When sewing serves a greater purpose as a respite from writing fatigue
Last week, I was contemplating about the energy and time I put into writing, the unnerving pangs in my stomach that hunger for satisfaction. How quickly my mind is preoccupied with ideas that can only be put to rest in writing.
God’s word is settled and doesn’t need to be made more palatable for the sinner
These days, much of my time has been spent away from social media. Mostly because the pride of life thrives there, taking hold of the heart: “For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world.” 1 John 2:16
How saying my name over and over has become a routine
When I was in fifth grade, my teacher decided to give me a new name because it was easier to pronounce. I recall feeling flustered by the whole ordeal—like I had been causing an inconvenience for being who I was. This alone made it hard for me to reconcile one of her comments to me during reading group. She sat in the center of our half donut shaped table and said in a clear and frank tone that I was a scholar. I didn’t know what the word meant at the time but I asked around. I felt embarrassed to ask her myself—I was intimidated by her towering presence and her weekly assessments of our oral readings of poetry and prose, among other public speaking exercises.
A discussion about hope, faithfulness, and writing
Back in winter of 2017, I came across an announcement of Emily Conrad’s debut novel, Justice. Here, we talk about what inspired her novel, how she handles doubt, hardship, and the pitfall of perfection. This novel captures Emily’s growth as a writer just a few years after her ACFW First Impressions win (2015) and her position as an ACFW Genesis semi-finalist (2012, 2015).
How the unpopular view nowadays is the right one each time
When I was twenty years old, I was driving to a job interview in Los Angeles. I couldn’t find the building where a hiring manager was waiting for me and so I parked my car to walk to a phone booth to call for clearer directions. Within seconds of hanging up the phone receiver, two individuals assaulted me and took my money. A passerby saw the car in which my assailants fled and took a partial plate number. I called the police and they came right away and took a report. I never pursued the job interview after that.
The other day a dear writer I’ve come to admire shared a brief Twitter post suffixed with the hashtag of #AndThatsHowIGotThisScar. She recounts through a series of essays how she got her scar one Sunday in the City. It’s haunting and harrowing. But it is a beautiful description of transformation.
We need to stop living in a bubble. When I hear commentators ask how to stop the carnage like the one that happened in Florida on Valentine’s Day, I shudder because to every believer, the answer is very clear. Sin is the culprit. Not guns, not laws, not circumstance, but sin.
On bilingualism, language, and writing with abandon
It is a fight to write. The time it takes to settle my thoughts in front of a blank page when the urge is there and ready but my mind is exhausted from the busy-ness of the homeschool. I live the unconventional modality of the stay-at-home mom, or the work-from-home mom—my children are not shuttled to schools for long hours in the day. Nevertheless, I force myself to start new projects or continue existing ones, measuring all waking hours, making allowances for domestic tasks to go to perdition for just a little while.