“What goes in must come out.”
That adage is something I always heard growing up, especially from my parents when I would read R.L. Stine books as a kid.
And they were right.
When I was ten years old, I wrote my first “book,” which was about 80 pages long in a spiral bound notebook.
It was about a girl who, after a basketball game, went to a convenience store and drank a sports drink that was poisoned. In order for her to not be harmed by the poison, she had to give it to other people, poisoning them.
She started by poisoning her younger brother.
Somehow, one of my parents must have found my “book” and out of concern for my younger brother’s life, quietly removed it from our wholesome Christian home.
And I started therapy.
I really didn’t start therapy then, but I’ve always remembered that the things I soak my remaining brain cells in will show in other areas of my life.
A few weeks ago, I shared that I would have an opportunity to thank a former teacher in my life for the influence he had. I didn’t mention this in the earlier post, but he’s one of three people I dedicated Permission to Speak Freely to, as he taught me how to write from my heart.
He’s now a brilliant teacher at a prestigious academy in Pennsylvania, and last Monday, I got to spend some time with him (see, here’s a picture of us), hanging out in his English classes and clearing cobwebs that have been forming in my head since I was a junior in High School.
Most of us have read some of the “classics” in our high school or college days. Melville. Twain. Hemmingway. Homer. Salinger. (Etc., Etc., Etc.)
If you’re anything like I am, I left those books behind with my prom dress.
After spending time in Mr. Bennett’s classes, listening to sixteen year olds discuss the greatest line in American literature (?All right then, I’ll go to hell? – Huck Finn) I began thinking, “These kids understand classic literature more than I do,” and as the visiting “professional” author, felt entirely like a poser.
“Have you read this?”
“Ummm…once in seventh grade.”
“Do you remember the line about…”
“Never read that one.”
“Last year, when you guys read…”
“Crap.”
In the midst of jokes about Hemmingway and my feelings of inadequacy, I made a decision.
If I want to write timeless content, I should probably read timeless content.
Because what goes in must come out.
Before I wrote Mad Church Disease, I had spent my “ministry” years reading “ministry” books and lo and behold, produced a “ministry” book of my very own.
With Permission to Speak Freely, I had ventured more into memoirs, essay collections, poetry, and spiritually contemplative books and I think it’s fair to say the tone of PTSF reflects that.
The goal of any writer is to become a better version of themselves (and not give into the temptation to be the next Anne Lamott, Donald Miller, David Sedaris, or Elizabeth Gilbert).
As writers, we should hone in to cultivate our own voice and make it the best it can be.
That only happens with time.
What can we do with our time to develop ourselves into timeless writers?
We have to nurture our creative spirits, and that looks different for each of us. But within that universal pursuit, find authors who have proven themselves as staples, not trends, that speak to you. Find poets who connect with your soul on a level brief metaphors can speak to. Find music that causes your mind to journey into abstract places. Find places in nature where time stops and the colors, the smells, and the sounds pour into you, because you are a piece of nature yourself.
And write…
Workshops are good (I guess, I’ve never actually been to a writing workshop), and how-to books can be beneficial. I own my fair share of them.
But remember, practicality is rarely a pathway to creating art.
Most art isn’t practical.
If it was, it probably wouldn’t move us in the way that art often does.
—–
I had the pleasure of being introduced to Anne Jackson through a ministry partner and friend,