The Heart of the Matter

Nothing is scarier for a writer than to feel that they are out of words. It happens to me, alarmingly often, and from what I hear I’m far from the only one. The condition is akin to a fireman turning his hose onto a blazing fire only to realize there’s no water. Except, of course, that would matter.


It is the lot of writers, I believe, to constantly question themselves and their ability to produce anything anyone will ever want to read. And that’s what’s at the heart of what I feel on those melancholy occasions when I start to think I can’t produce such a thing. Does it even matter? If I never write another word in my life, would anyone care?…

Blogging over at – hop on over and check out the rest of the post!

Press on, my friends. Press on,


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Oh Yeah, It’s Not About Me

Praise for my work is as difficult for me to handle well as rejection. In a different way, of course. Praise doesn’t crush my self-esteem, destroy my confidence, and send me to bed with a carton of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream. But it has the potential to be just as destructive.


Praise can go straight to my head.

Don’t get me wrong. I love it. But sometimes I love it a little too much. Occasionally I take the very dangerous turn from loving it to needing it. Craving it, even. I collect the glowing adjectives carefully and methodically, like rookie baseball cards, and store them away in my mind to bring out in times of flagging faith in my writing ability.

I forget that this isn’t about me. That I didn’t give myself the gift. I didn’t invent imagination. I didn’t come up with the ideas for the stories. I’m not my own source of creativity. And my glory is not the intended result of any of the above…

Blogging today over at

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Press on, my friends. Press on,


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God Keep our Land

God Keep our Land

It is Canada Day as I write this post. As always, I am filled with patriotic pride as I hear the anthem and see the flags being waved. We celebrate this country, and rightly so, as one of the greatest in the world. This year’s celebrations, though, seem to me to be tinged with a new poignancy, a sadness even. That which we have celebrated for 148 years, the freedoms bought with courage and blood and lives, are now slipping through our fingers…

For the rest of this post, please go to

Press on, my friends. Press on.


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Into the Light Again (reposted)

A new dawn. A new world. A new hope.

Now after the Sabbath, toward the dawn of the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. 2 And behold, there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. 3 His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. 4 And for fear of him the guards trembled and became like dead men. 5 But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. 6 He is not here, for he has risen, as he said. (from Matthew 28, ESV)

empty tomb

Death is conquered. Despair is turned to hope. Relationship is restored for all who believe. The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light.

He is risen, my friends. He is risen indeed.


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Enter the Darkness (reposted)

It was now about the sixth hour, and there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour, while the sun’s light failed.

And Jesus uttered a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.

And when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was the Son of God!”

crossYes, hope and joy come on Sunday, but for today, enter into the darkness and just settle there …

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Utterly Conflicted

I am a middle-child, a Canadian and a Christian. I’m the ultimate peace-keeper. Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than conflict in real life. In a book, though, that’s (literally) another story.

peace and war

I once read a book where the set-up to a confrontation at the end was beautifully done. All the elements were in place. A young woman found out that she was pregnant. The father of the child had no desire to be with her or to take responsibility for another human being. He sent the mother money and ordered her to “take care of the problem”. She refused and eventually gave birth to a daughter. As the daughter grew up, she wondered often about the father she had never met. She knew that her father had wanted her aborted and that he had refused to have anything to do with her for her entire life. Still, she couldn’t get him out of her mind, and experienced a deep need to one day meet him face to face…

Blogging over at today – please head on over to read the rest of the post!

Press on, my friends. Press on,


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May I Have this Dance?

A shy young man musters up his courage one evening and forces himself to go to a dance being held in his small town. Drawing in a deep, calming breath, he wipes his damp palms on the front of his tan dress pants and walks through the door.
For the first part of the evening, he simply does reconnaissance. He sips his cola, nursing it until the ice cubes have melted and he’s drinking slightly coloured water. All the time he’s watching, working out the best girl to approach with his request. His eyes are drawn to the flashy ones, the brightly-coloured glittering ones that everyone else’s eyes are drawn to. And finally he works up enough nerve to approach one of them…

dancing-pair-classic-silhouette-isolated-31602100I’m blogging today over at the Word Alive Press site. Check out the rest of my post on the subtle dance – and endless perseverance – involved in finding just the right publishing partner for your work:

Press on, my friends. Press on,

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