CREATIVE WRITING INSIGHTS: “The Gumption Factor In Writing And Getting Published,” by Lorilyn Roberts

In my advanced writing class at Perelandra College, Professor Ken Kuhlken wrote, “When we have preconceptions, we need to let go of them if we hope to find new answers.”

Preconceptions can set us up for failure if we are rigid. But what if we use our preconceptions to catapult us to a level of excellence not limited by our finite vision?

A couple of years ago, I wrote my memoir about the adoption of my two daughters as creative nonfiction. I meticulously researched facts and details I had forgotten. I scoured the Internet to verify locations, names, dates, and chronological order of events. I pulled out every document I had saved from both adoptions and poured my heart and soul into my writing.

I asked many friends, professional acquaintances, and editor-journalism-communication types to read Children of Dreams and offer suggestions on how I could make it better. I listened and made revisions that created an almost unbelievable story.

Two weeks before the Florida Christian Writer’s Conference in 2009, I sent off my completed manuscript to be reviewed by an editor attending the conference. I spent $50 and downloaded a file to prepare myself for the right attitude while at the conference. I had attended this conference twice before and came away both times disillusioned. This time I was determined not to let that happened.

I couldn’t think of anything that an editor could say to me for which I would not have an answer. I launched my website before the conference and signed up for the marketing class with Randy Ingermanson. I was ready to dive in and market my book if an editor or agent offered me a contract on Children of Dreams. I did not feel like I was setting myself up for failure. I always set lofty goals and then leave the outcome in God’s hands.

The conference arrived and I was excited to be there. I couldn’t wait to share the joy of my book with others. But when I showed my manuscript around, I was surprised by the comments.

“No one is publishing memoirs right now,” one person said. “Oh, a memoir,” another stated. People stepped back from me like I had bad breath. Nobody would read one line and acted like I had written something C-rated at best. But I remained positive. I was certain when I received my manuscript back from the reviewing editor the next day, he would be interested.

The moment arrived when all the reviews were handed out to the attendees. When mine wasn’t, I went up and inquired. Despite the volunteers looking everywhere, they didn’t have mine. While my book was “lost,” all the remaining slots to meet with other editors filled up. Nobody knew where my book was. If the editor who had received my manuscript didn’t like it, I would have no opportunity to present my book to someone else.

To say I was disillusioned is an understatement, but it didn’t come close to what I felt when my manuscript was found. I read the note the editor wrote. “You might consider submitting this to a magazine.”

If the editor had read one paragraph of that 235-page manuscript, he would have known the story couldn’t be condensed into an article. I had presented part of it to a “Focus on the Family” editor a year earlier, and her comment was, “It’s too long. If you can shorten it, we would love to take another look.” I was unwilling to cut it down more, and it was that comment that made me realize I needed to write the whole story. It took 235 pages to do the story justice.

I did meet later with a couple of editors at the conference and was told by them—as well as an agent, “When you have one thousand people on an opt-in list, come back and talk to us.” While I was nice to them, I thought to myself, if I had one thousand people on an opt-in list, why would I need you?

As a result of that experience, my “gumption” kicked in. I reassessed what I really wanted. What was important to me? Sometimes “no’s” become wonderful opportunities to think “outside the box.” We are free to pursue goals we never would have considered if we had been given what our preconceived ideas told us we wanted.

The key is to be open to change, to give up something to receive something better. Since God controls the outcome, we should focus on the process and what we can do to enhance our chance to achieve our goal.

I have never met an author who didn’t have a lot of gumption to become published. Good writing and successful marketing are key, and money helps the process to go faster as far as exposure, but without the seed within us never to give up, the chances are we won’t go anywhere with our writing.

Today I have forty-three reviews with five stars on Amazon. I thank all my friends and professional contacts every time a new five-star review goes up, knowing without their honest input—and yes, some of it hurt—Children of Dreams wouldn’t have all those wonderful reviews.

My gumption not to give up is still intact, and I am more determined than ever to share my writing with others. Preconceived ideas have long gone out the window. I am setting a new path into the unknown with the John 3:16 Marketing Network, writing a new young adult fantasy novel, obtaining my Master’s in Creative Writing, and hopefully someday will teach at the university level in China when I finish my education.

God gives us a cup overflowing with opportunity when we commit our way to Him. Gumption is the human quality He endears us with to get us started. If God is for us, who can be against us?

You can read more about Lorilyn on her website at LorilynRoberts.com

CREATIVE WRITING INSIGHTS: “The Fictional Dream,” by Lorilyn Roberts

Those who are deep thinkers about fiction writing, enjoy these thoughts about the fictional dream, based on famed author Jon Gardner's philosophy.

I am thankful the writing of the fictional dream has no rules. This allows our fictional dream to explore “where no man [or woman] has gone before.” Jon Gardner admonishes in The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers, don’t write what you know; write what you don’t know. Is there enough creative artistry within me to pour out my soul—and write my fictional dream? I cherish the freedom to risk. As someone who becomes bored easily, I cannot write only what I know.

As I think about Gardner’s words and the fictional dream, I have come to realize seeking a Masters in Creative Writing can be risky for an artist. The creative process can be killed as one takes captive every tidbit of advice. With the earnestness of a perfectionist, zealous corrections may creep in which destroy the fictional dream. The broken threads threaten to braid themselves into a twisted nightmare which may be technically sound but artistically wanting.

But there must be limitations unless we are God. When I wrote my memoir Children of Dreams, I sat down at my computer on a Sunday morning and started writing. I didn’t study any “how-to” books or even question if I knew what I was doing. I just started writing. The more I wrote, the easier the task seemed. But this “fictional” dream was rooted in reality. Once I had tasted the sweet victory of finishing a book, I wanted to write another one. I also realized at that point I had attained the highest level of writing I could achieve. Raw, God-given talent can take you only so far.

What happens when you want to go to the next level? The reality of ignorance raises its head. Like when you study the Bible for the first time seriously, you soon realize how little you know. 

A writer is much like an artist. I studied creative writing and books by Jon Gardner, Linda Seger, James Scott Bell, Charles Dickens, Linda Pastan, Edward Hirsch, Carolyn Wheat, William Zinsser, Jon Franklin, Mark Jarman, Jack Bickham, Graham Greene, Michael Tierno, Robert McKee, and Ken Kuhlken. My mind became overwhelmed with rules of do’s and don’ts, plot and structure, complication and denouement, point of view, scene, style, arc, and creating believable characters.

On the marketing side, voluminous sites on the Internet promise shortcuts to success. One even claimed, “Pay me X dollars and write a book in a weekend!” Would I even want to read my own book written in a weekend?

But anything worth achieving has no shortcuts. Gardner points out you must learn the rudiments or you will never become a Master. I felt my fictional dream floating away from me. Derisive voices shouted at me convincing me I couldn’t write anything anybody would want to read. My fictional dream became filled with demons disguising themselves as truth. “You can’t do this. You are no good.”

Pain and doubt plagued me, “Am I going forward or backward?” I questioned. I slammed the book down and screamed back, “Shut up!” But as one continues on this journey into the unknown of the fictional dream, slowly, but painfully, mastery sets in. We come to the realization, “I can do this, and now I can do it better.”

If we are human, we will never quit dreaming. Our job as writers is to take that dream and put it on paper. Fiction gives us the freedom to state it more real and dreamlike if we use the tools in the right way. We can escape into another world that we create through the use of verisimilitude. Verisimilitude allows us to tell our story in a convincing way through the proper use of voice and devices. We must persuade the reader that what we are telling is true. Details should paint a setting that’s real. Characters need to be lifelike. Problems must appear unsolvable, and the protagonist must beat overwhelming odds. We may move the reader to tears of hilarity, to disgust or anger. But we must move him emotionally. 

Otherwise, he will stop reading and say, “This is not believable. I am bored,” and put the book on the shelf. Not only have we failed to achieve success with the fictional dream, but we have also lost an opportunity to change a life (and will probably lose the reader for future books).

My most recent example of a fictional dream that failed is The Shack. The beginning of the book was surreal. I had to put it down. I was terrified that one of my daughters would be kidnapped and murdered. I still have a hard time looking at ladybugs the same way, deliberately not counting the number of spots on them. The detail in the writing drew me into the fictional dream and I was terrified.

I eventually picked the book back up and started reading again. I was too hooked to not finish it. But then something happened. I read the scene where the Trinity was split into three life-like people. The God part of the Trinity was called “Papa.” Immediately the fictional dream was no longer real. While the writing was creative and the rudiments were in place for a great story, the fictional dream in this case interfered too much with what I know as truth. I couldn’t turn off my unbelief. The fictional dream deviated too far from my core values, much as Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof could not bless his daughter marrying a non-Jew. His acceptance of her marriage would have broken him. I put The Shack down in disappointment several months ago. I retrieved it from my bookshelf as I thought about the fictional dream and attempted to read it once again. But I couldn’t.

From The Shack experience, I believe Gardner left out one important point about the fictional dream: If the core beliefs of a person are too violated, the fictional dream cannot become real. The fictional dream has limits of believability that for me, at least, can’t contradict the Bible. But recognizing the limits of the fictional dream shouldn’t dissuade us from pursuing it. In the process, we will elevate our writing to a higher level than we would have achieved otherwise.

I see the Bible as the greatest story ever told, and the proof-texts in the New Testament are well documented in the Old Testament. It was the proof-texts that validated the Old Testament that convinced me that the New Testament was true. Jesus was born into the world to save mankind from his sins. As I think about that, I am struck with the importance of building the proof-texts into the story We must authenticate every detail, provide a colorful history, present the vividness of our world in 3-D, create characters that are striking, and a story that the reader will care enough about to forego going to the bathroom until he can no longer bear the pain. The fictional dream becomes his world now, leaving him in suspense. He worries about the characters as if they were his friends, his family, or himself.

As another example, the fictional dream should be like our dreaminess when we sleep—where we absorb everything into it like a vacuum. The thunderstorm outside the bedroom window becomes part of the reality of our dream. The characters who pop into our dream out of nowhere are people we know in that other world. Some of those people are found in the real world. Some aren’t, just like in the fictional dream. In the dream state, I have places I have visited time and again, places that do not exist in reality. I have friends, jobs, and crazy things I do that seem perfectly normal in that other place. I recently woke up one morning and wondered who that man was I married during the night. Our dreams take us to places we have never been consciously, but unconsciously, have touched us in ways we may not be aware of. We work out our fears, our hopes, our drudgeries, our unsolvable issues, and wonder the next morning, “Why did I dream that?”

The fictional dream may reveal the answers to some of these perplexing questions. Are not most of our stories borne out of the frailness of our human nature, our fall from grace, our sinful condition, and our hope for resolution? Like stardust from a star, even a child knows fear, worry, pain, sadness, and death, and the fictional dream can promise insightful answers. We write as a lover woos his mistress, convincing the reader to discard his logical thinking and embrace our creativity. We ask him to risk embarking on this fabulous journey that has become our fictional dream. Can we offer hope of escape from reality, even redemption? The choice is ours. If I was possessed, I could present a terrifying world of despair and hopelessness. 

As Gardner points out, however, be careful. The written word can’t be erased easily from a sensate individual’s memory. Our words will live on in books long past our existence on this rock suspended in space. We possess the power of demigods from hell or messengers from God. How we touch the lives of those around us, even many years into the future, for good or evil, comes from deep within us.

Let us not disappoint. May we give the reader the roller coaster ride of a lifetime, with all the thrills he hoped for; and then surprise him with more. Let’s not waste the opportunity or gift of writing God has shared with us. As an author hoping to emulate the Greatest, let us begin our journey with one word, and then another, and then another, as an artist draws on a canvas until the fictional dream becomes a masterpiece. And hopefully, the reader will say, “That was good. I wish I had more to read,” close the book and relive the fictional dream.

CLOSED CAPTIONING: “Cat Captions for Television:” Video by Broadcast Captioner Lorilyn Roberts

Captions play an important role in the lives of many. They are vital for disseminating information related to news, weather, sports, entertainment, and national security. Captions enable hearing-challenged individuals to live a healthy lifestyle.


Please enjoy my newest (and greatest) video on Youtube to promote quality captions on television:
http://www.youtube.com/user/llwroberts?feature=mhum
 
 

MEDIA: TV APPEARANCE BY LORILYN ROBERTS ON ATLANTA’S 57 WATC “Friends and Neighbors”

To Watch the Video, Click Here

Lorilyn shares her testimony, faith, and talks about her book Children of Dreams, her family's appearance on Animal Planet's “Monsters Inside Me,” adoption, parenting, and more.

ANGELS, ROACHES TV'S AND CHRISTMAS: Devotional by Lorilyn Roberts

I never thought roach droppings would become part of one of my favorite Christmas stories. But stories have a way of writing themselves on our hearts. Each year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, my sister Paige invites my brother's family and my family to her house. The kids join us at the dining room table where lots of interesting knickknacks are transformed into Christmas decorations. Paige is an artist and enjoys sharing her talent with the children. It is a good thing for my daughters. Most of my art projects as a child didn’t go as planned. I always missed an important step along the way and my results were, should I say, memorable, but for all the wrong reasons. So I watch as the others dive in and create beauty.

Last year all the cousins created angels to hang on the Christmas trees. The little angels were dressed in white lace, had feathery wings, and a red rose dotted the front collar. Instead of halos, the kids crowned the angels with macaroni noodles. The golden hair created the same effect. Joy was proud of her angel and when we returned home from the long trip, she hung it on our Christmas tree. Christmas came and went. January rolled around; I reluctantly took everything down and packed the ornaments away in our attic for another year.


Last week I climbed up into the dark, dusty attic once again to pull out the Christmas tree and ornaments. Joy set up the tree and I opened up the first container. When I unlatched it and looked inside, dozens of roach droppings littered the bottom of the box. A few tumbled out onto the living room floor. Several of the ornaments had brown pellets clinging to them. I was quite repulsed, only slightly less than I would have been if live ones had scampered out or dead body parts had been left behind. I wondered why one suitcase had so many, though I found a couple in the other suitcase also. In years past there had never been any.


I fetched the vacuum cleaner and vacuumed up all the droppings. Visions popped in my head of hundreds of roaches crawling over my beautiful ornaments that I had accumulated through many Christmases. I grabbed some paper towers and wiped down the inside. How many roaches would it take to make that much crap? I cringed. Living in Florida has its dark side. I always hated climbing up into the attic. Now I hate it even more.

Then Joy cried out, “Mommy, my angel has no hair.”


“What happen to her hair?”


“I think the roaches ate it.”

We broke out laughing. The roaches had spent the whole summer feasting on my daughter’s angel’s macaroni hair! I am sure Joy will always remember this Christmas, but probably not because of any presents she received.


As I think back to my fondest Christmas memories, many of them are also quite eclectic. There was the Christmas in downtown New York when we got trapped inside a car on fire. The electric windows were stuck and my grandfather smashed the driver’s side window with a suitcase. I remember the screams. Mother pulled me out through shards of broken glass. Sirens blared and emergency lights flickered in the cold night air. We never did get to see the lighting of the tree. We spent the evening in a fancy hotel. Later Mother told me a Hollywood director was there for a children’s beauty pageant and had pleaded with her to let him take me to Hollywood. He wanted to make me a star. It sounds crazy but it’s true.


That was when I lived with my grandparents. My mother had just divorced and sent me to live with them until she found a job and place to live. I chose my mother’s pink bedroom to be my bedroom that winter, pretending I was her when she was little.


My most vivid memory from that cold, snowy winter was Christmas Eve when I heard Santa’s reindeer pounding on the roof of the tall apartment building. It was a loud swishing sound followed by gallops that woke me up. I didn’t believe in Santa Claus until that night. I lay in my warm bed imagining what Santa and his reindeer looked like. I wanted to jump up and peek out the window, but I was afraid if I saw them, he wouldn’t leave me anything. The next morning I ran to the window and looked below from thirteen stories up. To my surprise, there were large sleigh marks in the snow. Larger than any sleigh I had ever seen. I stared out the window for a long time.


I’ve thought about that more this Christmas than any other in recent memory because of a strange conversation over Thanksgiving dinner. I asked my brother’s wife if all their kids, who are younger than the rest of the Roberts’ children, knew there wasn’t a Santa Claus. As we talked, I shared my experience about Santa Claus at my grandparents’ apartments when I was little, but I mentioned only the part about the sleigh tracks in the snow.


Mother responded immediately, “I saw them, too, and heard Santa land on the roof!”


“You did?” I asked surprised. “I also heard the reindeer hoofs pounding on the roof. The swishing sound woke me up.”


There was a silence as we all thought about the strange coincidence. Mother had shared about the rooftop noise before I brought it up. Everyone looked at Mother and me like we were demented. To this day, I have no explanation. Sometimes I wonder if God allows fanciful moments to bring comfort to children. Maybe that’s what I needed at that time—to have something to believe in. Maybe that’s what my mother needed, too.


One Christmas my parents thought they were rich. They bought me a very special present. I was eleven, and the gift still sits in the top of a closet. On Christmas morning, I tore into the Christmas wrap and discovered a brand-new television set. I watched many episodes of my favorite show, Star Trek, on that TV. I took the television away to college. When I was older, I lugged it into the office and watched all the Apollo launches. I never missed one—except the Challenger that blew up on the launch pad.



Today the TV is a dinosaur in this age of color, digital-only cable/satellite/internet connections. But I still won’t part with it. When I see it in the closet, I am reminded of a pastime I can never have back. My father and grandparents are gone, my mother has remarried and doesn’t even live in the same house as we did back in those days. My brother and sister have families of their own. I am old (though not gray) and live in a different state. We have lots of TV’s that are far superior to that one. In fact, the TV takes up valuable real estate that could be devoted to something else more useful.


When I was in Vietnam on Christmas Eve to adopt Joy, who is now twelve, beautiful Christmas music wafted through the streets of Hanoi. It was here that unfathomable suffering occurred during the Vietnam War. Today many believers in Vietnam are locked behind dark walls for believing in Christ. But God’s words filled the nighttime air. I rejoiced, so far from home, realizing nothing can silence what God proclaims from the mountaintops—or loud speakers hoisted on poles in a godless nation.


God’s love reaches to the ends of the earth—in Nepal, where children love Jesus despite the Marxist Moasts who have killed many Christians; in Israel, where shepherds tend their flocks on the same hill where angels proclaimed glory to the newborn king. If we did not speak of the baby wrapped in swaddling clothes at Christmas, the rocks would cry out. The mountains and hills would burst into song. Wonderful Counselor, Prince of Peace, Mighty God, Everlasting Father; the greatest gift of all came through the birth of one small child on a Christmas morning two thousand years ago.


Joy’s hairless angel hangs proudly on our tree this Christmas (though I wish I could de-sanitize it some). All the gifts will be opened Christmas morning. I will eat far too much chocolate candy and then bemoan the five pounds I gain. I will make my usual promise to start exercising on January 1, which I will probably break by the middle of the month. We will enjoy all the traditions that this wonderful season brings, full of joy, giving, and love. Then the ornaments will be taken down and packed away until next year. Hopefully, the roaches will find something else to eat besides an ornament’s angel’s hair. My black and white TV will remain in the closet because I can’t bear to part with it. Life will resume its regular course, and I will be glad for the start of a new year.


But for now, during this joyous Christmas season, I will pause to reflect on the gift of the baby Jesus, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger, knowing someday, too, I will bow before the new-born King. And, just maybe, there won’t be any roach droppings there!