The Writing Life Nobody Talks About

There's a version of the writing life that looks very appealing from the outside.

The author at a sun-filled desk, hot tea steaming nearby, words flowing onto the page with quiet purpose. Book covers lined up on the wall and a copy of each published book on a shelf behind them. A calendar marked with signing events and speaking engagements and the occasional literary lunch. It's a tidy little picture. It's also only about 10% of the actual experience.

The rest of it is something else entirely. They're the parts that don't make it into the author bio or the back flap photo, but they're every bit as important.

I've been writing novels for over two decades now and have more than 25 published books, with well over a half-million copies in print. And I can tell you with complete honesty that the writing life has been one of the most rewarding, most frustrating, most humbling, most surprising experiences of my entire existence. Sometimes all four of those things in the same afternoon!

The Long Silences

What nobody tells you about publishing a book is how much waiting is involved.

You write the manuscript, which takes months, sometimes longer. Then you wait to hear back from your editor. Then you revise, and wait again. Then the book goes into production, and you wait some more. By the time the book is actually in a reader's hands, you have often been living with that story for the better part of two years. You know every scene, every character beat, every line of dialogue so well that you can barely read it anymore with any objectivity at all.

And then the book releases, and the world moves on to the next thing fairly quickly, and you are already supposed to be well into writing the next one.

There are also the longer silences. The seasons when the books stop coming because life demanded something else of you. I've written about my own long season away from fiction before, and the complicated feelings that came with it. What I'll add here is the silence doesn't mean the writer in you has gone anywhere. It's just waiting for the conditions to change. And eventually, they do.

The Doubt That Doesn't Announce Itself

If you talk to any author or watch interviews that dig a little deeper into the less public side of a writer's life, you'll hear us admit that doubt is a near-constant companion in this work.

This isn't the kind that makes for a good story at a conference panel. No, this is the quiet, persistent, everyday kind. The manuscript that felt promising three weeks ago now feels flat and unconvincing. The scene you revised four times still isn't right and you're not sure it ever will be. The book you poured yourself into sits on a shelf somewhere, and you have no way of knowing whether it reached the person who needed it or just took up space and is now collecting dust.

Unfortunately, that kind of doubt doesn't resolve cleanly. It's just part of the landscape. You learn to write alongside it rather than waiting for it to go away, because to be honest? It never really goes away. You just get better at not letting it in the driver's seat.

The Joy That's Harder to Explain

Now, just to make sure I'm not all Debbie-downer today, I'll wrap up with the good stuff, even if it's something non-writers might struggle to understand.

There is something that happens when a story finally comes together. When a scene clicks into place, when a character does something that surprises you, when you read back a paragraph and think, yes, that's exactly right! It's a bit challenging to describe that to someone who hasn't experienced it, though. I see it something like discovery and realization. Like you've managed to catch something true and hold it still long enough to put it on the page.

That feeling is why the doubt doesn't win. It's why the long silences eventually end. It's why, after the waiting and the uncertainty and the seasons when the words wouldn't come, I sat back down and started writing again.

Oh, and every now and then, I also get letters. Not often anymore, but often enough. A reader who found something in one of my stories that met them in the middle of something hard. A note from someone who says a particular character helped them understand something about themselves that no one else had articulated. Those letters remind me that the work isn't just for me. That the long hours and the quiet doubt and the waiting are part of something that matters beyond the shelf life of any single book.

The writing life is harder than it looks. But despite all the craziness? I wouldn't trade a single bit of it.

What's something about your own work or creative life that looks different from the outside than it feels on the inside? I'd love to hear what's behind the curtain for you in the comments.

Chincoteague: The Island That Keeps Calling Me Back

There are places you visit, and there are places that claim you.

Chincoteague Island claimed me a long time ago, long before I understood how deeply it was woven into my family's story.

My connection to this small barrier island off the coast of Virginia didn't start with a research trip. It started with family. There's this unique kind of belonging that settles into your bones when a place is part of where you come from, not just somewhere you've been.

I grew up hearing about Chincoteague the way some families talk about a hometown. The clams and oysters. Shopping on Main Street. Taking a boat out to bird watch. And of course, the famous annual Wild Pony Swim to thin out the herd on neighboring Assateague Island. In the stories, I heard a mixture of affection and familiarity and something that feels almost like ownership.

As a child, limited perspectives frame the experiences, and I always recalled the wonder and excitement of visiting the island, mainly because my grandfather was born there. But there were so many fun things to do and see as well. When I returned as an adult with fresh eyes and a writer's attention, it was like meeting someone I already knew.

What the Island Feels Like

Chincoteague moves at its own pace, and no one apologizes for that. I don't think they should, either. That pace is hard-wired into what makes the island unique.

The rhythm there is tied to the water, for the most part. To the tides that shift the light on the marshes twice a day, to the fishing boats that head out before most visitors are awake, to the particular quality of silence that settles over the harbor in the early morning before the island fully rouses itself.

It's the kind of place where you notice things you'd walk right past anywhere else. The weathered paint on a waterfront building. The way the tall grass bends in the marsh wind. The sound of gulls announcing the morning with more enthusiasm and excited flare than necessary.

I've stood on that waterfront in the early hours with a notebook in hand, writing down details I didn't want to lose. At the time, I had no idea where they'd go, but I did know they needed to be kept.

That's what Chincoteague does. In its own quiet, charming way, it insists you pay attention to it.

Why I Decided to Put It in My Fiction

A place that holds personal history and sensory richness in equal measure is almost impossible to keep out of your writing. Chincoteague has found its way into my storytelling time and time again. In recent writing, I decided to take the stories to a full novel.

The story I'm working on now is set against that marshy background and small-town life where everyone carries a longer history with each other than they always let on. Chincoteague understands that quite well. Small communities have long memories. Relationships there carry weight and texture that a larger, more transient place doesn't accumulate in quite the same way.

For a novelist writing about two people with a complicated shared past, that kind of setting is pressure. It's context. It's a place that remembers things even when the characters would rather it didn't.

That has potential to be endlessly useful as a writer, and it's story progression gold when you need it most.

What Keeps Drawing Me Back

If I'm being honest, it's not just the writing that pulls me back to Chincoteague.

It's the feeling of standing somewhere that connects me to people and a history that existed long before I did. Given that I moved 9 times by the time I was 14 years old, and then 4 years later, continued to add to my list of moves by racking up another 9 that included 4 different states over the next 32 years, I can't exactly define my life by a single place I've called home.

There's something grounding about having that, though, especially in seasons when everything else feels uncertain or in motion. The island was there before me and will be there long after, doing exactly what it has always done. Rising with the tides, weathering the storms, going quietly about its own business in its unhurried way.

For a person of faith, there's something almost theological in that. A reminder that the world is larger and older than my particular corner of it, and there is steadiness to be found in places that have endured.

I'll keep going back. And I have a feeling the island will keep finding its way into my stories for a long time to come.

Is there a place that has pulled you back again and again? Somewhere that holds something special, just for you? I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

Faith in Fiction: How I Write What I Believe Without Preaching It

"Any amount of theology can now be smuggled into people's minds under cover of romance [fiction] without their knowing it." ~ C.S. Lewis

I've been asked more than once how I keep faith from feeling forced in my novels.

That's a fair question. Anyone who reads broadly in the inspirational fiction genre has probably encountered both ends of the spectrum. You have the story where faith is woven in so naturally you barely notice the seams. Then, there's the story where a character delivers what amounts to a theological treatise in the middle of what was supposed to be an emotionally charged scene.

The second kind pulls you right out of the story. It reminds you of the author behind the curtain with a message to deliver, and suddenly you're no longer living inside the narrative. You're being instructed by it. This aligns with a common bit of advice: Show, don't tell. That second kind? It's telling, not showing.

That's not what I want to write. It's never been what I want to write. And I try hard not to write it.

But I also don't want to scrub faith out of my stories entirely, because it's genuinely part of how I see the world. It shapes how I understand people, why they make the choices they make, what they're really looking for underneath the surface desire or conflict. Removing it entirely would be like trying to write without a moral compass at all. While that's technically possible, it would produce something that doesn't actually sound like me.

So how do you write what you believe without turning your novel into a sermon?

Starting With People, Not Lessons

Sometimes, when in the beginning stages of writing a new story, it's tempting to start with the theme I want to explore or the spiritual truth I hope a reader takes away. But that will almost always lead to preaching or narrative instruction. 

No. To avoid that, you start with the people. The ones who are broken, contradictory, wanting things they can't quite name, afraid of things they won't quite admit.

Real human beings, even fictional ones, are complicated. They don't move through life collecting tidy lessons. They stumble into grace sideways. They resist the very thing that would help them. They sometimes do the right thing for the wrong reason and the wrong thing out of genuine love.

When I start there, with characters who feel true, the faith elements find their natural place in the story. A character wrestling with whether she can forgive someone who hurt her isn't a vehicle for a lesson on forgiveness. She's a person in pain, and the question of forgiveness is simply part of what that pain demands of her. The reader doesn't feel preached at because I'm not preaching. I'm just following this woman through something hard and letting the story ask the question without forcing the answer.

What Faith Actually Looks Like in a Story

In practice, this means faith in my novels tends to show up the way it shows up in real life. Quietly, imperfectly, and usually smack dab in the middle of something difficult.

It looks like a character who prays and doesn't get the answer she wanted. Or someone who grew up in the church and still isn't sure what he believes anymore. It looks like a moment of unexpected grace that a character almost misses because she's too busy being angry. And it also looks like doubt that doesn't get neatly resolved by the final chapter, because some doubt doesn't resolve that quickly and readers know that.

It won't look like a character who exists primarily to speak truth into another character's life at convenient narrative moments. And it doesn't look like a crisis of faith that gets wrapped up in a single conversation. It also won't have a redemption that costs nothing.

The faith that resonates in fiction is the faith that has been tested by something real. And the only way to write that honestly is to let the characters be tested by something real first.

Why It Matters to Get This Right

I write inspirational fiction because I believe story is one of the most powerful ways truth travels. Not truth shouted for all to hear. Lived truth. The kind that sneaks past your defenses because you're invested in a character and you feel what they feel before you've had a chance to decide whether you agree with the premise.

A heavy-handed faith narrative can do more damage than good. It can make readers feel manipulated, or confirm the suspicion that Christian fiction is more interested in delivering a message than telling a real story. I don't want to contribute to that.

Instead, I want a reader to finish one of my books and feel something true. Maybe something they couldn't have articulated before they read it. Maybe something they needed to feel without knowing they needed it.

If the faith in the story helped carry them there without announcing itself along the way, then I've done my job.

So, have you ever read a book where the faith element felt completely natural? How about one where it felt forced and pulled you out of the story? What made the difference? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.