P Is For Purpose

I once witnessed two people in the professional writing industry have a full-scale discussion with bbq dripping from their cheeks. Yeah…pros loving that grilled and sauced chicken, chewing with mouths wide open, discussing their latest writing/editing projects.

Eewwww. Normally, a quick comment with a bit of lunch in between the molars bothers me not, but bbq slipping between teeth and out the front door—no.

How could I concentrate? Am I a manners snob? I don’t think so, I mean I do the elbows-on-the-table move all the time, but let’s edit the meal, shall we?

But being unable to get passed a pet peeve born of pretension is oftentexture-1362879_1920 more annoying than the peeve itself. I’ve heard more than a few peeve experts say that if they see a sentence fragment or a typo on the first page of a book, they quit reading the story on principle. I’m not sure which principle they’re referring too, I’m mean one of my favorite books had messed up formatting in a few pages of the book (not due to author error), but the story was AwEsOme–and a skilled author can pull off a sentence fragment like it’s a work of art. Formatting blips forgiven. I say if the peeved aren’t reading for the story, what are they reading for (this is not to say that writers shouldn’t strive for excellence)? Jesus chose fisherman to teach the world, after all, he didn’t choose the teachers of the time…maybe because they focused on the rules rather than Jesus.

What a difference that would have made in their lives. That’s okay, though, we got a great world-changing story out of twelve unexperts, grammar errors and all.


What do you think? Where do you draw the line?


Note to storytellers: Do you have a great faith story? Consider submitting here.




My daughter, mesmerized by a novel that kept her under its spell late into the night resisted all forces outside her blanket the next morning.

Unsuccessful in several attempts to awaken that sweet thing from her literary comatose state, my six-year-old son pushed aside his breakfast, turned to me in Hulk stance and said, “I got this, Mommy.”

A few screams peeled from Chloe’s room, then rounded into snort-induced giggles.

I sprang.

Noah, several pounds & inches smaller than Big Sis had pulled Chloe from her bed, and was dragging her across the room when I arrived. Unsure of when to stop dragging, Noah finally released Chloe when the wall and the shoe pile stopped him from going further. Explosions of laughter began our morning.

It was as if God had dipped his finger into multi-colored glitter and blew it across the room, “surprise.”morning-photo

Chloe rarely smiles on awakening; I can only determine that the pure shock of morning-person colliding with night-owl produced a phenomenon in such rare contrast that only joy could survive the moment.

I knew then that it would be a good day.

On a different note: Along with my writer’s group (a project of the real Cataclysm Missions) I’m accepting true stories for a Christian Anthology. Click here for details.