The Conference

There is nothing more wonderful than coming home to a messy house with four children and a loving husband after being chewed up and spit out at a writers conference. Safe, familiar, unchanging, and no publicist needed. -Saturday night's Facebook post

I love writing. I hate writing, but I process through writing, and so I love writing. My life, extraordinarily normal, becomes miraculously beautiful when I write. I learn through writing as God brings to light what was before dim or hiding in the dark. I can be silly through writing.

It is something I've fought... this title of "writer". But after understanding how I process and release through writing and that not everyone is "lightened" after writing I have finally taken on the title of "writer". I write for our church's women's ministry. I write for a moms support group that I attend. I write for the family. I write for myself.

Next step... I really do believe that God led me to write my story. And it's not because I believe myself more important or more interesting than anyone else. I believe it's a story that is important, because it's a struggle for many of us in the Church this following the Gospel of Works rather the Gospel of Grace. That's my story.

Shortly after I had finally accepted my wiring as writer I heard of the Orange County Christian Writers Conference. It was affordable, in the area, and I now possessed the "writer" label, so I went.

I counted down the days until this conference. Driving down to Orange County I blasted the radio and sang and played the steering wheel like a drum and suddenly I was at the conference location... and I didn't want to go in. I have jumped out a plane (twice). I have little problem with strangers, speaking in front of crowds, putting myself out on a limb in the crazy chance I might succeed. And I didn't want to go in.

It was confirmed. I don't want to pursue a platform. I want to pursue God's will in this gifting and I want to pursue improvement, but platform and investment and a website and a publicist and an agent? I'm just not sure.

I heard in a seminar this weekend that being a mediocre writer was easy. It's safe. Because, as Cecil Murphy explained, being a writer means being willing to walk down the street naked meaning to write anything worth reading you must write from a place of transparency.

I do. I strive for transparency in my writing and my living, but transparency for the world to see and for publishers to see and reply, "This lady thinks she's a writer? This stuff is garbage!" To invest in a platform when I find myself already full by investing in family and a home? How?

The weekend was a rough one. Having the door to the real world opened to someone as naive as myself was not a pleasant experience. I had no business card, no website, no book. I had only the desire to write and one idea. A calling.

By Saturday mid-morning I was good. I met a lovely woman in the same boat as my newbie self. I took the lessons as they came and found my nuggets in each. But as the weekend continued my heart took a beating. I can't quite explain it, but I was done by 2:00pm.

I went to a class by an agent entitled "20 Reasons You're Not Getting Published". He gave tips on, as he put it, getting your ducks in a row. And had I not been on the verge of tears, I would have asked him, "What do you do when you think you're out in the cow pasture? What is this you speak of ducks?"

Memoirs? He said they're like elbows - everyone has them. They are a hard sell.

He ended the class, I smiled my thanks, and I walked briskly to the bathroom where I sobbed in silence.

When I thought I was presentable enough I walked downstairs to have my assigned consultation with one of the authors/speakers of the conference. I was looking forward to showing her what I had written and asking what she thought and how I could improve.

BJ Taylor sat down in front of me smiling and welcoming. After a few short lines of small talk she paused and gave me the look that implied it was now my turn. How could she help me?

And that's when I burst out crying. I was in a large room with professionals and writers pursuing different avenues of adventures and I was sobbing.

She encouraged me and finally said I should pray about what the next step was. I wiped mascara off my cheek, looked into her experienced face, and answered, "I think the next step is to go home."

And I left early.

I drove out of the parking lot yelling, "Why did You send me there, God? That was horrible!"

I'm better now. I have decided, after some serious consideration, not to take a summer break from writing. I have decided to continue writing down my story, which is God's universal story for us sorry human beings. I have decided to explain my heartbreak over this weekend.

I learned this weekend that when God gives me a taste of what's ahead I often barrel down into the future like a bull in a china shop. That persistence I tell everyone I have can often be plain stubbornness. That excitement for experiencing life can often air on the side of rushing forward so fast I can't hear God whispering, "Wait. Now's not the time."

Yes, I learned a lot about myself this weekend. How that plays into my writing I'm not quite sure yet. How it plays into my daily living as I love my husband and parent my children and care for friends and live the ins-and-outs of normal life I have a slight hint.

And that's why I wrote what I did on Saturday night. I will continue, as Cecil Murphy said, to take that risk by walking down Main Street without a stitch of clothes on.