I’ve writing the story of Faith Carson for nearly 7 years, maybe 8. And I finally found a format I enjoy telling her story in: TV. Of course, I am neither a paid TV writer nor do I have contact with anyone who is. But I do see this playing out like a TV show. I have written the first episode and edited it a few times. The more script writing books I read, the more I’ll probably want to change about it. But for now, it’s at its best yet, so feel free to take a peak and tell me what you think.

P1.1 Long Way Back [Pilot]


I’m taking an acting class starting Friday. What brought this on? you ask. Well… first I’ve always been a bit… dramatic. Theatrical, if you will. Some of my earliest memories are of me fantasizing about starring in an amateur production of The Lion King. I was – of course – Nala. And my crush through all of elementary played Simba. I had the time of my life running around my imaginary stage and throwing everything I had into my make-believe world. Until – of course – my dad walked in and then i threw myself into pretending I was doing nothing as embarrassing as what I knew he caught me doing. Dad typically laughed – not maliciously – but it still made me self concious. Anyway, over the years that little girl who longed to expressing herself by playing a character hid away inside the woman who was too scared of being made fun off. But no more! I’m taking a class to hone my mad theatrical skills. And I’m super thrilled.

I once wrote a song that was too hard for me to play. It had a run that spanned 2 octaves and my fingers could not execute the music I heard in my head. My old music teacher taught me a simple way to play it. Insider trade secrets. But by then the finished product could only be slightly better than a disappointment. My vision of this song was huge. And I couldn’t deliver.

That being said, there is nothing that can make you feel more like a writing failure than walking the “great halls” of literary awesomeness known as the Fiction and Lit section of Barnes and Noble. Here, the thousands of pieces – great and inconsequential – laugh in the face of aspiring authors worldwide as we face their however-momentary or eternal mark on history. It was here I felt the crushing weight of my lack of accomplishment and felt the most like my novel was every bit the same as the song. I set out to write it with all of these ambitious goals and ideas. It was supposed to be smart and witty, truly intelligent and funny – not to sound redundant. It’s message was to be mind-blowing and completely unencountered in fiction.  It was to be bold. Culturally relevant. Scripture without hokeyness. Abut real people. It would be an instant classic. Reaching Christian and secular audiences. They would want to make it into a film. And it would rock the nation. And then the world. Oh, my ambitions, in shades of glitz and glam. I truly wanted to turn people to Go and His word, question their own hearts, learn, grow, and be challenged…

Do you see how with all of my ideas I could only have one direction to go? Down. I could only be disappointed. And the more I realize that I cam ill-equipped to write a story of that caliber, I grow depressed. And just as with my song, I look upon it with distain and disappointment. When did I become so negative, you ask. Somewhere between Jane Austen and Truman Capote. This is the life and dream and desire that my soul has ached for, and it is so far outside my reach, I feel more capable of touching the stars with my bare hands.

You urge is going to be to encourage me to write. But I find in the sewage that my fingers write out only sadness. Maybe I’m not called to be a writer. Or if I am… what if I’m called to fail at writing?


Would I be willing to fail for Jesus? To write something that the world hated and fall flat on my face because He told me to?

I have writer’s block. I feel stuck in my mind. When I go to the bookstore, I immediately beeline for the writing section and peruse book about novel writing, hoping that within their pages lie the cure to my mind’s disease. They don’t. They all say the same thing in different ways with varying levels of vulgarity. I am uninspired. I am desperate for help. I wish someone could look at it (the unfinished manuscript-in-progress) – professionally, even – and tell me – kindly please – how exactly to get back into the swing of things and – to quote a writer on writing – “write a damn good novel.” But I can’t honestly say there is anyone on this planet whom this story might remotely interest besides me and those obligated to interest by family ties.

Is this why the muse is dead? It knows that I secretly fear that all of this is for nothing. Bt the truth is – I want it out. The story. Out of my head. Even if just for me. But I just don’t know how!  It’s a sad, empty, lonely, depressing feeling – having all these thoughts, all these ideas – and no clue how to put them out there.

I am a writer who does not – cannot – write. How uninspiring.

I’m trying to be a writer. Trying and failing miserably. I hae all these ideas I was to flesh out into these characters that are often more real to me than the real people in my life. These “people” I’ve made up are my invisible friends – talking to me, showing me who they are or who they could be and begging me to tell the world about them through my imagination and my pen. But I feat the rest of m life has crowded into the tiny space I sawve for writing and creativity. I lack instpiration. I haven’t in so long I no long feel like a writer. No, just a girl who once had a dream but now has only an empty notebook. And maybe schizophrenia.