When I teach at writers conferences, I often teach from lists—

• 8 Things a Reader Expects from a Novel
• 4 Elements of the All-Important First Chapter
• 3 Powerful Plot Structures

Lists make for precise communication in a writers conference setting and conferees love it; so much so, many conference directors require printed listening sheets from their faculty which are assembled into an impressive three-ring binder and handed to every conferee at registration.

The problem with writers conferences is that aspiring novelists are given the impression that if they faithfully follow every step on workshop lists they’ll get published, and that bestselling novelists are those who have mastered these lists.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

This is why I begin my novel workshops with a quote from novelist Somerset Maugham —

“There are three rules for writing a novel.
Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”

Which begs the question: Can any good come from conference notebooks, plot outlines, and books on writing fiction?

O my, yes.

It is from instruction that we are exposed to the basics of writing fiction. Lists help fledgling novelists bring order to the myriad bits of dialogue and setting and character traits and scenes and plot points that are swirling around in their heads.

However, creating order out of chaos is but a first step toward creating art and, make no mistake, writing a novel is an art form, not a fill-in-the-blank exercise. To become a novelist, you must go beyond the lists.

Years ago, when I was getting started, Linda Holland, my first editor, offered a piece of advice that has been invaluable to me. She said, “Jack, trust your instincts.”

It’s one of the best pieces of advice I can offer another writer.

Study your craft. Review the lists. Become as familiar with plot outlines as a chess master is with opening gambits. But when it comes to telling your story—trust your instincts.

Stress. It’s part of living. Has been since Adam and Eve stood over the lifeless body of their son, knowing their other son was the murderer.

Not long ago an author was doing the talk-show circuit promoting his latest book which was based on a startling new study that revealed a world-wide epidemic of stress.

Shocking.

You want to hear something shocking?

What do you do when you’re under a lot of stress? Most people pray for relief, right? But what if God responded, “I know you’re under a lot of stress lately. I’m the one causing it.”

That’s basically what God told Jeremiah when He sent the prophet to observe a potter (Jeremiah 18:1-6). In this object lesson, God said He was the potter, we’re the clay. And the Hebrew word used to describe what the potter does to the clay? Distress. The potter distresses the clay when he—

• pounds out the impurities;
• molds the clay into all manner of unnatural shapes the clay would never know if not for the potter;
• then, after all this distressing, he places the clay in the fire.

 The result? The clay emerges as a suitable vessel for the Master’s use. Without the distress, the clay would forever be nothing more than a useless lump.

That’s the unpopular part of the lesson. The invaluable part is embracing it. As did—

Peter: Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering, as though something strange were happening to you. (I Peter 4:12)

James: Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, lacking in nothing. (James 1:2-4)

Paul: …we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character, and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us… (Romans 5:3-5)

Be patient in failure,

Encouraged by setbacks;

It’s the struggle that makes us strong.

SOMETIMES YOU STRETCH your storytelling muscles just for fun.

A few years ago I participated in a writing exercise with some friends. Each of us was given the following outline with instructions to write a scene in our given genre. Mine was historical. Here's what we were handed—

A man walks into a room occupied by two women. One he loves, one he hates. He utters one line, then exits. One of the women then follows him.

Years earlier I'd remembered reading about a rather dubious honor related to the burial of Egyptian royalty. I'd jotted the information down in my notebook thinking it might someday make a good scene.

Pairing the history with the outline, here's the story I wrote—

“YOU’RE QUIET. ARE YOU SCARED?”

Imiu rubbed her arms. “A little,” she said.

“It’s only natural.”

Her mother hummed behind her. Hand followed comb down Imiu’s long black hair.

“Isn’t it exciting?” her mother said. “Did you ever in your best dreams imagine you’d someday live in a room like this?”

Imiu had to admit she hadn’t. Her gaze hadn’t rested since they arrived, moving from wall to ceiling to wall.

Stiff scenes of daily activity in the Queen’s court surrounded them in fresh hues of black and red and white and yellow and blue; scenes of attendants serving the Queen delicacies, of wise men advising her, of military commanders presenting her with a chain of captured slaves. All of this was under a ceiling spangled with luscious clusters of grapes on fertile vines.

Outside, workers labored under a parching sun with hot winds dusting their faces. In here, it was cool, spacious, and colorful.

“Stand up! Let me look at you!” her mother said.

Imiu stood and turned. Her sleek white dress unfolded from her lap and fell to floor length. The weight of earrings and a necklace called attention to themselves. She’d never known gold was so heavy.

Her mother clasped her hands in delight. Tears glazed her eyes. “You look like royalty!” she cried.

Imiu felt like a princess.

An imperfection on Imiu’s eyelid snagged her mother’s attention. She dove for the cosmetics box.

Was there an imperfection? Or did her mother imagine it, wanting an excuse to open the painted cedar box again?

As the lid lifted there appeared a dazzling display of alabaster and brightly colored glass jars filled with unguents and oils. Her mother reached for the blue paint container and wooden kohl applicator.

She went to work on Imiu’s left eyelid as four male servants paraded past them carrying an impressive array of foods—preserved meats, wine, bread baked in animal shapes, dates, grapes, garlic, onions, and cumin.

Her mother’s hand paused as she closed her eyes and breathed in rapturously the culinary odors.

“I wish you were enjoying this more, Imiu!” she moaned. “Today should be the happiest day of your life!”

But it wasn’t, and Imiu knew if she said anything, they’d argue.

Her eyes must have spoken for her, because the next thing she knew, her mother was slamming the lid on the cosmetics box.

“You’re thinking of that stonemason’s son, aren’t you?” she shouted.

“His name is Intef, mother.”

“His name is of no importance. He is of no importance.”

“He loves me, mother, and he makes me happy.”

“How can you say he loves you when he wants to take you away from here to a life of mud and poverty to raise a litter of ill-clad and ill-educated children? For generations our family has served the wealthiest houses in Egypt and now we have an opportunity to serve royalty. You would throw that away for a stonemason’s son?”

Imiu said nothing. Her lack of contrition angered her mother more.

“I can’t believe I’ve raised such a selfish daughter!”

“Intef…”

“I don’t want to hear that name! I forbid you to speak his name!”

“He’s here, mother.”

A tall bronze-skinned young man with broad shoulders and thick arms entered the room. He wore the clothing of a kitchen servant, one of the four men who had delivered food.

Stepping between mother and daughter, he took Imiu by the shoulders. “I’m not going to let you die,” he said.

Imiu looked into his eyes and was lost. It wasn’t the first time she’d drowned in those eyes. In her best dreams she had not dreamed of lavish rooms, she’d dreamed of these eyes.

Intef jerked. Alarmed, his hand slapped the back of his neck as though he was swatting an insect. His mouth twisted in horror. He sank to his knees and collapsed onto the stone floor.

“Mother, what did you do?” Imiu screamed.

With calm, steady hands, her mother returned a small vial and needle to the cosmetics box.

Imiu trembled uncontrollably. “What did you do?” she screamed again.

“Asp venom.”

“But…why?”

“I’m not about to let a stonemason’s son ruin everything for us.”

Imiu felt her knees grow weak. She began to sink next to the body. Cold, iron hands caught her.

“Stand up!” her mother ordered. “You’ll get your dress dirty. And I forbid you to cry! You’ll ruin your makeup!”

Her mother assisted her to a straight-backed chair set against the wall.

“It’s time,” she said. She kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Make me proud.”

She called for workers to remove the stonemason son’s body. They obeyed her without question. She followed them out.

Not a moment passed before Imiu heard a commanding shout. The walls trembled as restraints were severed and mountainous granite blocks slid down grooves, stone against stone, sealing off the antechamber exit.

Imiu trembled in the dark. She glanced in the direction of a door she could not see that led to the chamber of the dead Queen. Imiu recalled her training.

If the Queen calls you at any time, you shall rise up and say, “I will do it.”

Imiu tried not to cry. It would ruin her makeup.

If you'd like to read the scenes written by the other authors, you can find them by clicking here: Charis Connection. While this blog is no longer active, it's still a treasure trove of advice from some very talented published authors.

Also, if you’d like to read what the 0ther authors wrote given the same scene outline, click on the link to the Charis Connection blog and do a search for The Genre Experiment. The other authors who participated—

Angela Elwell Hunt — women’s fiction genre

Brandilyn Collins — murder mystery genre

James Scott Bell — male fiction genre

You — Why not do a little fiction stretching exercise of your own? Choose a genre. Using this same scene outline, write a story and send it to me. I'd love to see what you come up with.  

HIS NAME WAS JOSEPH, but everyone knew him as The Encourager. It was a name born of a reputation.

It was Barnabas who took a chance on the newly converted Paul, ushering him into the midst of a roomful of disciples. It was a gutsy move. If Paul's conversion had been a ruse Barnabas would have handed over Christianity's core leadership to their greatest enemy, and the name Barnabas would be synonymous with Benedict Arnold. But Barnabas did what Barnabas’s do. He encouraged. If he hadn’t, there might not have been an Apostle Paul.

Eventually Paul overshadowed Barnabas. There is no indication that Barnabas was troubled by this. I think that's what I like best about him. It has been said that the hardest instrument to play is second fiddle. But without second fiddle players, there is no harmony.

What’s in a nickname? Or, to paraphrase Shakespeare:
Stinky, by any other nickname, would smell just as bad.

Other disciples had nicknames. Most notably, James and John, who were dubbed the Sons of Thunder. Maybe the fact that they asked Jesus to call down fire from heaven and destroy a Samaritan village for refusing them passage had something to do with it.

A nickname can be a shortened version of your proper name, an endearment, or a term of derision. While your proper name is given to you by your parents long before you begin exhibiting distinguishing characteristics, a nickname is often bestowed by others based on observation (rightly or wrongly).

Do you have a nickname? Are you happy with it? If not, why not try this — make up a nickname for yourself, a name you would like others to call you. Don't tell anybody. Then, start acting in a way that is true to the nickname you've chosen for yourself. Be patient. It takes a while to earn a reputation, to earn the right to wear your nickname. But with persistence, trust me, that day will come.

READING IS SPOOKY. So spooky, in fact, there was a time when reading silently—something every elementary school child is taught to do today—was considered witchcraft.

A brief history of storytelling will explain:

The first stories were spoken, told around campfires, by illiterate bards to an illiterate audience, and passed from generation to generation through repeated telling. (It seems that even in ancient times evening entertainment was plagued by reruns.) The telling of stories was mystical. Men would gather around the fire as the storyteller's words conjured up images in their minds as if by magic.

Stories took on shape and color when the ancients began illustrating them with paintings on cave walls. But the visuals lacked significant detail, such as the names of heroes and significant places. Storytellers filled in the gaps. (Think slide shows and PowerPoint presentations.) Paintings provided something stories told around the campfire lacked. Permanency.

Then, storytelling took a quantum leap forward as glyphs morphed into words, combining the detail of the spoken story with the permanency of cave paintings. Stories recorded on vellum and parchment could be told with precision, each telling the same as before.

That's when something spooky happened.

As storytellers became proficient at reading, some of them made an amazing discovery. They could see the story in their minds just by looking at the words. To non-readers this was just plain scary, to think that thought and speech and images could be transmitted from one mind to another without speaking was . . . was. . . well, it was witchcraft! What was to prevent unscrupulous men from writing words in public places and planting unwanted images into the minds of unsuspecting readers? (This ancient fear has been fully realized with modern billboards.)

Of course, today reading silently is not only common, it’s preferred. The world is noisy enough as it is. Imagine the increase in annoying decibels if everyone on airplanes and buses and automobiles, in libraries, schools, homes, restaurants, and restrooms (What? You think I don’t know you read in there?) read aloud; not to mention the words and descriptions coming out of the mouths of all those reading James Patterson novels.

I just can’t get over the spookiness of reading. Sitting here at my desk, October 29, 2010, I can encode the images appearing in my mind—characters, setting, dialogue, scenes—onto a piece of paper (spookier still, it can be done now with invisible digital electronic ones and zeroes), and transmit my entire fictional world across geographical space to anyone on the globe, now and in the future, so that hundreds of years from now, long after I’ve turned to dust, those same images will appear in the minds of readers I will never meet, readers who haven’t yet been born.

The reading experience may be common, you’ll never convince me that linking minds across space and time isn’t spooky.