Writing update

What are you working on? Are you still writing? Any new books in the works?

The answer, as it always has been since the early 1990s is the same. I'm always writing. Not always physically hitting the keyboard, but always thinking, always plotting.

It's been a few years since I signed a new fiction contract, a two book deal with Howard (division of Simon and Schuster) for the books, Salty Like Blood and my upcoming book, The Six-Liter Club. I'm getting anxious to see my upcoming release, coming April 6. In it, I turned to a familiar setting, Medical College of Virginia set during the years of my own medical school years there. For that reason, the book feels personal.

But it's also scary: For the first time, I wrote in first-person through the eyes of an African-American. And not just A-A, an A-A female. I think I pulled it off, even passed it by the critical eye of an A-A female author, but only time will tell if the book will live up to the hype. Here's what Publishers Weekly had to say:

Surgeon and author Kraus offers his longtime fiction readers a
highly charged tale of overcoming prejudice both racial and sexual.
Set in 1984 at the Medical College of Virginia, its first black
female trauma surgeon, Dr. Camille Weller, gets a fast initiation
into the Six-Liter Club. Few physicians ever enter this „elite‰
group; entrance is gained by bringing a patient back who's lost six
liters of blood. Weller manages to achieve this honor on her first
day and then, in quick succession, also manages to break „house
rules,‰ which divide the male and female staff. Weller has a lot to
contend with apart from her duties as a surgeon. The young doctor
must balance a romantic relationship with a resident; deftly
overcome the barriers she encounters because of her skin color; and
move beyond nightmarish memories of her childhood in the Congo.
Kraus's story clips along at a fast pace, and his readers will
appreciate how candidly the surgeon writer portrays the real world
of operating rooms and their attending staffs.

I'm particularly pleased, as PW has a reputation for slamming inspirational "Christian" fiction after the compliments. Thank God for a little grace.

So what have I been doing in the months since writing and revising my upcoming novel? Writing something new. Not sure of the title yet, but it is set in Africa, and delves into corrupt politics, witchcraft, marriage betrayal, missionaries losing loved ones while serving on the field and coming to grips with God's grace. I just finished the rough draft this week and am anxious for my literary agent to show it around. It brings together two settings I know well: Richmond, Virginia where I attended medical school, and Kijabe, Kenya in a mission hospital where I worked for four years. It was a blast to write. Now comes the hard part: the WAIT for word from my agent.

On the non-fiction front, Domesticated Jesus is coming out in June with P&R publishers. I'm very excited about this book as it takes an honest look at how we routinely underestimate God in our thinking. (For example, every worry is an example of making Jesus small or domesticated in our minds as we are acting as if he is too small to take care of our problem.) I've seen a prototype of the cover. It is a shocking image of a dog collar with a tag containing the title. It is taken from the concept that we've made Jesus into someone who serves us (like a pet) not vice-versa.

In the upcoming weeks, I'm going to launch into another project, likely something I've been noodling on for months....more clues to follow.

Oh yeah, almost forgot, A Zebra Tale is coming out later this year with Word Alive Publishers in Nairobi, Kenya. It is a fun tale of the great flood told through the eyes of a zebra (ever wonder how God got all those animals to go against their instinct and follow a man? And what if God invited the very lion that killed your zebra brother? And what if no one in the herd, including your family, believed you when you warned them of upcoming catastrophe. The book will be distributed in Africa, but available here in US through internet sales via the Word Alive site.

Thanks for asking.

And thanks for reading.

Harry

LOST IN PARIS!

I want to tell you about Bob. Bob isn't worth much in the eyes of a discerning public. He's never held a job, never wrote a poem, isn't much of a conversationalist and he can't bake a casserole for a church pot-luck. He doesn't come from money, he has a pot-belly and he has bad complexion and doesn't put much effort into personal hygiene.

Nonetheless, Bob became quite precious to our family, especially my son Evan. He took Bob along with us on numerous vacations. I've got pictures of Bob at the Statue of Liberty, the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro, and the Eiffel Tower. We even took Bob to a presentation of the radio show, "Prairie Home Companion" and had his picture taken with Garrison Keillor.

The reason I love talking about Bob is because the relationship Evan had with Bob is such an example of grace. Evan loved Bob, but Bob never expressed any favor back. The relationship was lopsided. Some would say dysfunctional. Why give love when nothing is ever reciprocated?

Did I mention that Bob is a rubber chicken? We purchased him at Walmart for a buck and change. In the pictures, you can see Bob at the Eiffel Tower and Bob touring the Louvre looking at Michelangelo's famous statue.

Our relationship with Bob came to a tragic end in Paris. Our family had stopped to see a friend on our way back from Kenya. We'd taken Bob to the Eiffel Tower and were on our way to Notre Dame, one of the world's most amazing cathedrals. From the Tower, we took the subway and then were on a bus across Paris when Evan looked at me and said, "I left Bob at the subway station."

Now Evan was about fourteen years old at the time, a critical juncture between boyhood and manhood and I knew he didn't want to cry, but I could tell his heart was breaking. He brushed away a tear and stayed quiet.

"It's too late," I said. "We've taken the subway and now a bus. We can't go back."

My mind wandered back over Bob's crazy life and a knot formed in my throat.

We toured Notre Dame, looking at unparalleled architecture, tall columns, arches of stone, paintings and sculptures by renaissance masters and stained glass windows that sprayed a rainbow of color across an expansive seating area. The west front contains 28 statues representing the monarchs of Judea and Israel. Three portals depict, from left to right, the Last Judgment, the Madonna and child; St. Anne, the Virgin's mother; and Mary's youth until the birth of Jesus.

But did my heart soar at such magnificence?

The atmosphere was surreal, but my soul was crusty, unresponsive.

All because of a rubber chicken named Bob.

Is it conceiveable for you to understand such a competition for my thoughts? The Last Judgment...or a rubber chicken; The Madonna and child or....A RUBBER CHICKEN?

After the tour, our family remained sober. There was little excitement to continue seeing one of the world's great cities.

At that point, Evan and I made a decision to separate from the rest of the family. We would attempt a rescue mission to find Bob.

We started back across Paris, walking the crowded sidewalks. And as we walked, we began to hum the theme for "Mission Impossible." You know--dum dum da de dum dum da de dum dum....It was the Kraus version of no chicken left behind.

We took another bus, finally arriving back at the entrance to the subway. At that point we were facing the turnstiles that require the purchase of a ticket. But I didn't want to pay if I was only going to search the platform and not ride the train. So, with all the appearance of someone trying to steal a ride, Evan and I jumped the turnstiles and jogged towards the platform. Perhaps I should have been thinking about how I would explain it to the authorities if they observed my antics, but I wasn't thinking about that...our focus was on Bob and our plan of rescue.

We arrived at the platform and searched the area. We looked on the concrete bench where Evan was sure he'd placed him. No Bob!

Our hearts sank again.

But we widened our search. There, off to the side in the gutter, Bob had been discarded.

Evan scooped him up. Other than being a little dirtier than usual, he was no worse for the adventure.

Why tell the story of Bob?

Because in some ways, we're all a bit like that rubber chicken. God has chosen us, independent of our worth, and lavished us with his love.

Did Bob diserve an expensive European vacation?

Of course not. He's a rubber chicken.

Do I diserve the lavish attention and love of my Heavenly Father?

Again, no way.

But that's what is so special about grace: God's favor given freely to the undeserved.

The next time you see a rubber chicken...remember that you are loved!

~Harry Lee

No faith? An excuse, but not a good one.

Have you ever heard someone bemoan that they just didn't have any faith? Or not enough faith to do something they knew they needed to do, or to stop doing something they knew was wrong?

Usually, it comes in the form of an excuse for bad behavior or an excuse for doubting. Or in the circumstance of a Christian who is struggling to believe he or she is loved by God or is forgiven for some past sin.

I've been rereading one of my all time favorite books lately: Hannah Smith's The Christian's Secret of a Happy Life. The well-worn copy I'm reading belonged to my grandmother, Phoebe Kraus, and was passed to my mother, Mildred. I remember as a boy seeing my mother sitting in a chair, colored pencil in hand, underlining the words in a little green book and I was intrigued. Over the next few weeks I read the book for the first time, concentrating on the words highlighted by my mom and soon understood her enthusiasm. Smith was a Quaker and spoke in practical terms to regular people, not to intellectuals in the seminaries of the day. She wrote of the surrendered Christian life, a life of trusting instead of striving, a life of peace, where good works are the result of gratitude and not out of a mentality of working for salvation. In Smith's world of a gospel of grace, she experienced the "get to" rather than the "have to" of Christian service. She compares the life of bondage under the law (felt by many well-meaning Christians to be their cross to bear) to the life of liberty under the true Gospel. The life under the law was characterized by the word "if." The life under the Gospel is characterized by the word, "therefore."

Instead of thinking, "If I do this, He will love me more," we rest in the peace of knowing the "therefore of the Gospel." Think Romans 5: "Therefore being justified by faith we have peace with God..."

When she gets to a discussion of problem areas, Smith addresses this issue of not having faith. People are known to complain, "Oh I wish I could know that God really loves me, but I just don't have any faith."

Smith dismisses this wimpy attitude as a misunderstanding of reality. Oh really, you don't have any faith? What about when someone serves you a meal in a restaurant? You don't refuse to eat because you fear the food may have been poisoned, do you? Of course not! You enjoy a meal, having not seen it in preparation. That, Smith points out, takes faith. Or what of public transportation. You don't refuse a train or bus ride because you fear the conductor or driver will commit an intentional error. When you sit in a chair, you are showing faith: faith that the carpenter knew what he or she was doing when they constructed the furniture, faith that the chair will support you without allowing you to collapse in a heap on the floor. In any number of a thousand circumstances through the day, we reveal that we do indeed trust others. Smith's point: we do (you do!) walk in faith everyday. Yeah, pretty much every moment.

Her suggestion is that when we find ourselves doubting the character of God surrounding an event in our lives, we need to drill down to the problems core and dare to admit it out loud so that in the hearing of it, we will be shocked as to the real horribleness of the problem. Instead of saying, "I find it hard to believe that God is working on my behalf or that God loves me, because I have no faith," say, "I have no faith....IN GOD."

Most Christians have enough knowledge of the character of God that the statement of lack of faith in God begins to sound ludicrous. The sad fact is that by the way we act, coddling our precious anxieties about our future, feeling guilty for past sins, or failing to enter into the peace God has promised does reflect a misconception of the character of God himself. Perhaps mentally, we give assent to the greatness of God, his ability to handle our small problems (which because of our improper perspective, seem huge), or our sin, but in our anxiety and guilt, our doubts about his character are revealed.

Smith's suggests that we all have faith. That's not the problem at all. Every day, in almost every circumstance, we reveal our ability to trust others. The tragedy is found in our inability to trust God.

So what's the cure? We need a proper understanding about God's character. His love, his grace, his cross need to explode in our thinking. We need to move our focus from our problems and our sin to the one who gave his life for us to the glory of the Father. Repentance of our unbelief may be a proper first step. Then, go to the Bible and set your will fully on the side of the revealed character of our God.

The next time I am tempted to use my lack of faith as an excuse to hold onto my pitiful life of anxiety, I think I'll try Smith's technique: admit to myself that I'm really doubting the powerful, awesome, loving God. Maybe it will seem so ludicrous that it will shock my soul back onto the right path!

Do yourself a favor. If you haven't worn out a copy of The Christian's Secret of a Happy Life, make it a New Year's plan to take the advice from a seasoned saint with an understanding of applying the rubber of the Christian faith to the road of life's experience.

Until next time....

Harry Lee

What it's like being married to me

OK, this is a blog that’s long overdue. Overdue, but appropriate on this day, a few days in front of a day of thanks, a day set apart to say “thank you” to God for his provision in our lives.

How many times has my wife had to endure hearing questions from those of you not privy to an inside look at my life? Too many.

The questions come in some variation of this theme: “Oh, Dr. Kraus, how do you do it all?” Surgeon, novelist, missionary, father, husband. I usually mumble something about grace. The answer is true, but perhaps not specific enough.

The grace I’m referring to (undeserved divine favor) comes to me predominately through one source: my wife, Kris. While I ignore life’s daily details, functioning as the visionary of our wedded duo, Kris plods on, suffering the blunt end of my decisions, the one who has to be sure everything continues to work.

And she’s done it for twenty-six years. Mostly behind the scenes. Without credit. While my few fans step up with smiles and ask, “How do you do it all?”

It’s not easy being married to me.

Not easy is the polite way to say it.

She knew I was on my way into medicine when we met and married. That part wasn’t an unpleasant surprise. But for anyone, expectations are a given.

What would you expect from a life with a physician as a spouse? Security? A comfortable income? The right schools, the right church, a nice house in the country or the suburbs? None of that would be out of the ordinary for a modern physician.

But I’ll admit, I’m not one for following the status quo. Not as a physician. Not as a Christian (and admittedly, I think that status quo Christianity paves the road to hell).

So imagine the vague anxiety my wife must have felt when I announced my first life-altering decision in our young marriage: I want to be a surgeon.

That meant at least five years of residency hell. Back in those days, no one limited your hours. And the military style obedience and dedication weren’t so family friendly. We were one of the couples who survived the torture, looking forward to a better life beyond.

And we had it, for a while. Until just after we’d built my wife’s dream house, the doctor-country house. And then I announced another visionary stressor: I think we should take the family to Africa for a year.

My wife buckled under, sold the dream house, and made it happen. Moving a family of three boys to Africa isn’t easy. There is adjustment. Different friends, a different school.

But one year wasn’t enough. After a year, we moved again, this time back to America to a smaller house in town. Not a “doctor-house.” My wife adjusted down her expectations. Again.

Then we returned to Africa for three years. A chance to make a real difference. And my wife adjusted and made it happen. Three and out, she hoped. But now, after two years back in our modest house in America, we’re talking about a return to Africa. Another three years.

My wife is holding on, hoping it will be the last time that need grips my heart and passion fuels a vision for great things. I look ahead to impacting an unreached people group. Kris looks at three more years of bad roads, inconvenience, personal risk, and a living situation far from American-doctor luxury.

No she’s not selfish. She’s normal. She likes America. Who doesn’t?

And yes, she will go along with the dreams God has birthed in my heart. But she will ask him, “how long?” and “why us?”

Consider the orientation of the wonderful woman I married on a Nebraska hog farm in 1983. She grew up in a little close-knit community wanting little more than to live in the same house for twenty years. OK, maybe forty. She yearns for stability and sameness. Instead, she got me.

She wanted to make a home place, a retreat for kids and eventually grandkids. Instead, we’ve moved a dozen times in twenty-six years, including back and forth to Africa twice.

I’ve had crazy ideas. I think I’ll write a novel. Or a dozen. Whatever made me think I could spend the hours necessary to do that?

Because Kris takes care of everything that I ignore. Including herself.

I write. She cooks, cleans, shuttles kids to school, and finds time to study herself, in pursuit of a nursing degree.

I see patients, do surgery. She makes sure someone pays the bills, gets the cars inspected, makes appointments with our accountant and keeps the financial records.

I accept yet another opportunity to speak or travel on a short-term medical mission. She makes all the travel arrangements and watches over everything at home while I’m gone. I don’t worry about a thing.

I get the credit for giving an inspiring talk about grace. Kris does all the behind the scene stuff, gets no credit and looks at my busy life wondering where’s the grace he’s talking about?

Well for me, I know it’s a struggle to practice everything I preach. Speaking, writing and doing surgery crowds out personal devotion and private worship. My audience doesn’t see the inconsistency. My wife does. And she calls my number on it.

Good for her. I don’t like it, but I need it.

And that’s why I’m telling you about her during thanksgiving week. She is God’s biggest blessing to me. He knew I needed a woman to manage everything I don’t. I think she often wonders why God would put two so different individuals together in a union of marriage. Well, if we were both like me, we’d have exploded long ago.

I need her. Badly. She’s unappreciated, often ignored. And far too often, I haven’t given her the credit she deserves.

I want everyone to know. She’s amazing. She’s underrated on the radar screen of publicity. I get the credit for work I do standing on her shoulders.

I’ve talked before about how people put others up on pedestals. Missionary. Published novelist. Surgeon. People hear the titles and prop me up with their own ideas of importance. But I tell them that it’s all grace. The only pedestal I want to stand on is a pedestal of grace.

Most of the time, for me, that pedestal of grace is spelled “K-r-i-s.”

April Release: The Six-Liter Club

I was sitting in a Sunday morning service listening to my pastor, Phil Smuland tell a story. Ever notice how everyone perks up when preachers do that? (OK, digressing early...) Anyway, he told a fascinating story about a missionary family living in the Congo during the Simba rebellion in 1964 (Simbas were revolting against the new government that had obtained freedom from Belgium not so long before). For several months, many Christian missionaries had been gathered under guard in Stanleyville. As the UN forces arrived to free them, nearby Simbas conducted a house-to-house slaughter of westerners who had remained in their homes. As the story goes, a Christian missionary man went out his front door and looked to the north up the street and saw the Simbas going door to door killing everyone. He looked to the south and witnessed the same horror. Knowing they would be at his home in minutes, he knew he had little time to act. Quickly, he took several live chickens and slaughtered them, spraying the blood around the entrance to the house and kitchen. He then took his family and hid under the house. When the Simbas arrived, they saw evidence that the slaughter had already touched that home and passed over to the next house.

Wow. What a powerful picture of the passover.

And of course, that started me thinking of a story of my own....What if I wrote a story from the viewpoint of a survivor of the Simba Rebellion, perhaps the child of martyred missionaries? What if the child wasn't told about the horror from the Congo, but has partial memories of hidden evil?

Now, over six years after hearing that story, the novel whose seed found its beginning in that sermon illustration is going to hit the shelves.

The Six-Liter Club tells the story of Camille Weller, the first black female trauma surgeon at the Medical College of Virginia. The time is 1984 and academic surgery was still dominated by white men.

OK, I can imagine you are thinking, Kraus has proven he can write from the standpoint of white male surgeons, but can he write through the eyes of a female? A black female?

First, let me remind you that fiction writers are continually getting into the heads of characters that are nothing like themselves. Fiction writers don't have to be murderers or child abductors to write convincingly from that viewpoint.

My agent asked bestselling African American female author Vanessa Miller to read the manuscript. Here's what she said: "I absolutely loved this book. And I believe other women will enjoy reading about Camille's journey also. Great job!"

She gave me this "blurb" to use for promotion:

A Story of heartbreak, love and tenacity that will have your rooting for the main character until the very last page. Unforgettable!
Vanessa Miller, Bestselling author of Forgiven and Yesterday's Promise

Coming from Vanessa, I couldn't be happier.

What is the meaning of the title? The Six-Liter Club is the club surgeons don't want to be in! You get in the club by having a patient shed six or more liters of blood during their surgery and still survive (the body has only five liters of blood, so someone has to be working pretty fast to replace all that blood!). My protagonist joins the club on the first day of her new job as trauma attending at Medical College of Virginia.

Does that guarantee that Camille Weller will be respected for her work? Far from it! She has to fight to be respected for something other than her physical attributes.

Over the years, Camille has compromised to be a part of the boys club. Now, as a young surgery attending, she discovers that as a woman she brings something special to her occupation. Maybe her gender isn't the hindrance that she always thought....

Mix in a love story and a boyfriend with a cheating heart...

Add the mystery of a hidden past that threatens to unravel Camille's cool facade with memories of horror...

Sprinkle in the controversy that raged in 1984, that is, can Camille offer breast cancer patients an operation other than removal of the breast (lumpectomy which is now known to be appropriate, but in 1984 was just being proven) and survive the criticism of her male peers that live and die by surgical dogma (breast cancer means mastectomy. Period!)

Here's the first paragraph, just a tease....

My heart beat with the exhilaration of knowing I hid in enemy territory, a woman in a men’s bathroom. Moments ago, I blew in here to make a poignant statement about this sexist university, but right now, I feel a bit short-winded, like I need to recover an ounce of the passion that has fueled my daily survival in this hospital for the greater part of the last decade. There are trite metaphors to describe what I just did. Threw down the gauntlet. Drew a line in the sand. Aunt Jeanine would have called it career suicide, but I never did give much for her opinion of my actions. Thirty seconds ago, I thought my statement was precisely what this stodgy establishment needed. But at this moment on the day I became the first woman surgeon to join the prestigious six-liter club, I cowered in a stall of the men’s bathroom, desperate to find the fire that emboldened me to barge into this inner sanctum of testosterone. I peered through a crack at the doctor’s locker room, appreciating only a small vertical slice of the room at a time. It was much like the nurses, except larger and smelling a bit like my sweat-socks after a run in the Virginia heat. I leaned forward until my forehead touched the cool surface of the metal door, tuning my ear to the voice of Dr. Bransford, my mentor and the chief of general surgery.

It is still a few months away, but I promised I'd give you a sneak look. Release date is April 6.

Or should I say "due date"? Sometimes this book-writing stuff does seem like labor!

With special appreciation for my former pastor and current friend, Phil Smuland. Thanks for the idea!

Harry

Get to versus Have to

Last week, I was in a "creative access" country. That's mission-speak for a Muslim country with laws against evangelism or conversion.

Our involvement there began a few years ago when I visited with a director of a secular NGO and asked the dean of a small struggling medical school if he could use the help of a team of medical doctors who could give lectures, do operative cases and make rounds with the medical students. His enthusiasm was apparent. OK, I thought, that's an open door. Now for the weighty question. "I am coming from a Christian church hospital in Kenya. The type of doctors I would find would likely be Christians."

His response. "That's fine." The understanding is that we are there for medical work, not for making Christian converts. In fact, he assured me that he assumed we would be Christian. After all, most of the physicians I work with are from America. They assume that because America is a "Christian country" that anyone from there will be Christian. That's the way it works for them. They are born in a country where there is no separation of Islam from their government. By their constitution, it is illegal for a Muslim to convert to another religion. If you are born there, you are Muslim. Automatically. You have no choice.

That began what has become a wonderful relationship between a Muslim medical school and a Christian hospital. We work for a week at a time doing dozens and dozens of surgeries, giving lectures and seeing patients with the students. Over the years, we have returned to see the young medical students graduate and become interns. And our relationships with the faculty blossom.

And as we work, we are open about our lives, our families, and our faith. No, we are not seeking conversions. But we are doing what Jesus commanded. Loving. Serving. Being light in a dark place.

I love my time in this country. I truly love the people there. they are sincere, and hardworking. Their willingness to stay there in a hard situation and serve their own countrymen is admirable.

I'm impressed in particular by one of their doctors who has started a program to help women who have developed vesico-vaginal fistulas. (what is that? A condition caused by prolonged arrested labor when a baby's head is too big for delivery. In the US, that means an urgent C-section; out in the bush of this country, the woman may labor for more than a day resulting in a pinching of tissues between the mother's pelvic bones and the baby's head. This means that eventually the pinched tissue dies from the pressure, like a pressure sore on the back of an old person who can't roll around, resulting in a connection between the urinary bladder and the birth canal. This has an unfortunate result: the woman drains urine through her vagina constantly, without restraint. This means bad odor, ostracism, divorce, and financial ruin. There are thousands of these women, a huge social problem.) This particular doctor has performed nearly 400 of the corrective operations in the past year, all for free. I asked this doctor about his motivation. "Why are you doing this?" I asked.

It didn't take long for him to reply. He is seeking Allah's favor. Then, he looked at me and added, "It is the same way for you. You travel all the way over here to donate your services to our people."

With gentleness, I pointed out the error in his thinking. "You are doing this to earn Allah's favor. I am doing this out of gratitude, because I HAVE God's favor."

Maybe outwardly, it looks the same, but the motivation is miles apart (as well as the final outcome!) This conversation mirrored another one I had with a Muslim intern. We compared our faiths. Good deeds for the Muslim are "have to"; for Christians, it's "get to." The Islam religion can be summed up by the phrase "serve him." For the Christian, it is "love him." It's the radical difference between wages and grace.

The best the Muslim can hope for is that the good deeds of a lifetime outweigh the bad and that you arrive at the gates of paradise to find Allah in a good mood. If he's not, there goes a lifetime of good deeds out the window.

For the Christian, we boast only in the cross of Christ. Salvation is by grace alone and faith alone. Good works are only the evidence of heart-faith.

There are many reasons why I love making trips like this, not the least is that I'm surrounded with continuous reminders (by contrast) of God's grace!

I'm back home safely after nearly three days of travel. Next week, I promise I'll give you a sneak look at my upcoming novel, "The Six-Liter Club."

Also, if you're interested, I've joined another blog where I will contribute on occasion: visit http://internationalchristianfictionwriters.blogspot.com

Grace,

Harry

What it takes to be a master writer

Fellow writer Mary DeMuth has posted an interesting article @ http://michaelhyatt.com/2009/10/what-it-takes-to-become-a-master-writer.html

In her blog "What it Takes To Be A master Writer" Mary answers a question fielded by most published authors.

And Mary tells the grinding truth about improving the craft, the answer listeners steeped in an instant-gratification world don't want to hear: 10,000 hours of practice.

Wow. Break that down. That's a full time job (assuming 40 hr week and two weeks off a year) for FIVE YEARS. And that's before publication, so let's make it ten years of twenty hour weeks because you need another job to support your writing habit.

Most good writing doesn't happen without a long period of craft-work. But that runs counter-culture to our instant-potato, microwave-everything culture. We want washboard abs in two weeks, a complete work-out in four minutes a day and our success overnight.

But greatness for a writer rarely comes without a willingness to spend long weeks alone and learning to be OK without publication.

As God's children, we understand His sovereignty over all. Sure, he could make me or any other writer and overnight success, but he'll likely use the hours of solitude in perfecting the craft as a means of grace to accomplish his plan. And He rarely measures success the way man does. In Isaiah 28:10 we read, "for it is precept upon precept, precept upon precept, line upon line, line upon line, here a little, there a little."

I've often read that verse and thought, boy, Isaiah sure hasn't met my editors! They would have never let me get away with repetitive words like that. The red marks would have been all over that text. But God isn't in a hurry and the prose gets repetitive for a reason. God is interested in quality. And not necessarily quality.

Take a look at Mary DeMuth's blog. Don't despair. In God's universe, great writing is almost always accomplished "line upon line, line upon line."

As always, I'm hoping that you will understand your need for grace every moment, Harry.