Into the Fire

You know the authors who make you feel small? Not because of anything they did to you personally but because you can’t keep your jaw in place or your laughter silenced or your tears from running down your face after reading their work. Grant you there may not be many of them, but when you read them and they touch your soul: you feel small. Inadequate. Like a pretender in this writing gig. But then . . .

When I finally abandoned the critical reading scenario—you know what I mean: picking out every rule broken, every no-no according to the powers that be—I could again read for voice, style, and story and leave behind the formulaic standards set in place for beginners by those who established what they think enhances the reading experience. Through my own investigations I discovered the beauty and unpredictability of what I’ve termed “the average reader”. They don’t care about “the rules” for the most part. They don’t necessarily recognize “bad” or “good” writing in spite of the editorial insistence that the reason they enjoy certain stories is because of how they’re written. Simply untrue. If you leave out or leave in those adverbs? They won’t notice.

You might think I’m putting them down here or worse being condescending to their literacy. I most certainly am not. They read because they love the experience, they want to be entertained or immersed in another time, place, circumstance, and the truth is if it’s somewhere they want to go: they don’t care how they get there. They have no writing aspirations. They simply love to read. What a freedom there is in that. It’s a pleasure for the sheer experience.

Now. It does seem as though some do not wish to write for them because they do look down on or condescend to them. I would venture to say there are even a few authors who might be insulted by the praises from “the average reader” which would really be a shame if, in fact, a reality.

Plug in to this topic the fact that no one has been able to consistently figure out how to successfully market fiction, and you get multiple discussions/arguments about what “good” fiction is and why it’s “good”, and what constitutes “bad” fiction, and why some really well-written and/or entertaining novels don’t sell well (i.e. “Literary fiction doesn’t sell well in the CBA.”).

Keep all these points in mind as I explain why I simply write what I want to read. I know my own voice—it’s been there from the beginning. I know my own style, and it’s improved since my first novel (the editor’s nightmare), and I believe I know my strengths and weaknesses. I write differently in the technical aspects now that I’m on novels eight and nine. Not hugely different but slightly tighter, I guess. And by saying “tighter”, I’m not saying those 80,000 word jobs fall from my fingertips. Whatever you do in your first novel, whether it be too many unnecessary words or too few necessary words, in the ones that follow you’ll probably slowly reverse the process. Or if you leave them sit long enough, when you go back to them, your editing will take care of the progress of your writing skills.

All of that to say this: I will never be a “perfect” writer. Neither will you. Not on this earth in this lifetime. Yes, we are called to excellence, rather to excel in order to bring our personal form of worship to our Creator. Not to show off. Not to prove how “worthy” we are as servants of the Lord in our craft(s) of choice. Just because we work hard at making words work well, we are still flesh and sin-stained blood. The touches of perfection come directly from the Holy Spirit rising up to anoint a moment in time when we’re unflinching in our surrender to God’s glory.

Writing arrogance is often clothed in a pseudo-spiritual form of humility. “I work so hard at finding just the right words because it is my charge to honor God with my work.” God loves the efforts of the least of us to give honor to Him. Our hearts speak what our words cannot. He reads the pulsing beats of our motives. He sees what even we blind ourselves to in our efforts. Whose recognition do we seek? How dedicated are we to serve Him regardless of what we receive?

Perfection comes from Him alone. I am released from somehow manufacturing it because I love Him. I can only honor Him by my submission to Him. However that is worked out in me for Him will please Him. But when it’s me who strives and seeks to prove my dedication, my worth, my “excellence” in craft for Him, it somehow removes Him from the results and shines the light on my efforts instead of His ability to produce something valuable from this fractured vessel made of dirt and often filled with grime.

Apart from you I can do nothing, Father. Jesus, you saved me from myself. Holy Spirit, I ask for your anointing upon my words. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.