1. REFLECTION. I used to do this last but now I do this first. In the first movement of the creative process, I listen to what God is doing in my life, how different humans around me have provided a glimpse of the divine. I am learning to trust the instincts, voices, and stories inside. This part usually requires a lot of yellow legal pad. I write quotes, stories, Scripture references . . . it just needs to get out.

2. STUDY. After I’ve purged myself of all of my memories and ideas, I get my hands on as many resources (books, DVD’s, articles, journal entries, and blogs) as possible. I literally immerse myself in what dead and living friends have written on the particular project I happen to be working on. For instance, I recently preached about preaching at the Nashville ZOE Conference. I took that prep time as an opportunity to read some of the classic sermons from Lischer’s The Company of Preachers.

3. MEDITATE. It’s critical that following self-reflection and disciplined study, I need to create space for all of this material to solidify. Usually, I go for a long walk, cut the grass, watch baseball, take a nap (though Lucas makes that almost impossible), or I put my running shoes on and take off. Some of the most important connections we make in life happen at a deep level. That is, some of the moments of revelation come when we are not thinking about anything profound in particular. We’re taught to call this the sub conscience. After we’ve reflected and studied, the mind, soul, and heart need time to get into a cadence of coherence.

4. CREATE. The hardest part for sure. The part many procrastinate until the last possible hour. This is the moment where the skin is placed on top of the skeleton, walls are placed over the frame. Up to this point, all I have are a bunch of stories, insights and sound-bytes. First, I put at the top of the page: “This teaching/sermon/essay/chapter is about ___________.” This will be my compass. Second,I always write an outline with transition sentences (the hardest thing to do in writing). After a break, I put the outline next to my computer and I type, one letter at a time the words I think I’ve been given.

Sometimes the words come with little effort. Most times, I have to fight through cell phone calls, e-mail notifications, SportsCenter cravings, the voice inside all of us that says, “But you are forgetting to ____.”

This is what I do, day after day, week after week. And I absolutely love it.

“I like the part of the Bible that talks about God speaking the world into existence, as though everything we see and feel were sentences from his mouth, all the wet world of his spit. I feel written. My skin feels written, and my desires feel written. My sexuality was a word spoken by God, that I would be male, and I would have brown hair and brown eyes and come from a womb. It feels literary, doesn’t it, as if we are characters in books . . . You call it God or a conscience, or you can dismiss it as that intuitive knowing we all have as human beings, as living storytellers; but there is a knowing I feel guides me toward better stories, toward being a better character. I believe there is a writer outside ourselves, plotting a better story for us, interacting with us, even, and whispering a better story into our consciousness,” (86).

On the “inciting incident” (or “ruptures in the narrative” as I’ve been taught in literary circles)–”. . . Fear isn’t only a guide to keep us safe; it’s also a manipulative emotion that can trick us into living a boring life . . . James Scott Bell says an inciting incident is a doorway through which the protagonist cannot return. I didn’t know I was doing it at the time, but I had certainly walked  through a doorway. I was an overweight, out-of-shape guy who wanted to get into shape and date a specific girl. I’d walked through a doorway that would force me both to get into shape and to interact with her. I suppose I didn’t have to get into shape, but if I didn’t, the story would be a tragedy. And nobody wants to live a tragedy,” (110).

Stephen King is arguably the most popular fiction writer in recent American memory. In his memoir/guide to becoming an effective writer, he warns the writer that might me tempted to shape their life around their craft instead of their craft around their life.

I suggest the metaphor works well for academicians, pastors, teachers, athletes, writers, and anyone else who tends to become addicted to their “craft” at the expense of those closest to them (something I regularly confess to . . . though I have to admit that since Lucas’s arrival, I have done almost no serious writing and I’m perfectly content with that . . . for now).

King begins by talking about the massive oak desk that sat, for six years, in the center of his writing room.

For six years I sat behind that desk either drunk or wrecked out of my mind, like a ship’s captain in charge of a voyage to nowhere. King confesses the chaos that this led to, the sheer egocentric view of life that ultimately tore his personal and family life apart.

A year or two after I sobered up, I got rid of that monstrosity and put it in a large living-room suite where it had been, picking out the pieces and a nice Turkish rug with my wife’s help. In the early nineties, before they moved on to their own lives, my kids sometimes came up in the evening to watch a basketball game or a movie and eat pizza. They usually left a boxful of crust behind when they moved on, but I didn’t care. They came, they seemed to enjoy being with me, and I know I enjoyed being with them. I got another desk—it’s handmade, beautiful and half the size of the T. rex desk. I put it at the far west end of the office, in a corner under the eave . . . It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support system for art. It’s the other way around.

p.50 …an original story I called “The Invasion of the Star-Creatures.” I kept hearing Miss Hisler asking why I wanted to waste my talent, why I wanted to waste my time, why I wanted to write junk.

p.57 [The editor said] when you write a story, you’re telling yourself a story. When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are NOT the story.

p.67 I did as she suggested, entering the College of Education at UMO and emerging four years later with a teacher’s certificate…sort of like a golden retriever emerging from a pond with a dead duck in its jaws.

p.77 Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feels like all you’re managing is to shovel *&%$ from a sitting position.

p.101 It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support-system for art. It’s the other way around.

p.106 Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page.

p.118 Remember that the basic rule of vocabulary is use the first word that comes to your mind, if it is appropriate and colorful.

p.122 You should avoid the passive tense. You can find the same advice in The Elements of Style. The timid fellow writes “The meeting will be held at seven o’clock.” Purge this quisling thought! Put that meeting in charge. Write “The meeting’s at seven.” There, by God! don’t you feel better?

p.124 The adverb is not your friend.

p.128 Good writing is often about letting go of fear and affectation. Affectation itself, beginning with the need to define some sorts of writing as “good” and other sorts as “bad,” is fearful behavior.

p.145 If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.

p.150 Constant reading will pull you into a place (a mind-set, if you like the phrase) where you can write eagerly and without self-consciousness.

p.153 For me, not working is the real work. When I’m writing, it’s all the playground, and the worst three hours I ever spent there were still pretty damned good.

p.154 The combination of a healthy body and a stable relationship with a self-reliant woman who takes zero *&^% from me or anyone else has made the continuity of my working life possible. And I believe the converse is also true: that my writing and the pleasure I take in it has contributed to the stability of my health and my home life.

p.164 I have never demanded of a set of characters that they do things my way. On the contrary, I want them to do things their way.

p.176 It’s also important to remember that it’s not about the setting, anyway–it’s about the story, and it’s always about the story.

p.208 Once your basic story is on paper, you need to think about what it means and enrich your following drafts with your conclusions. To do less is to rob your work (and eventually your readers) of the vision that makes each tale you write uniquely your own.

p.212 Take your manuscript out of the drawer. If it looks like an alien relic bought at a junk-shop or yard sale where you can hardly remember stopping, you’re ready. Read as if it’s someone else’s work. “It’s always easier to murder someone else’s darlings than it is to kill your own.”

p.215 Every writer has an ideal reader. “What will this person think when he/she will read this part?” For me that person is Tabitha.

1. When you write well you speak well (usually). I write out virtually every speaking event I do. Rarely do I take what I’ve written “with me” . . . however, writing allows me to use words with precision as well as notice sayings, phrases, words I revert back to in a pinch. Words are what allow us to construct reality. The words we choose are precious.

2. There’s no such thing as the perfect piece. I’ve long ago given up the idea that a writer can attain perfection. For instance, I make spelling errors on this blog all the time. Some times I catch them, some times I don’t. I care about spelling correctly (I’m too TYPE A not to care) but I don’t overly dwell on this. The book is in the fifth draft. I still find mistakes in this draft. I still find a sentence that is awkward. I’m not trying to attain perfection. I do, however, want the pieces/chapters/segments to be good. I thing perfection is overrated. I think good is better than perfect.

3. Writing opens up doors you did not know existed. A Pandora’s Box of sorts (though it’s one of the most overused metaphors in the English language)–writing takes you to conversations, events, and experiences you have buried in the deep, deep places of the soul.

4. Writing allows you to develop your own voice. The single most important thing related to vocation (whether that’s writing, speaking, playing the guitar, etc.) is to learn to trust the you that God has created you to be.

5. Writing gets you into a rhythm of not only seeing the world as it is . . . but being able to see (what I call an imagination soaked in the Jesus Story) the world as it can be.

6. Writing consistently makes you a better listener. I pay attention to the inflection and cadence of the waitress at IHOP. I notice the way the mechanic talks about the engine of my car. I become a witness to the way in which God has made us, as the Psalmist writes, “fearfully and wonderfully.” Instead of engaging in a conversation in order that I might show someone how much I know, how funny I am . . . becoming a writer forces you to listen to the way others see the world. Writers tend to be introverted. We look inwards. Going deeper with one’s writing means the invitation is given to get outside of myself, and to behold.

7. Writing is a form of prayer. Nothing more to say about that.

I started to write out an overall plan for a book. I would not start my doctorate for several months and I thought it was a good time to really pour myself into something that was not directly related to my “church responsibilities.” I know far too many ministers and professors who make church/theology their life. If you don’t have things outside of your particular call to sustain you, it’s easy to dry up and lose your energy. Some of us, in short, need to get a life.

Several drafts later . . . after much painful editing . . . cutting at least five chapters and almost 100 pages . . . I submitted the final draft of my first book to the publishers this past week. I wanted to tell my small group that it felt like I’d given birth to a baby and now I was being asked to give it away. But, when I thought about the fact that two women in our small group have just recently given actual birth and that Kara was only a few months away herself, I elected to go with a different metaphor.

This weekend will be the first time I get to present material from my book. I’m doing a leaders retreat for Sycamore View Church (where my close friend Josh Ross preaches) Friday and Saturday.

When we give away what is most sacred to us, we give God power to do what he wants to do. Preservation cannot give us the peace of mind it promises for giving away what is most sacred to us is the path to finding real connection with those God has placed in our midst. “The glory of God is a person come fully alive.”

My brother has not looked back since doing his first triathlon. He did another one in August and is now training for a big triathlon in Florida, set for the end of April. All of the money he raises goes toward cancer treatments for Haley Ray–a five-year-old from Ann Arbor fighting Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia for almost 2 years now. She will be undergoing chemotherapy and steroid treatment until July of 2009.

To donate money to this, or to learn more about Team-In-Training, read here.
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If you have a desire to become a good (or even decent writer), Stephen King has much to say on this subject. I just finished On Writing and have a great deal to digest.

King says that if you want to be a good writer, you have to become a voracious reader.

I also appreciated his metaphor on writing that drives his entire thesis. King had a huge desk that used to sit in the middle of his austere writing room. The desk was mammoth. After bouts with alcohol and drug addiction, King realized that he’d tried to make his life fit into his writing instead of allowing his writing to flow out of his life. Now, he has a simple, unimpressive desk in the corner of his writing room to remind him that art is not meant to dominate life.

I really like that.