Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

the writing life

You’re Running a Marathon, Not a Sprint

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I ran 12 miles (well, “ran” is a bit of an overstatement – “slogged” is more accurate) this past Sunday, and all I could think as I was huffing and puffing and swearing under my breath was how that training run was the perfect metaphor for my professional life as a writer (yeah, cursing included).

Here’s the deal. Have you ever looked up your favorite author on Amazon to see what other books he or she has written? I have. And this is what I discovered:

Before the New York Times bestselling books, before the million-copies-sold and the all-star endorsements and the forewords written by the biggest and brightest, before they knocked it out of the park, there were the unknown books. Two, three, four, sometimes a half-dozen books, written and published to little fanfare, long before that person became well-known.

It’s true. In most cases, your favorite all-star author has written books you’ve not only never read, he or she has written books you and the rest of the world have largely never heard of. Those books are still out there on Amazon and BarnesandNoble.com, because they are still bought here and there by people who stumble on them and say, “I didn’t know so-and-so wrote a Bible study,” or “I didn’t know so-and-so wrote a self-help book,” or a poetry book or a book of essays.

But there they are there, buried in the online stacks, a testament to the marathon that person was running long before we ever knew her name.

Discovering those unknown books on Amazon and slogging through that 12-mile training run on Sunday reminded me that we are running (slogging) a marathon, not a sprint. Whatever you are doing — mothering, writing, corporating, non-profiting — whatever your thing is — your passion, your dream — just remember this: you are in it for the long-haul. Pursuing your goals and your dreams takes time. It takes commitment. It takes energy, sweat, training and yeah, even tears and occasional cursing.

Sure, there are instant success stories out there – writers whose first book made all the bestseller lists, entrepreneurs who made a million with their first widget, business whizzes who shot up the corporate ladder to vice president before they’d sprouted their first gray hair. But by and large those stories are the exceptions  (and that’s why we hear so much about them). Most of us are running a marathon, slow and steady, one step in front of the other, on some days making barely discernible progress.

I finished that training run on Sunday, and when I was done, I lay on the sunroom floor and mopped sweat off my brow with a paper towel. It had been a hard run, no doubt about it. Every step was a struggle, every mile a hard-won victory. I hadn’t enjoyed it one bit. It had been grueling and, frankly, downright demoralizing. Yet I knew, even as lay on the floor panting and mopping, that the training run was important, even good, in its own you’re-killing-me-here kind of way.

That training run was a testament to the marathon I’m running {okay, half marathon, but let’s just go with the metaphor here}. It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t look like anything close to success, but it was still a necessary and even integral part of the overall race. It was, as my husband likes to say, a “character-builder.” That run grew me. It made me stronger. It inevitably made me a better runner, even though it didn’t feel like it in the moment.

The same can be said about my books. They’re not bestsellers. They haven’t sold bajillions of copies. They didn’t make any lists or win any awards. They’re out there, doing their thing, unnoticed by most.

But writing those books and walking them through from the seed of an idea to the paperbacks that sit on my shelf was an important part of my growth as a writer. Creating those books grew me and strengthened me as a writer and as a person in ways I never expected.

It’s a marathon, friends, so let’s double-knot our laces, take a big swig of water and a deep breath and keep running . We are growing. We are learning. We are building character and momentum and strength. We are making progress, even if it doesn’t feel like it in the moment.

 

How to Step Out of a Spiritual Rut

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Yesterday afternoon I did something different. I’d been feeling frustrated with my work, at a loss for what to write about on the blog, uninspired by my current freelance editing project. But instead of doing what I typically do when I’m stuck — ie. scroll through Facebook and browse the Internet — I stepped outside. I donned my gardening gloves and tackled one of the raised beds I can see from my desk – the one that will bloom a fireworks display of orange, yellow, fuschia and red in a few weeks, the tulips we planted several years ago in memory of my mother-in-law. Right now, though, the tulip leaves are choked with a jumble of dead grass, desiccated oak and chestnut leaves and weeds.

The chore took me only 20 minutes or so – I wasn’t out there all day (thought I would have liked to have been) — but when the bed was clean of debris, and I’d shucked my gloves, washed my hands and sat down at my desk again, I found not only that I had something to write about (this post you’re reading now), I also felt reinvigorated and refreshed in a way I never would have, had I stayed seated, mindlessly scrolling through my frustration.

This is a good lesson for me and my writing life, but I think it can also be applied to our spiritual lives, our work lives and our lives in general as well.

The lesson here is this: when you’re stuck, change your routine. 

Lately I’ve found myself mired in a spiritual rut. My standard spiritual discipline is morning Bible reading, and it’s something I’ve done pretty regularly, ever since I found my way back to God and Christianity several years ago. Recently, though, Scripture hasn’t shimmered for me in the way it has in the past. More and more I’ve found my mind wandering, obsessing about the day’s to-do list or the emails stacking up in my in-box or the fact that I forgot to send in Rowan’s field trip permission slip. I was still going through the motions of my morning spiritual practice – the Bible was open on my lap, my eyes were reading the words — but I wasn’t benefitting from it in a real way.

So I tried something new. I purchased a used copy of Phyllis Tickle’s The Divine Hours: Prayers for Springtime, and I began to read the daily offices first thing in the morning with my coffee and last thing at night before I snap off the bedside lamp. I even occasionally manage to read the afternoon office, tucking the book into my purse and pulling it out while I wait in the mini-van for the school dismissal bell.

Changing up my spiritual practice in this one small way has helped. The Daily Office contains some Scripture – a couple of psalms, a reading from the Gospels — along with several prayers and recitations. I am enjoying the rhythm of it – the prayers that are repeated each day of the week, the one that opens the new day and the one that closes the day out in the evening. I find it soothing, and I appreciate the language, which differs a bit from what I’d grown accustomed to in my New Living and New International Bible translations. It’s breathed new life into a routine that had grown stagnant and dull, one that I’d stuck with out of habit and obligation.

I’m a rule-follower, which means I don’t typically have a problem with discipline. The downside to that, though, is that I resist relinquishing a particular discipline, even when it’s stopped working. I feel guilty. I feel like I’ve “failed.” And I especially feel that way because my primary spiritual discipline is Bible reading. I mean really, what kind of Christian burns out on the Bible?

But listen, if this is sounding familiar to you, too, give yourself some grace. Try something new; change up your routine. There are other ways to “read” the Bible. Experiment with The Divine Hours or The Book of Common Prayer. Download an app like Daily Bible, which will send you a verse on your phone every morning that you can either read or listen to. Listen to the Bible while you’re walking the dog. Or try something new altogether – contemplative prayer, silence, weeding. I promise, God will still love you, even if you’re not reading his Word every single day.

If you’re feeling stuck, whether in your spiritual life, your work life, or your life in general, step outside…literally and/or figuratively. I think you’ll be surprised by the postive impact even a small change in your routine can make.

When You Have to Do a Hard Thing

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I did a hard, brave thing last week. I emailed an acquaintance — a successful, well-respected author whom I’ve never met in person but know casually from online interactions — and I asked if she might be willing to “broker an introduction” between me and another successful, well-known author whom I don’t know at all and who doesn’t know me from Eve. I am hoping (read: beg-praying, wringing hands, Lamazing) that this person might be willing to read my Luther and Katharina manuscript, and, if he approves of it, might consider writing a foreword for it.

Yes, writing this email with this request to an acquiantance I admire and respect but don’t really know felt exactly as awkward and uncomfortable as it sounds.

It was little consolation that this kind of request is not unusual. In the business world it’s called networking, but here’s the thing: networking takes place not just at Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley, but in Christian publishing circles, too (though I’m guessing with fewer Hugo Boss suits and, I’m assuming, a more generous helping of ethics).

I do not like this part of my job. ANP (Awkward Networking Phobia) is partly why I am a writer in the first place. This is why I have chosen a job that largely consists of sitting alone in my house at my desk overlooking the finch feeder swaying from the river birch tree. This is why I am not an investment banker or a financial advisor (besides that fact that I very nearly flunked Calculus my freshman year in college, because of course it makes perfect sense that an ENGLISH major would take Calculus, right?). Nevertheless, networking — or if you prefer a more Christiany word, “connecting” — is indeed part of my job from time to time, which means on some days, I have to take a deep breath, place my fingers on the keyboard, and make the hard, brave ask.

And so I did. I wrote the awkward email to my acquaintance. And she in turn graciously made the request of her author friend. And now we wait for his response.

“It seems that so much depends on listening to the quietest whispers…And so much depends on following, even if we drag all our fears and doubts along for the wild ride,” writes Christie Purifoy in Roots and Sky. “I don’t think following Christ is like aiming at a tiny bull’s-eye on a diminishing target. We are not in constant danger of missing the one right road God has mapped out for us.”

I know it might seem like a stretch to say that writing an awkward networking email is somehow part of “following Christ.” But strangely, I do see the connection. Writing this book has been an act of obedience to God; seeing it all the way through from start to finish to the best of my ability is an act of obedience, too.

It’s highly unlikely this author will say “yes” to my request, and despite my hand wringing and Lamazing, I understand that his “yes” or “no” is not really the big-picture point. As my editor assured me after I’d sent him a hyperventilating email, there’s always a Plan B.

The point is that I did the hard thing. I was brave. I stepped into a vulnerable place, and I dragged all my fears and doubts along for the wild ride. I risked being rejected. I risked feeling small. I leapt into the unknown, the land of no guarantees.

I am doing the work, regardless of the outcome. And I am trusting that no matter what happens, no matter what the author’s answer is, there is more than one right road unfurling ahead of me.

Why I Wear Lipstick and Shoes When I Write

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I once described my morning routine to another writer. I mentioned the fact that I shower, get dressed in actual clothes (no yoga pants, jeans are okay), apply my makeup, style my hair, slip on a pair of shoes, and then walk down one flight of stairs to the sunroom, where I sit at my desk to begin my workday. I could tell from the look on her face that she thought this ritual of mine was odd. “We could not be more opposite,” was all she said.

I guess the fact that I shower, get dressed, wear makeup, style my hair and put on shoes is a bit strange, considering that most days, I don’t ever leave my house (except to drop off and pick up my children from school, and even then, I don’t step out of the minivan). Most days, I don’t have any contact with human beings, save my husband and two boys. I rarely even answer the phone during my work hours, unless it’s the school, my husband or my agent. Yet every day I dress as if I still work in an office.

I’ve worked from home as a full-time writer for nearly four years now. But here’s the honest truth: Despite the fact that I’ve written two books and am working on my third, I still struggle to feel like I am legitimate. And if I’m really honest with myself, it’s because I equate financial earnings with worth and success.

I recently tallied my income for 2015 and discovered I made less this past year than the year before. Significantly less. This is not good, not only because I am a financial contributor to our household, but also because I saw that number as an indicator of failure. Brad reminded me that this ebb and flow is to be expected; a fluctuating income goes along with being self-employed. I know he’s right, yet I’ve also had to do a lot of self-talk over the past few weeks to convince myself that the number on my calculator does not define my worth, nor is it a signifier of failure or success.

This is, in large part, why I get dressed and apply lipstick and mascara and flat-iron my hair and pull on my tall boots just to sit at my laptop in the sunroom of my own house, where no one will see me but my dog (and she sleeps all day). This silly little ritual not only offers me much-needed structure, it also reminds me that what I do for work is valuable, even if it doesn’t pay very much. As ridiculous as it sounds, donning a pair of earrings and applying my favorite shade of Cover Girl is a concrete reminder that what I do for work is real, legitimate and worthwhile – that I am real, legitimate and worthwhile — despite what my 1040 states.

I don’t know if you struggle with feelings of inadequacy in your calling or career. Maybe you’ve already got this all figured out – and if that’s the case, I say, Wonderful! Call me! I need to talk to you!

But maybe you’re an artist or a small business owner or a writer like me, wrestling with your definition of success. Or maybe you’re a stay-at-home mom trying to figure out who exactly you are. Or maybe you’re a retiree wondering if you’re still valuable without your job title and forty-hour workweek.

If this is the case, here’s my advice for you: do one small thing every day that reminds you that your work — whether it’s mothering, volunteering, entrepreneuring, freelancing, caretaking — is important. Do one small thing every day that reminds you that you are valuable. Do one small thing every day that reminds you that you and your contributions are legitimate and worthwhile, whether you get paid a little or a lot or nothing at all.

For me, that one small thing is lipstick and shoes. Every day. No matter what.

2016: A Year of Stopping

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I saw the first snowflake fall a few minutes ago. Well, not the first snowflake ever, obviously. And probably not even the first snowflake to fall in my backyard today. But it was the first snowflake as far as I could see. It fell from the sky like a crumb of angel food cake. I didn’t recognize what it was at first. Only when I saw another and then another did I realize it had begun to snow, lightly, and silent like mist.

It’s rare for me to sit at my desk and gaze out the window. My “office” is in our sunroom; my desk is surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling windows that open to the garden and the backyard. But I don’t spend much time actually looking. I’m too “busy” to waste that kind of time.

I typically start my work day with a quick peruse through Facebook and Twitter. I “like” a few status updates, comment here and there, click over to skim a blog post or an article, retweet a couple of things, post links to my own blog posts, if I have anything new. Once I finally get down to the business of my real work for the day, I’m usually pretty focused. Sometimes I even forget to pause for a bathroom break and find myself squirming uncomfortably in my chair.

But. When I do hit a block – grappling for the right word, frustrated with a clunky transition, unsure which direction to go or what I even want to say next – I click over to social media. I scan and scroll and click and retweet, and when I finally make it back to my own piece — the piece I’d abandoned when I hit the wall — I discover I’m just as stuck and frustrated as ever. I haven’t given my brain a chance to reset or rest or meander in a fruitful way, but instead, have filled it with noise and distraction.

One of my New Year’s resolutions this year is to make my work time more productive by pausing in a way that’s beneficial to the creative process. In other words, to “resist absentminded busyness” as Maria Popova says, paraphrasing Søren Kierkegaard. This means no quick email checks; no popping over to Facebook or Twitter; no Instagram scrolling; no blog post reading. I won’t begin my work day that way, and I won’t interrupt it that way when I get stuck. I’m sure this is not a revelation for you, but I’m finally beginning to understand that social media is detrimental to my creativity and my productivity as a writer.

Instead, I resolve to look out the window. Or use the bathroom. Or switch out a load of laundry. Or make a cup of tea. Or walk to the mailbox to slip an envelope inside and raise the flag. I resolve to do something that rests my brain so that when I return to the page (screen), my mind isn’t pinging with noise and distraction, but instead is open, quiet and refreshed.

I actually made three New Year’s resolutions this year — I love to make resolutions, you know (it’s keeping them that’s the problem…just ask me about flossing) — and each of them has something to do with stopping (I’ll talk a little more about the other two later this week and next).

On Sunday I listened to a new-to-me podcast called “This Good Word” with author Steve Wiens. The episode was entitled “Stop,” and in it, Wiens urged his listeners to “let 2016 start with stopping.”

I love that. It can be applied to so many facets of life, and in the episode, Wiens asks some great questions aimed at helping us think about how we can stop more in our daily lives. By the time I listened to “This Good Word” during my afternoon run on Sunday, I’d already made my stopping-related resolutions, but the ways Wiens talked about stopping helped to clarify what I’d been pondering since January 1.

It’s snowing harder now as I write this, thick flakes falling languidly, leisurely, straight down from the sky. They seem to be taking their time traveling from the heavens to the ground, not bent so much on arriving, but on the process of getting here instead.

I think I’ll watch them for a little while longer before moving onto my next project. It seems these snowflakes might have something important to say.