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One of the great funny movies of all time, “Groundhog Day” tells the story of weatherman Phil (Bill Murray) as he lives the same day over and over…and over…and over again. He’s a cocky son-of-a-gun, which is where many of today’s secrets can be found:

1) Being a writer requires a certain amount of confidence. Day after day you try to transform 26 letters of the alphabet into complex ideas and engaging stories. Anyone who thinks they can accomplish this is either crazy, or, well, someone like Phil:

Phil: I’m a god.
Rita: You’re God?
Phil: I’m a god. I’m not *the* God… I don’t think.

On second thought, you probably shouldn’t think you’re a god. You might be in for a let down. But in order to continue as a writer you do need a measure of confidence.

2) If you feel stuck, try something different.

Phil: What would you do if you were stuck in one place and every day was exactly the same, and nothing that you did mattered?
Ralph : That about sums it up for me.

Change up your point-of-view, your setting, your characters. Try writing in your favorite writer’s voice. Try writing in the voice of a writer you despise (either because you don’t like their writing or their popularity drives you mad with jealousy). Whatever it is, try something different.

3) Sometimes people won’t like what you’ve written. Sometimes even you won’t like what you’ve written. It’s inevitable. One way to maintain the confidence we talked about in #1 is to remember this:

Phil: People like blood sausage too, people are morons.

People generally have terrible taste. Look at the most popular television shows or singers. Think about the most popular food places in the world (McDonalds and Subway). Did you know that NASCAR is the world’s most attended sport?

4) In your new found super-confidence, be prepared to adjust your approach:

Phil: You weren’t in broadcasting or journalism?
Rita: Uh unh. Believe it or not, I studied 19th-century French poetry.
Phil: [laughs] What a waste of time! I mean, for someone else that would be an incredible waste of time. It’s so bold of you to choose that. It’s incredible; you must have been a very very strong person.

5) In the same way that Bill Murray had to relive Groundhog Day a million and two times until he got it just right, be prepared to keep trying until the piece of writing is what it should be:

* * * * *

Similar posts include:

Five Writing Secrets I Learned From “Dumb and Dumber”

Five Writing Secrets I Learned From “The Princess Bride”

Five Writing Secrets I Learned From “Airplane”

Most nights 70 – 80 kids show up, probably for the food, but also for the video games and the ping pong table and the pool table. And yes, even for the 20 minute inspirational talk. On rainy evenings even more kids pack into the building.

But when you definitely didn’t eat breakfast, and you probably didn’t eat lunch because your parents forgot (or just weren’t interested enough) to fill out the “free lunch” forms, then you tend to get pretty hungry by the time 5:30 rolls around.

* * * * *

The first time I met Chuck was outside The Factory, a youth and community center that he runs. I have a feeling he’s older than he looks, but hanging with kids all the time keeps you young. He shook my hand and looked me in the eye. And I liked him. No nonsense. Practical. Holding the course. That’s the feeling I got.

He showed me into The Factory, a renovated house where local, impoverished youth spend their afternoons and evenings. He used to use Bible stories in his talks, or read from scripture. Then one night, during a talk about Adam and Eve, when the blank stares became overwhelming, he asked a question.

“Listen, how many of you guys know the story of Adam and Eve? The Garden of Eden? Original sin?”

Out of the 80 kids there, 3 or 4 raised their hands.

“This generation doesn’t know the old Bible stories,” he said. “And that’s okay. I don’t care. I just want them to understand how much Jesus loves them. I just want them to go to bed with full stomachs. I want them to have a place to go if they need help.”

* * * * *

Recently one of the kids who is always at The Factory had a parent that died, and the kid vanished. For 24 hours no one knew where he was. He wouldn’t take any of his family’s phone calls or reply to anyone’s texts.

Well, actually, there was one person he sent texts to all day.

Chuck.

* * * * *

There are no strings attached at The Factory. If you want food, you come and take as much as you want. If you want help finding a job, show up and they’ll walk you through the interview process. If you’ve experienced death in the family, let them know and they’ll connect you with a local church – not because that church will recruit you, but because they will provide you with some meals, and someone to talk to.

Too often we leverage our position and privilege when working with those in poverty. “We’ll give you access to support and programs, but only if you come to church. We’ll provide for you, but only after you listen to us read from the Bible.”

What would my life look like if I lived out my Christianity with no strings attached?

* * * * *

You can learn more about the awesome things going on at The Factory, inquire about volunteer opportunities, or make a donation HERE.

John Steinbeck wrote, in the journals he kept while writing The Grapes of Wrath:

Early start this morning. Can’t ever tell. Worked long and slowly yesterday. Don’t know whether it was good, but it was a satisfactory way to work and I wish it would be that way every day. I’ve lost this rushed feeling finally and can get back to the easy method of day by day – which is as it should be…Today I shall work slowly and try to get that good feeling again. It must be. Just a little bit every day. A little bit every day. And then it will be through.

For him, the creation came bit by bit. Word on word. Day after day.

Stillness is good. It centers us, prepares us for what is to come. Rest is needed.

But movement is necessary.

* * * * *

A few weeks ago I was in bed, thinking about the garden I would plant. I imagined the rows, the placement of each seed. I pictured the way the spinach would push up through the dirt, the way the pea plants would get so heavy that my twine lines would sag under the weight of what they had to offer. I could almost hear the corn rustling on a warm summer’s night.

I cursed the yellow and black demon caterpillars who would show up and devour my broccoli, just as they did last year.

I could have lain there, night after night, picturing my garden. But without doing, without movement, nothing ever would have grown. Nothing but weeds.

* * * * *

Stillness is life. Movement is living.

* * * * *

Similar posts:

The Art is in the Work
The Art is in the Story

Want an easy way to make a difference in someone’s life? Check out Milka’s story:

Milka: One Woman’s Story from Nuru International on Vimeo.

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Thanks in advance for all your help. We have so much – why not take a little bit of that and give it to someone who needs it?

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Seeking Pastor (Matt Cannon)
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Alise…Write! (Alise Wright)

Today’s guest post is brought to you by Alise Wright. She’s guest-posted her before, writing about the “Blank Page, Blinking Cursor.” Today she’s here to tell us about a book project for which she is gathering stories.

Lonely. Angry. On hold. Useless. Weighted down.

These are some of the words that people have shared about their experiences with depression.

For me, depression is a prison. It traps my body, keeping me from moving. It traps my thoughts, keeping me from creating. It traps my soul, keeping me from connecting. The real me gets locked away and instead I’m this lethargic, boring, detached person.

Last fall, I could feel myself sliding into that depressed spot. Despite everything in my life being pretty good, I was having a difficult time finding the ability to enjoy it. I could feel myself withdrawing from friends and that even when I’d had a good time with them, I wasn’t able to be fully present and would leave feeling empty. It was an unpleasant time.

So I did what I know I need to do when I feel depression closing in. I told someone. I talked to my husband about it. And I shared what I was going through on my blog. It was a poorly written, whiney post that I dashed off just to get it out there.

And it resonated with people.

Even though I felt alone in my struggle with depression, I was not alone. There were others going through the same thing. And by sharing even a little snippet of my story, it reminded others that they didn’t have to go through depression thinking they were alone either.

What emerged was something beautiful. An opportunity for others to share their own stories. A safe place where people could read and share and encourage one another with their words.

In the midst of something that can be extremely isolating, we found community.

But this community is incomplete. We need your voice as well.

I’m partnering with Civitas Press to gather these stories about depression into a book. If you have a story about depression, we would love to invite you to share it.

I know it’s hard. Depression has a stigma attached to it that can make it difficult to share honestly about your struggles. However, I believe that one of the best ways we can break the shame associated with depression is through the telling of our story. I have found that it not only helps others, but it helps me as well.

If you are interested in participating in the Not Alone book project, please head over to the Civitas website and download the project document. We are accepting submissions through May 24, so there is still time for you to add your voice to the collective.

No matter how it feels, you are not alone.

I remember boarding the District tube line in London, England. The whole place smelled of diesel and urine, but every once in a while you’d get this blast of hot air carrying the scent of baking bread.

That’s London for you.

I settled in for what was normally a quiet ride, standing in the middle aisle, my hand holding on to the rail above, my body swaying with each turn like a scarecrow in a fall breeze.

Then he boarded the train. His head was shaved, his clothes were disheveled and his eyes, they were fire. He carried a megaphone attached to a small speaker (presumably for outdoor use). He was quiet, until the tube train started moving through the dark recesses of underground tracks.

It was as if he woke up.

“Do you know God, brother?” he screamed, six inches from the face of an older man. The man didn’t say anything, just stared right past him, so the guy with fire in his eyes moved to the next person.

“Do you know Jesus?” he challenged, this time directing his vengeance at a girl in her early twenties.

“Yes,” she replied, her lips terse, her skin pale. “I’m a Christian.”

He squinted, as if examining her soul. Then he laughed a mean laugh.

“You’re no Christian. If you were, you’d be doing this,” he said, brandishing his megaphone before moving down the row.

* * * * *

Whenever I explore different ways to communicate the concept of sin, I often hear the same comments.

“You’re not taking sin seriously enough,” they usually say. “You’re watering down the Gospel.” I grew up in a charismatic Evangelical church, so I understand the sentiment.

“You have to warn people,” some folks have commented. “You have to tell them that the wages of sin is death.”

* * * * *

Imagine coming to the horrible realization that the highway overpass you are on ends in midair. You pull your car over to the shoulder and wait, hoping to warn any oncoming drivers of the predicament ahead.

The first car approaches, and you manage to wave them to a stop. They roll down their window.

“You’ve got to stop. The road is in disrepair. Keep going, and you’re dead.”

The person looks at you, clueless. See, the thing is, you’re in a foreign country and they don’t speak your language. They shrug their shoulders, start to pull away. You don’t know what else to do, so you grab the driver in a choke hold and start beating him upside the head, grabbing for his keys. But he drives off, angry and terrified.

The next car approaches. Now that you know they don’t speak your language, you skip straight to the beating part, hoping to bludgeon them unconscious before they, too, plummet to their death. Once again, scared and angry, they drive off.

* * * * *

When will we realize that we have to learn a new language?