Summer is over, and fall is here (even if it doesn’t feel like it). With fall comes school and new routines and a general feeling of being overwhelmed.
I admit that sometimes, when I am in the middle of a book, I get overwhelmed.
As much as I love a story and map it out, there comes the day, usually about chapter 13 or so, where I look up to the heavens and say the following:
1. Why did I think I could do this?
2. Why would anyone want to read this story?
3. And for the love of Pete, would someone tell me what this book is about?
My panic usually ends with three things:
1. A bowl of popcorn. (Really. Sadly. Yes)
2. A call to my best friend, Rachel Hauck.
3. Prayer over the phone for Divine Intervention.
And sometimes, it’s rinse and repeat all the way to the end of the book.
So, there I was, last January, in the middle of story snarl, not sure what I was doing. I just knew I had a character who felt so steeped in her sin, she couldn’t escape. I had a plot that seemed to tighten around me, and I had a deadline that loomed like a freight train, comin’ straight at me. It was a Sunday morning, and I’d tossed the night away staring at the ceiling, taking scribbled notes in the dark, and asking God—who seemed be silent (I’m not going to say ignoring me, but it felt a little that way)—for help. I knew I’d done it—dug myself a hole too big to climb out of this time.
I got up, bleary-eyed and tired, and trudged my way to church.
I’m not sure what happened during the first half of the sermon. I sang, I’m pretty sure of that, but I admit to not paying much attention. Suddenly, our pastor closed his sermon notes and looked up at us.
Busted. Oh, I was so busted, and I knew it. I surreptitiously closed my Nook. Not checking my email. No, not me.
And then, (and in our Baptist Church, this is very unorthodox, so we all sat at attention) he came out from behind the pulpit, down to the sanctuary floor. Find out what happens on Saturday!