticism isn’t said in a nice way and comes from a stranger, the best thing you can do is delete it.
2 – Her criticism pinpointed an area I already know is weak. I am not a grammarian, never have been. It’s just not interesting to me. That said, I know it’s important, and I learn every chance I get. Every time I’ve written a book and worked with an editor, I’ve learned a lot. I’m improving, but I know it’s a weakness.
I think that when people criticize us in areas we know to be weak, a great response might be to simply nod and smile, because our response to their critique will probably be out of proportion.
3 – I have an inflated desire to be liked by everyone. Everyone. Yes. Everyone. Actually, this particular email was a gift, because it has reminded me that not everyone will be on board with what I do, not everyone will support me or point out my flaws in a kind way. And that’s okay! It’s the world we live in.
What kind of criticism bothers you the most? How do you handle it? Any pointers for me?
