Writing – TessEnterline.com

Newsletter 12-31-20

Dear Readers,

I’ve been away for a while. I have thought about you often and miss you. I’ve wondered about your well-being in this year of so much illness, struggle, and upheaval. I have prayed for you. Truly, I have prayed for you, especially those of you whom I know have suffered greatly due to Covid-19, for both health (physical and emotional) and economic reasons. I think it’s fair to say that everyone has been impacted in some way.

And here you are … you’ve made it to 2021!

Maybe you’ll have to drag yourself over the finish line at 11:59:59 on December 31, 2020. But, by God, you’ve made it through this most challenging of years. For me, that’s true, quite literally. It has only been by God’s constant provision of hope and strength that I’ve managed to keep it together and, in fact, flourish creatively. The increased stillness and quiet, imposed first by stay-at-home orders and then by continued restrictions and health guidelines, did wonders for my production. Nothing like having nowhere to go and no one to see to take away all of my excuses for not keeping my butt in the chair to write. And I learned something about myself in this year of Covid-19 — that I could commit myself to something and stick with it.

Three years ago, in December 2017, I completed my first semester in the MFA program in nonfiction writing at Goucher College. Then I took a break, returned in July 2019, then left again. In January 2020, I rededicated myself to finishing the MFA program and getting my graduate degree, and went on complete semesters two and three in 2020. Next Monday, January 4, 2021, I’ll start my fourth and final semester and will graduate in May.

I’m far from alone in the “increased creativity” category for 2020. I’m blessed to know many creative people; many are writers. Two of those friends found agents in 2020; a handful of others are on the verge of finding theirs. One friend scored a book contract. Many have started their own newsletters and websites; another friend had an essay published in The New York Times. And these folks I know who write—they all have thoughtful, compassionate, important messages to share … messages which the world, during this time of so much anxiety and fear, needs to hear. I look forward to sharing some of their work with you in 2021.

I look forward, as well, to a more consistent presence in your inbox via my newsletter. I’m grateful for your readership. Throughout the upcoming semester, I plan to publish Tesstimonial at least monthly. I hope it can continue to hold some meaning for you throughout the coming year.

As I prepared to write this newsletter I opened up my copy of The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern Word, by Lewis Hyde, which I highly recommend. The final line of the Introduction provides, it seems to me, a worthy rationale and compelling reason for any of us to take the unsure step of putting our work out into the world. Hyde writes:

“I am not concerned with gifts given in spite or fear, nor those gifts we accept out of servility or obligation; my concern is the gift we long for, the gift that, when it comes, speaks commandingly to the soul and irresistibly moves us.”

Fellow writers – let this be our call, let this be our gift to the world, in 2021: stories that speak to the soul and move the reader.

(Photo Credit: by Denise Jans on Unsplash)

May God bless you and yours abundantly with happiness & health in the new year!

Love,
Tess

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Don’t Fear “The Watcher”

Dear friends,

I hope these first weeks of 2020 have been good to you. I imagine many of us have started the year with new resolutions (or maybe old resolutions but new excitement and momentum). May I share one of my resolutions with you? I wouldn’t call it “new” as much as reborn.

I’m starting 2020 by staring down one of my fears. In a couple of weeks I’m going back to graduate school to complete my MFA in creative nonfiction writing.

The school part isn’t what I’ve feared. I love being part of a community of learners and writers. Nothing inspires me more.

There was a period of time when writing sessions would often come to an abrupt end. The culprit: painful memories of some of my experiences as a hospital chaplain that I was trying to write about. The blessing of time passing, however, has calmed those storms.

There was a time when being vulnerable on the page would have been the thing that stopped me from writing anything truly meaningful. But writing this newsletter and various other pieces has gradually assuaged most of my discomfort with writing with the requisite openness that I, too, expect of a memoirist.

So, what is it, really?

Maybe the answer can be best understood with a little Tess MFA history.

After a couple of false starts and stops, in December 2017 I completed my first semester in the Creative Nonfiction MFA Program at Goucher College in Baltimore, Maryland. After my dad passed away in January 2018 I took a semester off; I’ve not completed another semester since.

I did start up again in July 2018, only to stop again two months later. What was wrong with me, I wondered. If writing my memoir is so important to me, why was I derailing myself at every turn?

The wisdom of my MFA program director, Leslie (who has, I’m sure, helped many a writer “off the ledge” and back into their creative work), has helped to bring the source of my fear into clearer focus. It seems so obvious to me now. Why is it the thing right in front of us, jumping up and down and yelling “pick me, pick me,” is the thing we are often least willing to acknowledge? I suppose in my case there was some pride involved, of feeling sure I could do it on my own.

Leslie shared a marvelous essay with me, written by Gail Godwin, and titled, “The Watcher at the Gate.” If I had read the essay back in September 2018 when Leslie first shared it with me, perhaps I’d be an MFA graduate by now. Fortunately I came back to the essay a few weeks ago. I read it and said to myself, Leslie knew.

The source of my fear: my inner critic.

“The Watcher,” Godwin writes, “rejects too soon and discriminates too severely.” She goes on to say:

“It is amazing the lengths a Watcher will go to keep you from pursuing the flow of your imagination. Watchers are notorious pencil sharpeners, ribbon changers, plant waterers, home repairers and abhorrers of messy rooms or messy pages. They are compulsive looker-uppers. They are superstitious scaredy-cats. They cultivate self-important eccentricities they think are suitable for ‘writers.’ And they’d rather die (and kill your inspiration with them) than risk making a fool of themselves.”

For anyone interested in reading Gail Godwin’s entire essay, click here. She describes the “various ways to outsmart, pacify, or coexist with your Watcher,” including writing him or her a letter.

“Dear Watcher,” Godwin wrote to hers, “What is it you’re so afraid I’ll do?”

She held his pen for him, she writes, “and he replied instantly with a candor that has kept me from truly despising him.”

“‘Fail,’ he wrote back.”

Let’s be brave together this year in all of our pursuits–creative or otherwise. Being brave doesn’t mean we won’t feel fear, including the fear of failure. It simply means we’ll keep doing the work despite our fear.

Let’s make friends with our Watcher, perhaps even invite them into our work. Allow them to sharpen a pencil or two, occasionally check a definition, or find a helpful synonym. And then get right back to it.

You can be assured of my prayers; I ask you for yours as well.

I’ll continue writing my newsletter, but will most likely send it out once, rather than twice, a month. I’m excited to share this continuing journey with you. Please know that I’d truly love to hear about and support you in the journey you have planned for 2020.

May you be blessed in your work!

(Photo Credit: Robert Bye on Unsplash)

The Blessing of One, The Riches of Two

Grand Rapids, Michigan in the summertime is a lovely place. I know this because I spent a wonderful three days there this past August. At the time, I was halfway through a six-month book proposal writing course and was in Grand Rapids to meet with seven other writers in the group and our instructor, Chad Allen.

As a writer, blogger, speaker, and former acquisitions editor with over twenty years in the publishing industry, Chad has a wealth of knowledge and insight into writing and publishing. Even better, he’s one of the kindest and most modest people I’ve come to know.

(True story: I first heard about Chad several years ago … I came across his name on the internet, along with his bio and tips on writing a book proposal. Thought to myself: What I wouldn’t give to work with someone like that! Fast forward to last Fall when I heard Chad being interviewed on a podcast. I learned that he had started his own book coaching business, then I subscribed to his blog and signed onto one of his courses. In April 2019, I was accepted into his book proposal writing program. I think when something’s meant to be, God has a way of getting us there.)

In Grand Rapids, our merry and passionate group of writers experienced a bit of a transformation—from writers who feel they have a book inside of them, to writers who feel they must get their books written and out into the world. Not because of an ego-driven need to be published, but because of a sincere desire to find and help that one person (although I’m sure a publisher would prefer many more than that) who needs the message our book provides.

Within our small group of writers, we have helped one another believe that we can each do this—make a difference in the world through the words we write. We have supported and championed one another, and now, three months after gathering in Grand Rapids, we are each close to having a finished book proposal. One person from our group is already working with a publisher.

There’s still much work ahead for us all. For me, that includes completing a manuscript. But thanks to Chad and the Grand Rapids Eight, I’m about to scale the book proposal writing mountain, which not long ago felt too tall to climb. It’s a fitting time of year to be thankful for that.

The benefits of being in this community of writers are so clear to me. Anyone who’s a part of a supportive community knows the feeling—of being understood, of being able to leave so much unspoken (but, often, we say it anyway because it’s comforting to know others feel the same way), of hearing someone say, as we’ve constantly heard from Chad, “every step matters.”

It all got me thinking.

It got me thinking about how incredibly fortunate I am to be part of a community … to receive the support in my endeavors of, not just one, but many individuals.

To have the strong, undying support of even one person in anything we do is a blessing. Any more than that is an embarrassment of riches. Which leads me to all of you.

When I started my email newsletter in January of this year, there were some people who didn’t have a choice as to whether they would be added to my newsletter mailing list; my husband, kids, mother, sister, brother, and in-laws were my first “subscribers.” Then I sent out a batch of invitations to friends and more family to sign up. Before long, I had twenty-five, fifty, then seventy-five subscribers. My list of subscribers (the glorious group of all of you) has more than doubled—to just over two hundred—in the past six months. The list continues to grow.

I say that, not with a swelled head, but, with a heart humbled by your generosity—of support, spirit, time, comments … simply your graciousness in allowing me to drop into your inbox every two weeks and share my thoughts and stories. To any writer, including me, that’s huge; it truly means the world.

Writing is typically a solitary undertaking. Even when writing in Starbucks or some other coffee shop, I’m in my own little world, wearing earbuds and hunkered down over my notebook and laptop.

As I write, I am alone with my words, but motivated by a message I wish to share.
As I write this newsletter, I think of you.
As I write, you are with me.

I couldn’t be more thankful.

My wish for each of you this Thanksgiving—especially those who are grieving, or anyone who’s feeling lonely or a bit short of hope—is a sense of peace and of being loved. My hope is that you find both here.

(Photo by Mikhail Pavstyuk on Unsplash)

Thank you for reading my blog! Please feel free to share it with family and friends.

Tess

(PS — If you’re not already subscribed to my newsletter, please sign-up above.)

On Any Given Day

I was a political science major in college. That was after I was a biology major, then an education major, and then, I believe, an international relations major. I settled on poli-sci because I thought I might go to law school and the combination of the two seemed to make sense. I married a lawyer instead.

I say all this as a preface to making the point that politics interests me, and, as we all know, there’s a lot going on in the political sphere these days. That combination—my interest and all that’s going on—has caused quite a struggle inside of me. I’ve been very tempted lately to write about politics here in my newsletter. It hasn’t been easy to resist that temptation.

I believe in the power of words … the power of words to be an agent for change—in politics, social justice, education, matters of faith, daily living … the list could go on and on. For that reason, I believe writers play an essential role in society, perhaps I’d even call it a responsibility to instigate change for the better. Yet, I also believe each of us as citizens has that same responsibility, even if it’s “simply” to pray for change. We all play a role.

I’ve decided, however, to not use this space for political commentary. There are other avenues I can pursue for that purpose—Op-eds, Letters-to-the-Editor, articles. More importantly, I want “Tesstimonial” to sound a different kind of tone and message—of healing and hope, of restoration and transformation. And sometimes about dogs.

There’s another reason for staying away from politics in my newsletter and blog posts, a more personal reason and one that may resonate with some of you: As a highly sensitive person, I simply need a break from it. I can only absorb so much noise from outside my own head before I have to put up a protective shield and say, “No more for now.”

In Tesstimonial, I’ve created a “No Politics” zone for myself. What’s more, I want it to provide a refuge, not only for me, but for anyone else who needs it. I want to create a conversation that moves us in the opposite direction. Away from hateful rhetoric and toward hopefulness; away from tearing people down to building spirits back up. I want this to be one of the places where you find some quiet, peace, a reason to smile, and maybe even a thought to reflect on.

Am I turning a blind eye to the real world? Briefly … you bet! I like to think of it as escaping for a little while. And nothing provides an escape for me like writing.

But here’s the thing: I believe that writers writing about those other things can still bring about tremendous change. A message that’s hopeful, healing, restorative, or transformative can change the heart of anyone—no matter their position or situation in life.

I have to believe that:

On any given day … the unexpected can happen.
On any given day … a particular passage or prayer can soften a hardened heart.
On any given day … sins can be forgiven, wrongs corrected, and apologies accepted.
On any given day … truth, integrity, and civility can be restored.
On any given day … the power of a single word can make a difference.

(Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash)

“Writing as a Way of Healing” Giveaway

Be Kind to, Give Grace to, Celebrate … Ourselves

Dear Friends — What you’re going to read is not the post I had originally planned for today. That topic will slide for a couple of weeks.

The reason is simple: There’s a different message I feel moved to share with all of you, one that I had first presented, a month ago, to an online writing community I’m a part of.

Although initially written for writers (and I know there are some writers among my newsletter readers as well), the message at the heart of my piece is one that I think will resonate with anyone, in any vocation:

Let us be kind to ourselves in our lives and in our work.
Let us give ourselves the same grace we extend to others.
Let us celebrate our doggedness.

Be well my friends.

“Everybody I know who wades deep enough into memory’s waters drowns a little.” – Mary Karr, The Art of Memoir

I remember sitting at the desk in my hotel room in Philadelphia one Saturday afternoon a few years ago, putting some time into working on my memoir but making zero progress. I was trying to write a particular scene from one of my shifts as a hospital chaplain. The scene required my giving some description of the injuries suffered by a two-year-old girl from a beating at the hands of her mother’s boyfriend. I had been the chaplain on-call at the hospital the night the little girl was life-flighted to the hospital.

Each thought of what I had to describe sickened me; there weren’t many parts of the little girl’s body that had been spared the red, blue, and black marks of bruising.

After twenty minutes spent agonizing over the scene—unable to put myself back in that time and place, let alone find the right words—I got up and walked away from the desk. I couldn’t write the scene, I decided. Not then. Seven years had passed, and I still wasn’t ready to write the scene.

I castigated myself. What do you mean you’re not ready? It’s been seven years! How will you ever get this book written if you can’t write about the really tough stuff? “Time,” I told myself. “I just need more time.”

How easy it is to beat ourselves up as soon as we realize we’re not ready to write about a difficult event in our lives. Because we’re writers, right? That’s what we do. I may slobber on every page and have a breakdown in the process, but doggone it, I have to keep writing!

No. No you don’t.

That afternoon was a turning point for me. Not that all of a sudden I let up on myself and was copacetic with every occasion when I found it hard to write a difficult scene. But giving myself permission to step away from it became less and less of an internal struggle.

Listen to Yourself

What I’ve come to learn is this: Part of our obligation to ourselves when we write memoir, especially the kind that involves trauma, is to sometimes get up and walk away from it, at least for a little while. Sometimes we just need greater separation in time from what had happened to us. In the instance above, I was already seven years out; my mind and body were telling me that I still wasn’t quite ready.

The timing of when to open a wound is completely and always up to the writer. You get to say when you will write about the really tough stuff. You are the only arbiter. And choosing the right time is key if you’re going to stay emotionally healthy as you write and, ultimately, finish writing your book. Deciding when to step away is a personal decision; we have to look within and answer honestly.

In The Art of Memoir, Mary Karr poses the most important question that has to be addressed: “Can you be in that place without falling apart?” (p. 32) She then provides the following vivid description of someone who’s probably not ready to write:

“If you’re sobbing with shoulders shaking and big tusks of snot coming out of your face, the answer may be no. Call a pal, book a massage, go for a walk. You’re not ready to occupy this space for years on end. Yet.”

What I love most about this quote from Mary Karr (okay … besides “big tusks of snot”) is the final word: “Yet.”

I love that she gives writers this gift of hope. I’m sure it’s knowledge hewn from writing about her own life and traumatic experiences in the best-selling memoirs: The Liar’s Club, Cherry, and Lit. Doesn’t this one word—Yet—feel like encouragement you can rest your own doubt and fear on?

Be gentle with yourself

The scene I was trying to write while in the hotel room in Philadelphia—it occupied my mind for a piece of most every day for seven years, since April 7^th, 2008. I was haunted by the sights and sounds from the beating of that little girl, at least the way I imagined it based on police reports and what I saw of her with my own eyes.

Many of you, my fellow writers, likewise have memories and images that can throw you into an emotional pit and bring your writing to a halt. And I’d like to encourage you, friends, when that happens, to be kind to yourself, have compassion for yourself, and give yourself permission to get up and walk away from it for as long as you need. This is not a sign of weakness. It takes emotional strength to acknowledge—not deny—what your heart and mind are telling you. It takes courage to honor that. You don’t have to languish in details that cannot—yet—be written.

Take the Time You Need to tell the Story Only You Can Tell

There’s much to be gained by coming back to a difficult passage in your story on another day. The story will wait for you; it’s going nowhere. Your story wants to be told … and only you can tell it!

You most likely won’t get up one day and feel that the entire weight of the traumatic event has been lifted. It may be a slow journey back to it. However, there will come a day when you decide to give it another try (already a victory!). Through some tears, perhaps, you’ll draft a few sentences … maybe even a paragraph. That may be enough for that day.

Each day forward … or every other day … or whenever you find you can … you will go back to your desk or to your favorite table at the coffee shop and you’ll write some more. You will slowly keep advancing the needle in your own healing. You will have arrived on the other side of Mary Karr’s “yet.”

I hope you will celebrate yourself!

And that scene — I now have it written.

(Photo by Alex Iby on Unsplash)

Thank you for reading my blog! Please feel free to share it with family and friends.

Tess

God Never Calls U-Haul

God bless my poor neighbor Linda. She had picked the wrong time to do yard work.

It was earlier this year, about four in the afternoon on May 14^th. I had just locked up our old house for the final time, taking with me the last couple of boxes of odds and ends accumulated during our thirty-two years of living there. Rick and I had already moved into our new house.

I walked just outside the garage and pressed the four-digit code into the keypad to lower the door. The creaking sound of the garage door panels sliding over the rails and slowly inching down toward the foundation only served to rub my heart in it … “it” being the fact that this house—our home for thirty-two years—was no longer ours.

The door hit the concrete with a thud. So much noisy rattling for ten seconds and in the very next instant, silence.

It was like the sting that comes after a after a slap.

I tried to hold back the tears, which was totally in keeping with my habit of wearing the face that says, “I’m fine.” But the garage door closing and the sudden quiet released the catch on my emotions. My tears broke free. My breaths shortened, and I started sucking air in shorter bursts, muscles contracting from deep within my diaphragm.

My car was parked along the curb and I aimed myself in its direction. As I walked, I forced myself to keep looking straight ahead and not turn around for another look. The last thing I needed was to give my mind another opportunity to remember. Thirty-two years gives you lots to remember. I just kept moving forward down the driveway.

That’s when I spotted Linda across the street in her front yard.

She was wearing gardening gloves, and a baseball cap to help protect her from an unusually hot mid-May day. She saw me, too, and we waved to one another.

It crossed my mind to keep walking to my car, accompanied by my tears and heaving breaths. I could have slipped into the driver’s seat and slinked away. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t just allow myself to wave and make that my goodbye to such a good woman. So, I crossed the street, went up to Linda, and gave her the biggest, longest, and teariest—maybe even the only—hug I had given her in the thirty-plus years we had been neighbors. I couldn’t even talk, I was crying so much.

We had watched as each other’s kids grow up. As some families moved elsewhere, Linda and her husband and family, and Rick, me, and our family—along with other original homeowners on our street—remained. We were the Deer Path Woods old timers. Except now, we were leaving as well, to become the “new neighbors” somewhere else. And a new, young family would be moving in the next day and raising their family there just like we did.

And I was okay with that. Really, I was. Still, I couldn’t help but feel sad and wistful about bringing those chapters of our lives to a close.

Three months have passed …

… and although the move brought some changes to our lives—some big (a new church, a new bank, some new doctors) and some small (a new dry cleaner and ice cream stand)—I can honestly say that I’ve been very much at peace with it. So much so, in fact, that I’ve asked myself, “How is that? How could I live in one place for thirty-two years, move, and almost immediately feel comfortable in my new surroundings?”

I soon understood—no, felt—the reason why.

The reason goes beyond the fact that Rick and I feel very comfortable in our new home. There’s more to it than, once again, being blessed with wonderful neighbors. And, even though I’m thrilled for our dogs that there are many furry friends for them here in our new community, that doesn’t explain my contentment either.

As with most things that speak to our inner selves, the explanation goes deeper than anything I can lay my eyes or hands on. And yet, I feel it as strongly as having arms wrapped around me in a tight, loving embrace. Once the following thought came to me, I felt the sweet peace of surrendering to it:

We had moved, but God was where He’s always been, which is … right by my side.

The thought of these words, even now as I type and repeat them to myself, are such a comfort.

In no way do I want to dismiss the sadness that moving away from family, friends, and familiar surroundings can bring. Those feelings are powerful and only ease with time. In God, though, we have someone who will navigate it all with us; we need only to keep our hearts open to Him.

This same way of thinking can be applied to so many aspects of our lives where there is change:

Has a family member or friend recently been admitted to the hospital … or passed away … thereby changing who is present in your life?
Has a relationship in your life become strained or recently ended?
Have you changed jobs?
Are you sending a child off to college for the first time, thereby changing life as you’ve known it for the past eighteen years? (Been there, done that!)

Or something as seemingly innocuous as:

Has your normal route to work been closed due to construction, thereby changing and lengthening your commute?

Through any change—large or small—remember: God never calls U-Haul. God does not move or change. He is, rather, the steadiest, most loving presence in our lives. God is wherever you are.

(Photo by Brooke Cagle on Unsplash)