Steps to Gold Medal Writing

Though I hardly ever watch television, I’ve been glued to it for the past few days enjoying the Olympics. I end up with a plethora of emotions while I watch. But high on that list is the total wonder at how the athletes pour everything they have into their task. They train, practice, and participate in competitions in order to build their strength and hone their talent.

Not unlike a writer’s journey.

Training is as essential to writing as to sports. The women that I’m watching weren’t born in a backbend … probably. They learned the skills they needed to accomplish the given tasks and it started with simple somersaults. Writing, likewise, takes education – basics.

My training consists of books, online classes, and critique groups. I’ve devoured texts about plotting, characterizations, word-painting, even social media and website designing. I flag pages and make highlights. I pull out my WIPs and practice what the books suggest. I do the homework for the online classes and observe the homework of others so I can learn from their successes and mistakes. And I’ve learned tons from the critique groups that I participate in. Full of both published and pre-published writers, these groups have taught me not only how to write, but also how to read what I’ve written with a reader’s eye. Priceless.

Practice for the athletes is like a full-time job. Spending hours in their field going through drill after drill to develop muscle memory.

Writing practice doesn’t require drills per se, but it does require writing. My work will only get better if I do the drafting and then follow through with the rewriting and revisions. The president of our Dallas-Fort Worth Chapter of the American Christian Fiction Writers, Janice Olson, explains it this way at our meetings:

We are writers; that means we write.

That simple. So I too make this a second full-time job. (Home-schooling my three girls is the first.) I spend every spare minute at my computer, limiting my social time, though that’s part of my career, and just writing. Head back, eyes closed, typing away.

Participation for the athletes comprises their goals. Stepping through the ranks of successes at competition, the performance is always key.

That’s where writing differs. In my opinion, the writing (practice) is key. And I think a lot of would-be published writers would agree with me. See our participation means sending out query letters and proposals and hoping for manuscript requests. I know I shied away from that part of the process, except for one shy email, for a solid year. My story wasn’t ready, I kept telling myself and everyone around me.

But how can I know my writing is ready if I don’t get it up on that diving board and give it a little push? Sending the stories, articles, proposals out to agents or editors provides writers with the feedback, like a cheering crowd, that lets them know that they can do this.

So I’ve started pushing my latest novel off the diving board. (I highly recommend taking the plunge!) So far with pretty favorable results, and who can say what may come? At the very least, I will certainly learn another step to this wonderful career I have.

With the right training, tons of practice, and a little courage a writer can win gold. Click here to tweet this.

Your turn: What’s the most valuable thing you’ve learned so far in your writing journey?

Thirteen Tornadoes Tore Through the Metroplex

Sounds surreal. I’ve lived here all my life and don’t remember an afternoon like the one I just had. I brought my girls home from piano lessons and errand running to turn on the news to images of a tornado tearing through the center of the metroplex.

The shot was shocking, taken from the air where a helicopter circled. The meteorologist commented on the “debris” that was flying through the air. I felt sick. Debris is like scattered papers or pencil shavings. I was seeing the roofs of people’s houses, their walls, bookcases, and possessions. It’s so easy to call it debris, but the truth was all too vivid on my screen and I started praying for the people in the path of the storm. “The houses right there. And that building. And make the drivers on that road stop before they get too close.”

Little did I realize I was in the path of another tornado just like it. Not then anyway, but I figured it out soon enough. I got my kids and my neighbor’s kids set up playing cards in the bathroom while I listened to the weather radio and stared at the hook echo on the TV screen that approached. The sirens in the city to our south had been blaring for some time, but the wall cloud wasn’t really close. And it looked to veer a little west. Or maybe it was going to lean toward the east?

I couldn’t avoid the truth. That monster had a bead on my house. It had been traveling in the same direction the entire time and was coming right for us. But at least it had gone back into the sky for the moment.

My son called me, giving voice to my fear. The clouds had spewed forth another twister less than a mile away from us and we were in the direct path. The kids were playing and laughing so they hardly heard the new chorus of sirens from down the street that drowned out the television.

From across the room I peaked into my backyard – seeing the southwestern sky that held a terrifying secret. Darkness. Not a cozy past sunset darkness or the promise of predawn but impending, intruding darkness with the stillness of death. No bird flying, not a whisper of a breeze. I kept whispering prayers as my son spoke.

Then I saw them. “The trees are starting to toss.” My son calmed me down and urged me to go into the bathroom, but I just couldn’t. The kids would see I was afraid and it would spread. I couldn’t do that to them … until I had to.

I glanced at the TV where the reporter pointed to a zoomed up map and radar image. “We’re hearing reports of a tornado on the ground. If there is one it will be in this area.” He pointed to a small section of the map.

“Boy, the man just pointed at my house!” I’ve never had a weatherman point anywhere near my house. It totally freaked me out.

But Dear Boy was calm. “Mom you know you’re okay. It’s only a little rope right now; not even enough to push over the fence. It’s gonna be fine.”

“Could you just stay on the phone with me?” My sweet boy understood and just chatted for a minute. At that point, I perched on the arm of my couch ready to dash if I saw any more indication of wind, but it stopped, like the sky held it’s breath.

Then something utterly remarkable happened. The radar renewed it’s image. The rotating cell approaching my neighborhood disappeared and immediately reappeared less than a mile away – DIRECTLY EAST OF WHERE IT HAD BEEN. With the twister no longer heading right for me, I released a breath I’d held for hours. As I’m writing to you, my jaw is still sore from my of grinding and clamping.

Now I know tornadoes are unpredictable creatures, but even my weather-bug boy was shocked at how this one had so abruptly broken it’s character. I can’t explain it and wouldn’t want to try because my small mind cannot comprehend the ways of the Lord. And I learned another miracle later that evening. Thirteen different tornadoes touched down – some of them came multiple times … Only minor injuries.

Yes, God is good. He would’ve been good if the tornado had hit my house, too, but all I could feel was profound gratefulness that He spared our home and blessed the people who were in the storm’s path with another day.