On my first read of The Book Thief, the peerless prose stunned me. I wanted to achieve Zusak’s skill, but I didn’t know how. So I began a nightly experiment to see if any techniques would emerge.
With the remnants of my meager strength I slowly stand, turning the door handle, one thought guiding my shaking hand: The least I can do is know it all.
People often ask me how I manage to be a mother, pastor’s wife, and writer all at once. My answer is that I don’t. I’m human, with only twenty-four hours at my disposal, and I need sleep. Without it, I become a scary zombie mommy!
When was the last time you were bored? During my childhood, those who dared utter the forbidden phrase “I’m bored” were saddled with a chore or two (or three). Boredom is often viewed as idleness, and the solution is to fill that void with productivity. What if I told you that, as a writer, boredom holds an advantage?
As writers, we love exploring the internal struggles that shape our characters. During formative moments, emotional turmoil may need to take center stage, as with Thomas in Nadine Brandes’ Fawkes. Usually this scene happens near the story’s middle, when everything—including the protagonist—seems to be falling apart. Turning points deserve emphasis; otherwise the deep change in the character’s arc will seem artificial or glossed over.
Today Josiah DeGraaf, Rolena Hatfield, and Daeus Lamb discuss the importance of embracing the impact our stories can have on readers and maintaining the delicate balance between writing for ourselves and others.
Smoke rises around me, steals my breath, and I can’t see. The life I’ve built is caving in; with bleeding lungs I let You in.