focus on the father

Sometimes nothing that I do feels like it’s enough. My failures are lining up like ducks in a row, all staring me in the face.

I make goals and then fail to fulfill them. My character research feels flat. I stare at the ceiling when I should be sleeping, wondering what I’m doing with my life. I miss my alarm two days in a row, losing valuable time to my morning. Sometimes it’s the small stuff that annoys me.

Then this speaks to me: 

“The Lord didn’t ask for gold-star performances in this life. He didn’t ask me to prove my significance to the world. Or to prove myself to Him. He didn’t ask me to prove anything at all. He is the One who approves, declaring us beloved while we were yet sinners. He asks now only for my heart, my willingness, my hands—even when my hands haven’t seemed all that useful…Focus on the Father, not my flaws. Look to the Savior, not the self. The Messiah, not the mirror.“

why creativity needs stillness

This weekend was busy and long and sleep depriving. But wonderful. In the midst of crazy life, I got to capture some quiet moments all to myself.

Stillness is important. When you rush around as if the whole world depends on you, you breed stress. And stress breeds discontent.

And rushing, and stress, and discontent all kill creativity. So be still. Realize that the world will move on if you sit for a moment.

I rediscovered this while watching a meteor shower in the middle of the night. Huddled in blankets, laying on the ground at 3 am. All alone. I didn’t mind the quiet, the solitude. The birds were all in their nests. A few crickets added their serenade to the silence. I had to keep still to spot the streaks of light flitting past, and the stillness was peaceful. As stress grew less, my creativity seemed to blossom. I had space to think. When I came inside at 4:45, I couldn’t help but write for a few minutes.

I rediscovered this yesterday at my neighbor’s house, where I was house-sitting. After playing with their dogs for a while, I collapsed on a grassy slope, exhausted from my middle-of-the-night star-gazing the night before. I lay down on the grass and caught my breath. The sky was blue as forget-me-nots. And the orange, red, and yellows of the trees were waving their flags of autumn in the wind. I just laid there, with the dogs wrestling at my feet and the craziness all around me. And I was still.

It was only after the quiet, only after letting go of the worry of not getting anything done, that I felt like writing.

We need quiet. We need time and space to think, to let go of the worry, to let our minds wander.

A stressed mind is worried about productivity, and to-do lists, and what-if’s. A distracted mind is not creative.

The world doesn’t rest on your shoulders. It will survive without your every-moment effort. Take time to breathe.

 

how to avoid mid-draft stuckness

I’m 11,000 words into my first draft of Kyri’s story.

Usually when I hit this point in a draft, I hit my first speed bump. I get stuck. Unmotivated. Confused. It’s that moment in the middle of the first draft when you start wondering if the book will ever be anything but crap.

Somehow I’m avoiding the “trap of stuckness”. I’ll probably hit it later on. Maybe in another 11,000 words. But right now, I’m marching merrily along. For the first time, I’m enjoying the drafting process.

So here are three ways that I have found help me stay focused and writing mid-draft.

1. Write everyday

For my current draft, I’m doing a 100×100 challenge started by Go Teen Writers. Each day I’m forced to write at least 100 words on my draft for 100 days. That’s not a lot of words (and honestly I’ve been aiming for 500 or 1000 a day). But at least it’s something. On bad days when I’d rather be sleeping or doing Physics homework, I get at least that much done. Writing has become a habit. And the consistency helps me get into my draft quickly and easily each day. I don’t have to spend twenty minutes trying to figure out where I left off the last time I wrote.

2. Outline

This ones whacky. The first time I tried to draft Kyri’s story, I outlined the book to a T. My outline was nine incredibly detailed pages. But the outline didn’t help the draft. It stifled my subconscious from taking the story in different directions. So for this draft,I determined not to stifle my characters by such an itinerary. BUT I have outlined my story goal, my major plot points, and where I want the story to end up. So when I sit down, I have an idea of where things need to go. But my subconscious and my characters still have the freedom to move themselves.

3. Write freely

My current draft is a mess of 11,000 words at this point. There are no chapters yet. Just a collection of different scenes in odd places in the book. I’ve written most of the first act, and I’m currently drafting some in the third act. The reason I let myself skip around, is it allows me to write where my muse is working. If I feel inspired about a scene in act three, I put some space in my document to acknowledge a gap, and write that scene. I allow myself to make mistakes. When I write something that I know needs fixing, I leave it (sometimes I mark it, just to soothe my inner editor). Don’t be afraid of writing freely. It’s a first draft. It’s gonna be cruddy.

 

I’m sure I’ll probably hit a speed bump before long (especially now that I’ve written this post). But for now, I’m going to enjoy my draft.

failing

{I think I’m failing my weekly short story challenge. Way overwhelmed. I got one started this week. But the idea quickly morphed into a longer story than I had time to tell this week. But I’m going to share a snippet of the original idea.}

 

Mrs. Saints turned around. I looked down at what she held. An odd tingling ran through my fingers. She was holding a book.

She held it out. I stared at the cover. Its beautiful reddish brown leather, crumbling from centuries of use.

“Take it.”

I gaped at her. “Really?”

She nodded.

I reached to take it. The crumbling leather brushed my skin and I cradled it in my hands. With trembling finger-tips I opened it. The black words were crowded together in endless straight rows, nearly blotting out the yellowing white of the page. A sweet musty whiff of subtle scent wafted up at me, and I glanced at Mrs. Saints in astonishment. She just smiled at me.

Books had a scent? Unbelievable.

I concentrated on the words and was able to pick out a few lines. I couldn’t help the wonder that pulled my mouth upward into a smile.

“What’s it called?”

“It’s Paradise Lost. Written by John Milton who died in 1674.”

Paradise Lost. I was sure in that paradise there were books.

I flipped through the pages gingerly. The amount of words was massive. “Have you read the whole thing?”

She grinned at me like a kid. “Three times. And sometimes I just come and hold it. Smelling the pages, feeling the leather.”

I could believe that. I lifted it close to my face and breathe the perfume.

“You can take it home and read it.”

I looked at her astonished. “Oh, I could never read this whole book. It’s massive.” But I felt a tingle run down my spine. Could I?

“You’ll only be able to get through it if you really want to.” Mrs. Saints turned and pulled a case from a cabinet. “Just keep it in its case when you’re not using it. And try not to flash it around much. It’s rather an expensive piece.”

getting into character

Getting into character. It’s one of the things I’m struggling with at the moment. I used to think it was something only actors had to deal with. Yeah, not.

Kyri is proving to be one of my most difficult characters…it’s especially difficult to get inside her head.

To start off, she doesn’t advertise her feelings to the world. She holds all her thoughts and emotions in a closed off fortress in her heart, very rarely sharing them with anyone. If she’s scared, angry, or hurt, she’s probably not going to tell anyone. Ergo, her actions often don’t tell me much about her. I have to dive down to that fortress and break in to figure out what she’s really feeling.

Also, she’s not the nicest person at the start of the book. She’s snarky, depressed, stubborn, and sarcastic. Let’s just say she’s got some growing to do. At times getting inside her head stresses me out more than anything. It’s exhausting for every word that comes out of her/my mouth to be blunt and sarcastic.

Kyri also doesn’t remember what stars look like. She’s been hidden away with her people deep in a hidden underground world since she was a toddler. As a teenager, she sees the world for the first time.

As the writer, I have to describe what she feels when she feels the wind in her hair and the grass beneath her feet for the first time. I have to gain perspective. Try to see through her eyes.

In a very real way, I have to learn to see the world as if I’ve never seen it before.

words

 

For my senior year, I gave myself a challenge. To read 50 books. Books in all different genres and written in different ages.

I gave myself this challenge because I recognized a truth.

A writer must live and breathe the written word. Words must be playmates. Soul mates. What we turn to when we need to express ourselves.

Artists turn to their brushes and pencils to fulfill a desire to express beauty in a picture.

Musicians turn to their instruments to fulfill their desires to express the passion and splendor of life in notes.

And writers. Writers turn to words. Simple black marks on white pages. Our tools of the trade. We use words to fulfill our desire to show stories of love and redemption and hope to the world.

We writers breathe words. And to mature the words that came out of our pens, we must widely educate ourselves with the words we put in our minds.

I’ve read 9 books so far. To reach my goal, I only have to read 41 more. That means 5 or 6 a month. That is a lot of reading. Lots of words. Wonderful, beautiful, powerful words.

I’m trying not to get stressed out. I’ve been sick for almost a week, and we have no idea what’s wrong with me. Going to the Dr. today to try and figure it out.

I don’t have time to sit on the couch and sleep. The inactivity stiffens up my creative muscles. And my muse is hiding, even at midnight when I can’t sleep.

I have a novel to draft. I have short stories to write.

 

“I’m tired
I’m worn
My heart is heavy
From the work it takes to keep on breathing

I’ve made mistakes
I’ve let my hope fail
My soul feels crushed
By the weight of this world
And I know that you can give me rest
So I cry out with all that I have left

Let me see redemption win
Let me know the struggle ends
That you can mend a heart that’s frail and torn”

Worn, Tenth Avenue North

a chance to breathe

Yesterday, I was home all alone. When Mom left, she told me she was leaving me a car. “Get out of the house. Go to Starbucks or somewhere different.”

I almost felt like I had too little energy to even get in the car and drive somewhere. But I knew she was right. I’d become stagnant. I was tired of sitting in one place, staring out the same window, working on the same projects.

I needed change. I needed an adventure to refresh my soul and stir the creative waters deep inside.

I left a half-finished physics assignment and grabbed a notebook, my journal, pens, and my camera. And then I left the house. Drove with my windows rolled down, singing to myself. Chatted with the guy at Starbucks while he made my Refresher. Danced in the isles of books at the library to Coldplay music playing in my ear buds. Found a little spot to read for a while.

If you find yourself feeling stuck, you may just need a little adventure.

1. Do something unordinary. It doesn’t have to be something crazy or wild, risky or expensive. Just something outside of normal. Something that helps you breathe a little bit, that stirs up those stiff creative muscles.

2. Live eyes open. Obviously literally, but almost as important figuratively. Try to spot little glimpses of wonder, even among the ordinary things. Something you’ve never noticed before.

3. Don’t be so worried about the clock. There is lots of time for Physics assignments and violin practice. There is a time to be diligent. But sometimes, you just need space to breathe a little.

short story – seeing

I close the door to my bedroom and lean against it, as if the cruelty of the world might try to get inside. I drop my backpack to the ground like a bag of weights. My lip is raw from chewing it throughout classes—the ultimate proof of a stressful day.

What is it with teachers, anyway? I have no idea.

Graph seventh degree functions, they say. Memorize the dates of history, they say. Not the interesting ones or the unforgettably personal ones, just the unimportant ones in your textbook. I memorize dates, graph functions. State the laws of motion. Because they have no personal value. They’re numbers and figures. They don’t give me nightmares.

But write a memoir, they say? Suddenly, I’m paralyzed.

I decide it must be a prerequisite of all teachers to ask the impossible of their students.

My English teacher’s words ring in my ears, whispering with fear and doubt. “Write from your personal life experiences of the last year.” Mr. Delton might as well have said, “Dwell on the nightmares, Ali. Write down the demons of fear that terrorize you at night. Tell me what you can’t tell anyone. Write down your pain, your weakness, and your vulnerabilities for the world to read.”

The assignment description makes me want to throw up. But to do that, I’d have to leave my room and brave the house to get to the bathroom. So I just swallow down the fear and doubt and try to forget.

Then I hide. I hide in the only place I know. Behind my bed on the floor, with a book in my lap. Leaning against the cold wall. I set my cup of chai on the carpet next to me and pull my copy of the Lord of the Rings off my nightstand. I thumb through the well-worn pages, looking for a passage that sparks my interest.

I end up at the end of the Two Towers when Faramir is letting Frodo and Sam go into Ithilien. My homework sits in my backpack on the floor. My cell phone keeps buzzing at me with messages about my group science project, so finally I turn it off and throw it under my bed. And thus I spend my afternoon.

I finish my chai before I get to the end of the Two Towers, but veto the thought of going downstairs for a refill—there is no way I can risk an encounter with Mom right now. When I finish the Two Towers, I close the book. I sigh and lean my head down on my hand.

I know I can’t hide forever. But I still don’t want to come out.

* * *

“Ali, share your topic with us.” Mr. Delton’s smile is just a little two big, too enthusiastic. It’s like he’s taunting me.

“Ali?”

I swallow and stare at my desk. “I don’t have one.”

He lets the silence drag out a little too long. “Well did you do anything special this year, something you’d like to share?”

I reply mentally, Oh, yes, Mr. Delton. My brother killed himself and I watched my parents turn away from God. I think I’ll write about that.

No one in the classroom makes a sound. Everyone knows what my year’s been like. Small private schools are like that. But evidently my English teacher is the one person in this school that doesn’t know.

“Ali, why don’t we discuss this after class, so we can move on? Keith, your turn.”

I tune out the rest of class, envisioning what he’ll say to me later. Thankfully he doesn’t call on my anymore. I’m feeling sick by the time the other students file out of the classroom. They don’t look at me. I think my life makes them uncomfortable. The fact that my family is a wreck makes them think there’s something wrong with me. And they don’t know what to say around me. Which is just fine.

Someone closes the door on their way out and I’m alone.

“Ali.” Mr. Delton leans against desk with a faint smile, his arms crossed. “I know you love literature. I see you with a different book nearly every day. I see you scribbling at all times during a school day. If you’re not writing stories, I’d dearly love to know what you do write. I thought this exercise would help satisfy your creative urges.”

Yeah. Not. I keep my gaze firmly fixed on my desk, promising myself not to look up, not to show my weakness. It’s a good thing I actually like Mr. Delton. If his class wasn’t the only redeemable part of my day, this would be a lot worse.

“Ali, this really doesn’t have to be hard. I just want you to think of one thing you could write about from the past year. Just one.”

I chew my lip.

Mr. Delton sighs and moved around his desk, taking his seat. “Ali, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me. Is your life so boring that you didn’t make one memory this year?”

Suddenly words begin to rise up in my throat. I can’t help them from spilling out. “My life sucks. I wouldn’t even want to read about it.”

There’s a moment of silence before he responds, his voice gentle. “Then I gather you’ve had a tough year.”

I turn my head and look out the window, trying to keep all the emotions in tact miles inside my heart.

Mr. Delton got up from his desk and started pacing. The sounds of his footsteps irritated me. But at least he wasn’t looking at me anymore.

“Ali, you can only write what your eyes see.”

I wrinkle my forehead, interested and confused despite myself. I wait for Mr. Delton to continue, but he seems consumed with his pacing. So I risk speaking. “What do you mean?”

“It means that we can only write from what we observe. If you see your life as a hell on earth, filled with cruelty and people who hate you, your writing will drip of bitterness and fear.”

I swallow down a sob. Well, thank you, Mr. Delton. You just gave me another reason why I could never, ever finish this assignment.

“But.” His voice is so gentle. I almost want to look up at him. “If you look at your difficult life and are able to spot beauty in spite of your circumstances. Then your writing will be filled with powerful hope.”

My confusion swallows me up. I’m paralyzed, not by fear, but captivated by his words. I look up at him. He’s leaning against his desk again, the corners of his lips curved up in the faintest smile.

“You can go, Ali.”

* * *

It’s nearing midnight and I’m sitting at my computer, trying to distract myself from the thoughts churning around in my mind. I viciously type out some words for a fantasy story, immersing myself in another world. But somehow I can’t get my mind off the real one.

I sigh and open my internet browser. I spot a new email and open it. It’s from Mr. Delton.

 

“Ali,

“I did some inquiry and I think I understand why you’re finding such a hard time with this writing assignment. I’m willing to compromise. I want you to complete the assignment. But as long as you are able to prove that you did it, I will not read your work.

“I also want you to realize that, for natural-born writers especially, putting your deepest fears and feelings into words can be a sort of therapy. When the demons are on paper, they’re often easier to control.

“My challenge to you is to find one good thing, one glimmer of hope in the last year. Then write about it.

“Mr. Delton.”

 

I sit for a long time, simply staring at his email, until the words begin to blur together into meaningless black smudges. He’s not going to read it. That means I could write anything and no one would know what I wrote.

Then why am I still holding back?

Glancing at the clock, I feel a sick realization that it’s after 1 AM. And I have an Advanced Bio test in the morning. I drag myself to bed and pull a blanket over my head, shutting myself into a tiny bubble. I stare at the dark inside of my blanket, trying to force my teacher’s words out of my head.

Inexplicably, I shudder. My blanket shell usually helps me get to sleep. It makes me feel so safe. But right now, all I can do is stare at the darkness and let my mind spin in circles.

“When the demons are on paper, they’re often easier to control.”

I try breathing really deeply, but I just can’t stop thinking.

Words are beginning to form. An urge drives me. I can’t get rid of it.

So I slide out of my shell and turn a lamp on.

Trembling, I reach for paper.