Month: September 2017

When I meet people that I admire, people who are doing with their lives many of the things I desire to do in mine, I like to sit at their feet and learn.  Which is why, at my writer’s conference, I attended a class taught by Marsha Ward.  The Marsha Ward.  The very founder of ANWA (American night writers association) Marsha Ward.  I may or may not fan girl over Marsha Ward just a little bit but that is beside the point.

The point is, I knew Marsha’s class would be filled with treasure but I didn’t know that, picking up one simple coin from her mounds of gold would transform my way of thinking.

“I believe there is danger in thinking our work is “special” it puts tremendous pressure on us to come up with the “perfect” manuscript and takes all the fun out of writing.”                                                        ~Marsha Ward

What a relief!  My work doesn’t have to be special.  And the very fact of the matter is that my work is not special.  Before you fear for the state of my self esteem and begin showering me with thoughtful affirmations let me reassure you that this statement has empowered, emboldened and enlightened me like none other before.

Because “special” is very subjective and “perfect” is impossible, believing my work should be either of these things was all the fuel my critical voice needed to stop me in my tracks.

“The only purpose of critical voice in creative writing is to stop you.
It’s a protective mechanism that will keep you from making a fool of yourself by doing anything as risky as producing a literary work and sharing it with the world.”                                                                                  ~Marsha Ward

With this new understanding I can now quiet my critical voice by assuring it that I in no way would ever dream of trying to create something special.  “Nothing special is going on here.”  I tell it .  “I’m just having a little fun.”  And freed from it’s constant negative chatter, I am having fun.  So much fun.

But the best news–the very best news–is that this understanding is not limited to creative writing.  This understanding has helped to hush my critical voice in so many other areas of my life.  Tweaking Marsha’s quote from earlier, I think it’s safe to say that…

There is danger in thinking life must be “special” it puts tremendous pressure on us to come up with the “perfect” life and takes all the fun out of living.

I see now that my critical voice loves it when I demand “special” and “perfect” for my life.  With these ideals at the forefront of my goals I am easily stifled from taking risks or sharing myself with the world.

But guess what critical voice, “special” is no longer my thing and it’s about to get real up in here.  So look out.  This girl’s about to have some fun.

And there’s no telling where that will lead me.

 

I cried unto the Lord in prayer.  Cried with all of the energy that was in me.  “I want you to teach me to swim.” I said.  “Please help me to enter the water.”

Ending my prayer, I followed a prompting to turn on the television. I opened Youtube and–clicking the first video I saw on the home screen–I was transformed.

“You have to be willing to inconvenience yourself.”

These words spoken by motivational speaker Lisa Nichols pierced me and–sobbing–I knew what I had to do.

Fear had stopped me from signing up for the writer’s conference and with it being just one day away, I had convinced myself that maybe this just wasn’t my year.

But now, with my palms opened to the Lord, He showed me that though He is willing to give me all that He has, I must first be willing to step out into the water to meet Him.

I needed to be willing to take the leap. The leap into the writer’s conference.  I pulled up the registration form onto my computer then–before I could even enter my name–I walked away.  Terrified.

The problem is that I have panic attacks.

Panic attacks that are filled with the same irrational, primal fear that sends wildlife running head on into the headlights when they are normally keen for survival.

If you were to ask me today, my feelings on where I’ll go when I die I would answer, “To be with my Lord, my family and friends in the most peaceful place imaginable where I will feel more love than I have ever known.”

If you asked me the same question during a panic attack it would go something like this, “Listen! I’m about to disappear into a dark abyss of nothingness! I need you to promise me that you’ll do everything in your power to bring me back! Promise to get me out of the staticky TV! Please! Get me out of the staticky TV!”

Because panic attacks strike whenever they want, wherever they want, for whatever reason they want, the three hour drive to the conference–with its middle of nowhere stretches, sporadic cell phone coverage and no one around to get me out of the staticky TV–seemed like an impossible price to pay.

Unable to muster the strength to commit to the conference on my own, my husband gave me a blessing wherein the Lord revealed His promises to me– promises about my writing–once again.  He revealed the importance of the conference, what I would learn there and what it would mean to my life.  In short He invited me to take the leap.  He invited me to swim.

So powerful were His promises that they left my husband to say, “Well, now you have to go.”  at blessings end.

I flopped back on my bed and, staring at the ceiling I said, “Except I really don’t.  We never have to do anything.  He invites but we always have the power to say no.”

Taking that part of me–that screaming, flailing, fighting part of me–that still wanted to say no, I went before the Lord in humble prayer and again asked for His help.  “Please lend me your peace, lend me your courage until I can gain my own.” I cried.

Then with borrowed strength I dove deep into the water and I swam.  I swam toward healing. I swam toward courage.  And I swam toward killer answers to every plot question in my novel that has plagued me since the beginning of time.  Seriously.  Every one.

I love to swim.  I mean, I really love it.

 

The Lord beckons me to come into the water, “I want to teach you to swim.”  He says.

I remember the terror of swimming lessons as a young girl. I remember hiding in my bedroom closet hoping that, exasperated, my mom would be forced to take my siblings to their lessons, leaving me behind.

It never worked.

I also remember my dad teaching me to swim.  I remember my resistance and the rigidity of my body as I desperately clung to his.

Desperation, resistance, fear and rigidity.  These are what my Lord invites me to leave at the shore.  “I want to teach you to swim.” He calls.

I return to the backyard swimming sessions spent with my father.  Go back to the moment when I softened in his arms, surrendered to the water and lost myself in its weightless embrace.

I learned to swim.

Had I chosen to give into my fears and run away from the water my life would have been okay. It really would have.  My dad’s love for me and mine for him would have remained the same.  And unaware of the joys of swimming, I’d never know what I was missing.

And so it is with my Lord’s invitation.  If I refuse to soften, refuse to surrender, refuse His call to come into the water, His love for me will remain unchanged.  And I, cocooned inside of my bubble-wrap of certainty will never know what I am missing.  My life will be okay.  It really will.

But the thing is, I love to swim.  I really love it.

And I can’t help but wonder if maybe–just maybe–untold joys and unfathomable opportunities await me if I’ll but walk with my Lord into the water, softening in His arms, as He teaches me to swim.

As He teaches me to fly.