The scene looked like a morbid parade: two ambulances and a long fire truck lined our street. A half dozen paramedics burst into action, carrying equipment into the house next door. They rolled a gurney to the back gate. It was Rob and Susan’s house, an older couple (I’ve changed their names out of respect).

I waited, praying peace and protection over their home. Ten minutes later, out came Rob on the gurney, his head wrapped in bandages. He’d taken a bad fall, leaving him with some broken bones and a brain bleed. A few days later Susan told me the whole episode sent her blood pressure through the roof and she too was checked into the hospital.

I genuinely felt for them. I’d never wish this on anyone. At the same time, of all our neighbors, Rob and Susan have been the most difficult to coexist with.

Suburban quibbles

When we moved in, we made an effort to get to know Rob and Susan. They seemed like a pleasant older couple. Even though they declined our invitation to have dinner at our house because they’re “too old”, they seemed to mean well.

But slowly, tensions began to rise. First it was the fact that we left our dog out too long in the backyard (remember, we live in Southern California where the average forecast is 70 degrees, sunny, with a slight ocean breeze). Next it was the fact that our two-year-old son kept throwing objects over the fence into their backyard (mostly balls, but occasionally rocks and shovels. He never hit anyone… that we know of).

As much as I hate these superficial turf wars, when someone comes at you enough times, it gets to you. We’d dug our trenches. The facade of friendliness had collapsed. So be it.

That is, until God spoke…

A Moment of Clarity

A few weeks ago, well before Rob’s unfortunate fall, I was driving down my street past a neighbor who just moved in. He was shirtless in his garage, unpacking boxes or fiddling with something, I don’t know. In the two seconds it took me to pass his house, my mind flooded with memories of when we first moved in seven years ago.

We hosted BBQs, grilled up carne asada, and threw movie nights at our house.

During COVID, while the world was nervous about meeting indoors, we circled up in our front lawn, busted out folding tables and chairs, and made the best of it.

I even launched a storytelling project on social media to highlight the unique personalities and gifts of our neighbors.

But slowly, our efforts waned. We lost steam. Invitations were rarely reciprocated. Our efforts seemed demoralizingly one-way. As Rich Mullins said, “Some people are friendly, but they’ll never be your friends.”

Then we had three kids in four years, a major career shift on my part, and well—it became easier to focus on our own growing family.

So there I was, driving down my street, glancing at my newest neighbor, when a phrase popped into my head. It was so clear and unprompted, I sensed it was from the Lord:

“You look more like this neighborhood than when you first moved here. But I’ve asked you to make this neighborhood look more like me.”

It wasn’t a compliment. Nor an insult. Just a timely reality check. I’d lost some of my motivation to invest in my neighbors. I’d let the setbacks and relational plateaus lull me into apathy. I’d traded a joy-filled life of risk for the convenience of minding my own business. I’d believed the lie that says, “Everyone’s happier if you just keep to yourself.”

I chewed on those words: “You look more like this neighborhood…”

Looking back on all those BBQs and movie nights, even though well-meaning, it wasn’t sustainable. With three little ones, it’s all-out warfare just to get food on the table in one household. Catering for the whole block isn’t realistic. So I didn’t sense God prodding me to recreate those extravagant events.

It was more of a nudge back toward a simple life of love. It was a reminder to pay attention to what’s happening around me. To look for opportunities to bless others and make him known.

Still, I wasn’t sure what exactly God was telling me to do… until I saw Rob wheeled out of his house with blood seeping through the gauze around his head and a bewildered look in his eyes.

So I prayed, “Lord, what does it look like to bring more of you into this neighborhood?”

The first move

The day after Rob was hauled away in an ambulance, I saw Susan unloading some bags from her car in the driveway. I sensed the Lord prompt me to walk over and ask how Rob was doing. Resistance welled up inside me. The walls between us had grown thick and overgrown. If my well-meaning question was swatted aside like a gnat, I worried my heart would grow more calloused.

I took a beat, then walked over.

“Hi Susan, I saw the ambulance yesterday. How is Rob doing?”

She looked puzzled at first, then softened and shared the update. Rob would be okay, but had a long journey of healing ahead.

And that was it.

Driving away from that brief exchange, I thought, “Lord, how can I bring more of you to Susan and Rob?”

“Bring them with you”

My mind flashed back to another word God had spoken to me, years before. I was leaving the office when, out of nowhere, I felt an irresistible call to stop, walk into a specific room, and wait. I hadn’t been praying or thinking about anything in particular. There was no crisis. No big decision to navigate. Still, I sensed: This is an invitation into the Lord’s presence. He has something to say.

Sitting there, alone, suddenly God’s presence washed over me. Tears welled up. And the Lord showed me a scene from a few days earlier. At the time, I was working at a church and we’d recently done a local outreach event for a low-income school. Partly out of parental necessity (and to give Emily a break), I brought our three-year-old daughter with me. She was too young to help with much, and mostly ate snacks and colored with crayons.

With that scene replaying in my mind, the Lord said, “Keep it up. Bring them with you.”

It was a paradigm-shifting moment for me. Of all the things God could have highlighted—including a vision of my future, a specific word to uplift someone, or direct guidance on a decision— he directed my attention to an unassuming moment I never would have recognized as significant.

It’s a conviction I’ve carried ever since. Whenever I serve or risk or obey, no matter how simple or mundane it feels, I’ve resolved to bring them along.

Which leads me back to Susan and Rob.

Holy ground

I sat down with my two oldest, who are four and six.

“Hey guys, you know Susan and Rob next door?”

My daughter: “The ones who don’t like kids?”

“Well sweetheart, they just like privacy. Anyway, Rob had to go to the hospital because he got hurt. So we have a chance to show Jesus’ love to them. Can you draw some pictures for them? I think they’d love that.”

The next day, all five of us showed up on Susan’s porch with a bouquet of flowers, a note, and my daughter’s drawing of a toucan. Even though I’d suggested this whole thing, I felt tired and skeptical.

Earlier that day, my six-year-old Callie had asked, “After we bring her pictures and flowers, will she be nice to us?”

I explained how loving people is a good thing to do even if the other person isn’t nice back. A lot of times they won’t. But it’s still worth it to extend the invitation. Still, as my son sheepishly knocked on Susan’s door a second time, I wondered, “Am I setting up my kids for disappointment?”

Susan’s cautious face eventually appeared in the window by the front door. I’m not sure what she expected after a long day sitting beside Rob in the hospital, but I’m certain it wasn’t a family of five fidgeting on her porch.

The door opened, and what happened next is one of the holiest moments I’ve experienced in our neighborhood.

Callie proudly presented her toucan. Our son Hayden awkwardly clutched the bouquet that was bigger than his little face. I gently instructed him, “Give Susan her flowers, bud.”

Susan’s voice cracked. The drill sergeant shooing kids off her property transformed into a tender grandmother who pointed out the beautiful colors in Callie’s painting. After a minute of small talk, right when I assumed it was time to say goodbye, she invited us inside.

The kids didn’t need to be invited twice. They rushed in, like Black Friday shoppers bursting through a store entrance at 5am. A lifetime of collectables filled every room. There were model cars, vintage Barbies, and a thousand other breakables that children have no business handling. Emily walked through the door after them, but I paused at the doorstep. My frozenness was a manifestation of my unbelief. Susan motioned for me to come in. So I stepped over the threshold, aware that some invisible barrier had just been broken.

Photos from Susan and Rob’s wedding day hung in the hallway. In one of them, Rob dips Susan low in his arms and plants one right on her lips. Room by room, Susan showed us one collection after another. Emily and I half-listened while monitoring our kids who were clumsily pawing every toy in sight. Please y’all, don’t break something and ruin this.

After ten minutes or so, Susan looked at Emily and apologized for something that unfolded months earlier. Her apology burst out suddenly, like it had been growing underground, longing to be set free. We assured her it wasn’t a big deal. And we meant it. Something more important was afoot, and we knew it. By the time we left, each kid had a gift from Susan in-hand.

Little whispers

I’ve been thinking a lot about how God speaks lately. Partially because I’m writing a book about how to discern God’s will and live out your calling.

It’s easy to assume that hearing God’s voice requires a dramatic, divine encounter. But sometimes, as with Elijah, it’s not a bellowing voice from heaven as much as a quiet whisper. A gentle nudge to do something that pleases him.

My friend Rich Villodas writes,

Hearing God is not primarily about dramatic moments or mystical experiences. Rather, it’s about recognizing the subtle, gracious ways God breaks into the fabric of our normal lives. This is what learning God’s voice often looks like. Not overwhelming clarity, but quiet faithfulness. God’s voice is most often recognized not because it’s loud, but because it sounds like love, wisdom, and truth slowly forming us into the people we were created to be.

What if God wants to speak to you in little ways throughout the day—ways that seem ordinary, unassuming, unglamorous? Perhaps a sentence while driving. An ambulance. A nudge in the driveway. A child’s toucan. A bouquet of flowers. A knock on a door.

Why does God whisper when he could simply shout? After all, a whisper is harder to hear, especially in the noise of life. I think Mark Batterson explains it well,

When someone speaks in a whisper, you have to get very close to hear… We lean toward a whisper, and that’s what God wants. The goal of hearing the Heavenly Father’s voice isn’t just hearing His voice; it’s intimacy with Him.

Wherever you are this day, whatever God has given you to do, I pray you listen for the whispers of God. And when you hear them, lean in. He’s leading you somewhere—most importantly, toward himself.

I’m rooting for you,

Will

PS - If you’re looking for writing or publishing coaching, book a session with me here.

Hi Will.

When I first started following you, I enjoyed your thoughtful essays. But in the last few months, it feels like you’re always trying to sell me something. I just want you to know that I am no longer “Team Will.”

I won’t be following you anymore.

It stung. Not because I thought the accusation was entirely fair, but because it touched on a fear I already carried. Most creators love the creating part: writing the post, recording the song, building the product. But telling others about it feels more risky. It makes us more likely to be misunderstood. What if, like the email above, people accuse us of being yet another internet marketer milking our audience for cash and attention? What if sharing our work makes us seem needy, self-important, or—worst of all—annoying?

If we want people to care about our work, we have to tell them it exists. Full stop. This comes naturally to some people. For me, it remains a clunky, nerve-racking exercise. But two ideas have helped me share my work more thoughtfully and courageously. I hope they help you too.

Both appear in a single verse:

Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace…

—1 Peter 4:10

1. To serve others

The best advice I’ve ever heard about creative work (and especially promoting it) is simple:

Make it about them.

Instead of thinking of promotion as self-promotion, think of it as service. Creative work can and should bring us personal joy. But its deepest satisfaction comes when something we’ve made blesses other people. Perhaps it helps someone think differently, solves a problem, creates laughter, offers hope, or mobilizes people toward a worthy cause. The ultimate reason to tell others about your work is that it might make their lives better.

Nothing has emboldened me more to share my work than thinking tangibly about how it might serve others. It’s a relief to remember it’s not primarily about me. Instead of obsessing over how I’m being perceived, I can focus on serving my audience to the best of my ability.

Brennan Manning describes two ways we can show up in the world:

My false self staggers into each day with an insatiable appetite for affirmation. With my cardboard façade intact, I enter a roomful of people preceded by a muted trumpet—“Here I am”—whereas my true self hidden with Christ in God cries, “Oh, there you are!”

What a great distinction, especially in the social media age where the masses clamor for attention, clawing and shouting, “Look! Look! Here I am.” The longer you play that game, the weaker your voice becomes. Even when you manage to cut through the noise, the satisfaction rarely lasts.

But what would it look like to share your work with a posture that says, “Oh, there you are”? I see you. Here’s some encouragement. Here’s something to strengthen your calling. Here’s a reminder that your life matters.

John Mark Comer writes,

Whatever your calling is, whatever you end up doing with your life—please don’t do it for yourself. That’s such an overdone, cliché, uncreative way of living. It’s a waste of oxygen. Do your work as an expression of love and service, ultimately to God, and then to your neighbor.

Amen.

2. As faithful stewards

The second idea that motivates me to share my work is stewardship. This one is especially important because, on the surface, it sounds so spiritual to say, “I don’t need to promote my work because God will take care of it.” Talent gets noticed, we tell ourselves. Eventually, the cream rises to the top.

A few years ago, I launched a big project with someone who used this logic. They said ad nauseam, “God is doing all the work. We’re just along for the ride.”

Every time she said those words, I grew more frustrated. It’s not that I disagreed with giving God credit. As David prayed, “Everything comes from you, and we have given you only what comes from your hand.” Or as Jesus said, “Apart from me you can do nothing.”

What bothered me was the suggestion that we were merely along for the ride. We’d spent hundreds of hours planning, networking, recruiting, training, and all the other “ings” required to build something from the ground up. God calls us to be stewards of the work he’s given us, not passive bystanders.

Sometimes I wonder if we’re quick to give God credit not because we’re genuinely humble, but because we’re reluctant to take ownership. Taking ownership means risking failure. It means stepping out from behind spiritual language and admitting, “I care deeply about this, and I am going to give it everything I have.”

Stewardship means putting serious effort into the work (including its marketing and promotion), then releasing the results. It means faithfulness on the front end, then trusting God with fruitfulness on the back end. It means you can’t just make something. You have to tell people about it too. Literary agent Curtis Yates explains this well:

You want this content to help someone. Well, it can’t help them if they don’t read the book. They can’t read it if they don’t buy it. They’re not going to buy it if they don’t hear about it. And they’re not going to hear about it unless you talk about it. Nobody’s going to promote it if you, the author, don’t promote it.

One test of whether we truly believe our work can serve people is our willingness to tell them it exists. If we’re unwilling to speak up, we shouldn’t be shocked when others are unwilling to tune in.

God’s kindness

I see God’s kindness in the fact that sharing our work requires courage.

Something happens inside us when we offer another person something we have made with our own hands, heart, and mind. We allow ourselves to be seen. We risk rejection. We release something meaningful without being able to control how it will be received.

If God has given you a vision to make something—a book, newsletter, album, painting, podcast, product, or anything else—there may be someone whose life will be changed by it. But they cannot be helped if they never hear about it.

In his kindness, God wants to stretch you as you muster the courage to speak up. In the delicate dance between promotion and pride, we become the kind of people who faithfully steward the gifts and desires the Lord has given to us. We become people who bring life and light to others through our work.

If it can serve someone, don’t hide it.

Tell them about it.

I’m rooting for you,

Will

P.S. - In the spirit of practicing what I just preached, my book proposal course is currently $100 off through Friday, July 17th. You can check it out here.

Get the course

One thing stands between you and a book deal: creating a killer book proposal.

Most writers aren’t sure where to start. They tinker with the manuscript. They send cold emails to publishers (and never hear back). They stress about their platform section. They wonder, Is my book idea actually strong enough?

There’s a better way.

In this conversation, I share my best advice about creating a book proposal.

What’s inside this episode:

20:20 — What Is a Book Proposal?
Will explains that a proposal is the pitch deck for your book idea.

20:53 — Your Book’s Movie Trailer
Why a great proposal should make editors want more without telling them everything.

22:20 — How to pitch yourself—not just your concept.
A proposal introduces both your concept and you as the author.

23:33 — Why Not Just Send the Manuscript?
Why nonfiction writers usually need a proposal before a full manuscript.

25:37 — Why Proposals Save Time
How a proposal can protect writers from wasting months or years on the wrong version of a book.

26:22 — The Agent Advantage
Why a strong proposal can help writers land a literary agent.

30:37 — The TMI Trap
One of the biggest proposal mistakes: too much information, too little clarity.

32:12 — Platform Panic
What publishers are really looking for in the platform section—and why writers shouldn’t ignore it.

37:04 — Great Proposals Name the Ache
The best proposals identify an urgent reader problem, not just an interesting topic.

38:46 — Fresh Angle, Familiar Topic
How to make your idea stand out, even if others have written on similar subjects.

I’ll guide you, step by step

If you’re serious about publishing your book, Proposals Made Simple gives you my complete blueprint for clarifying, shaping, and pitching your book idea.

Right now you can get $100 off the course. Offer expires July 4th.

Start watching Proposals Made Simple

I’m rooting for you,

Will

PS. Here’s what a few students have to say about the course.

There were pros and cons to both.

She’d just been through a tough breakup, so a fresh start back on the West Coast looked promising. A new chapter in a familiar place. On the other hand, Heather had recently rededicated her life to God and was growing a ton at her church. She worried that uprooting from her spiritual community, to live in the place she grew up, might lull her back into old patterns with no accountability or support.

Everything was set up to move back to California. Her house was packed up in boxes. She’d quit her job. Sold her cars. Her cousin was going to fly out to drive across the country with her. Then, suddenly, several job opportunities popped up in Connecticut, including a place to live with a strong Christian who could walk beside her.

Heather wondered, Is this from God? Am I supposed to stay? Is he trying to tell me something?

She only had two weeks until she was scheduled to move. During that time, fear and uncertainty welled up inside her. She began to second-guess her plans. It was hard to ask people for advice because her friends in Connecticut wanted her to stay, while her family wanted her to move back home. She felt stuck.

Then she received a phone call that changed everything.

It was her pastor, calling to follow up after Heather’s baptism a month before. He asked, “How are you doing? Is there anything you need?”

So she spilled everything over the phone: her plans to move home, the mysterious opportunities that had fallen into her lap, and how she couldn’t discern what God wanted her to do.

Then her pastor spoke these words: “In life, we’re going to have really big decisions to make. And most of the time, we’ll never have 100% certainty. It’s going to feel more like 51%. Sometimes you’ll be 100% called to something, but most of the time God gives us a choice. It feels scary. But if we stay in our indecision too long, that can become sin because you’re not trusting God with either outcome. Really what God wants us to do is trust him.”

Then he reassured her, “If you choose to stay, God will be faithful to you there. If you choose to go, he will be faithful there too. One might feel just one percent stronger, so choose that and trust him with your life.”

It gave her a lot of peace. She reasoned, “If God is telling me to stay in Connecticut and I’m totally missing it, somehow he’ll bring me back here. I’ll be okay regardless of what I choose.”

So with a newfound confidence, she returned to California. And in Heather’s own words, “God has been faithful since I moved back, in ways I couldn’t have imagined.”

The freedom of 51%

Just imagine how much less anxious you’d be about life’s biggest decisions if you applied the 51% principle. So often, we want God to give us 90% certainty—via signs and wonders, all doors closing except one, or whispered instructions during times of prayer and fasting.

If you expect 90% certainty before a major decision, chances are you’re going to feel frustrated and anxious if the answer doesn’t come in the way you expect. Or worse, you’ll be tempted to play the “God card”…

“God told me to date that person.”

“The Holy Spirit led me to take this job.”

“God spoke last night.”

“God put it on my heart.”

It’s not that I don’t believe God can and does speak directly. Not only can he (He’s God, after all), but I also believe we should ask him for specific direction. Why not? Perhaps he will answer in some undeniable, profound way. But instead of insisting God will always answer in the way we hope, in most cases it appears he simply gives us freedom to choose. Why? Because choosing forces us to face our fears, take risks, scrape our knees, cry out in dependence, grow in confidence, gain more grit, and experience the thrill of seeing God provide. Like a good parent who slowly releases their child over time to grow more independent and resilient, God is honored by bold, faith-filled decisions.

Rather than just telling us what to do at every juncture, he lets us make decisions, which draw us closer to him in the process. That’s why it frustrates me when decision-making is reduced to a cute formula:

Right practices + right posture = God’s guidance

In other words… if you pray, fast, seek wise counsel, and read the Bible (or fill in the blank with your preferred spiritual discipline), God will answer. Every time. No exceptions. Speaking for myself, I have a very hard time hearing from the Lord in such a direct manner. In fact, I can count on one hand the times I sensed his voice tangibly, and none of those involved a difficult decision.

What happens when you’re offered a promotion that requires moving to Atlanta, so you ask God if it’s worth leaving your current church community behind, but you hear nothing? What if you beg God to give you a sign that the person you’ve been dating for nine months is “the one”—but there’s no answer? What if you have a product you want to create, a ministry you want to start, or a new career to explore, but despite your fervent inquiring, there’s no divine roadmap?

Sometimes the answer is more simple, more freeing, than we think.

God vs. gut

In the church, decision-making is often framed as a battle between God and gut. On the “God side,” we seek God and wait for confirmation before acting. It sounds so spiritual.

On the “gut” side, we follow our instincts and live in the moment. It seems so impulsive and irresponsible. So emotion-driven.

But the gospel says God is in our guts. It’s not that we should trust everything we think or feel without careful scrutiny. Rather, it’s taking seriously that to trust Jesus is to become a new creation. The Holy Spirit who raised Christ from the dead dwells within you. You’ve been lifted out of the pit of darkness into the kingdom of light. Your mind is being renewed. You’ve been born again. Your desires, thoughts, and will are slowly being conformed into in the likeness of God’s heart.

So it’s not God vs. gut. It’s God and gut.

We don’t need 100% certainty before every decision, preceded by “Thus says the Lord.” All we need is 51% certainty, rooted in trust, preceded by “Thus far the Lord has helped me, and I know he will continue to.”

Here’s what I find fascinating: my decision-making process doesn’t change all that much between the 90% and 51% approach. Either way, I pray, fast, search scripture, seek wise counsel, spend time in solitude with God (or some combination of these). The way I seek God doesn’t change, but the way I expect him to answer is vastly different.

As my three children grow, I receive immense satisfaction from watching them pioneer new roads, try new things, identify their passions and gifts, and grow more confident in their decisions. This is how your Father in heaven delights in your decision-making.

If God doesn’t seem to speak audibly to you, perhaps he’s not standing aloof, arms crossed, scowling because you haven’t found the perfect ratio of prayer and fasting. I think it’s more likely that he’s sitting back with a smile on his face that says, “Go for it, kid. Either way, I’m with you.”

Stop chasing 100%. All you need is 51%. God is with you.

I’m rooting for you,

Will

How much does platform really matter?
What makes a proposal stand out?
Can a strong idea overcome a small following?
And are editors actually discovering writers on Substack?

Last year, I had the opportunity to join and for their Publishing Summer School, where they asked me some of the questions writers most want answered—but rarely get to ask an acquisitions editor directly.

In this conversation, I pull back the curtain on what editors really look for. Hit play and listen while you commute, work out, or mow the lawn. I hope it gives you a clearer, more honest picture of how publishing works—and what you can focus on next.

Btw, I love sharing with groups of writers like this. If you want to book me for your event, whether in-person or online, please use this form.

Jump to a specific topic in this Q&A:

1:57 — What brought you into publishing?
Will shares his zigzag journey from journalism and pastoral ministry to professional editing.

4:14 — What is Writers Circle, and how did you grow it on Substack?
How Writers Circle began, what it offers, and the consistent work behind its growth.

8:49 — Did one influential person cause your Substack to take off, or was the growth slow and steady?
Will explains his unusual early growth and the ongoing importance of consistency and Substack Notes.

12:37 — How can Christians build a platform without commodifying God or the Christian life?
A conversation about ambition, motivation, spiritual health, social media, and accountability.

18:33 — How can authors share material online without cannibalizing their future book?
How much book content writers should share before publication—and why generosity often creates interest rather than diminishing it.

27:50 — How do aspiring authors get noticed by agents, editors, and publishers?
Why editors are rarely scouting writers on social media and why personal relationships, conferences, writing groups, and direct outreach matter.

32:38 — What do acquisitions editors focus on when evaluating an author’s platform?
The relative importance of email lists, Substack, social media, writing ability, book concept, and marketing potential.

40:52 — How do you write something timely that will still feel relevant when the book releases years later?
How to balance current cultural conversations with timeless, evergreen themes.

44:33 — What overlooked or surprising element should aspiring authors include in a book proposal?
Will discusses platform presentation, marketing plans, testimonials, concision, and clarity.

50:17 — What themes or topics may emerge in Christian nonfiction over the next few years?
Why writers should resist chasing trends and instead follow the questions and subjects they cannot stop thinking about.

54:12 — Can you share an example of a publishing project that surprised you?
The story of a strong writer with roughly 300 followers whose distinctive book about theology and birding attracted significant publisher enthusiasm.

56:49 — How detailed should chapter summaries be in a nonfiction book proposal?
Will recommends four to five sentences and introduces the HIT framework: Hook, Insight, and Takeaway.

59:23 — Where can people find your newsletter, podcast, and proposal course?
Will points listeners toward Writers Circle and its free writing and publishing resources.

Got questions?

I’d love to hear from you: What do you still want to know about writing or publishing?

Drop your question in the comments below. I may answer it there—or turn it into a future Writers Circle post.

Leave a comment

I’m rooting for you,

Will

Book me to speak at your next event

Get $100 off my book proposal course (June only!)

“Life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I react to it.”—Chuck Swindoll

You’d expect an Olympic medalist’s happiness to correlate with their accomplishments. For instance, a gold medalist would be the happiest. Followed by the silver medalist, then the bronze.

But a fascinating study suggests this isn’t true.

Paradoxically, bronze medalists who finish third tend to be happier than silver medalists who finish second. It’s because silver medalists can’t stop thinking about what would have happened if they’d been just a little faster, just a little better. Bronze medalists, on the other hand, imagine what it would have been like to finish without a medal at all.

Standing a few feet from each other on the podium, their perspectives couldn’t be further apart. One is reeling from regret. The other is brimming with gratitude.

If I’m honest, I relate more to the woeful runner-up. Nothing hurts more than almost. As Daniel Nayeri writes, “To lose something you never had can be just as painful—because it is the hope of having it that you lose.”

The word “no” is a door slammed shut. That’s hard enough. But almost is even worse. It cracks open the door enough for you to see the cheerful gathering inside. You feel the warmth of the fireplace, hear the laughter of friends, and smell the aroma of the feast. And then the door slams shut.

When was the last time you went all in, overprepared, rehearsed like crazy, gave your whole heart, did everything right, put it all on the line… only to hear some version of:

After careful consideration, we regret to inform you…

I care about you, but we need to break up…

It’s a good idea, but the answer is no…

Recently, I received devastating news that triggered my own silver medal blues. For a few years, I’d pursued a particular goal that promised to catalyze my career (not my book project, if you’re wondering). It took two years of effort and things were trending in a positive direction.

But then, one phone call changed everything. The person on the other end of the line told me, “Will, the project is off. I’m sorry, but it’s not going to work out.” So there I stood, dazed, clutching the silver to my chest, trying to smile from the podium but inwardly feeling like a failure.

Following each of us is a long trail of closed doors. If we’re not careful, we waste precious time looking over our shoulder, ruminating, replaying the tape, drowning in a sea of “if only’s.”

How do we grieve the future we almost had?

An unexpected answer

Last week, I was talking with a new friend named Shawn. Every once in a while, you hear a bit of wisdom you know you’ll carry for the rest of your life. This was one of those moments.

He said, “I celebrate the no’s in my life just as much as the yes’s.”

And he’s serious. Whenever he receives a tough no, rather than sulking or complaining, he takes his wife out for a fancy dinner to celebrate. It’s not a gimmick; it’s a profound formative practice—one I plan to emulate. And I’ll have plenty of chances to practice, thanks to the nature of my profession.

A few months into becoming a book editor at Penguin, I found myself emotionally drained and wasn’t sure why. I liked the work. It was challenging, yes, but in a good way, like the pleasant soreness you feel after a long hike. Eventually, I identified the issue: this was the first job I’d ever had that exposed me constantly to rejection. If you’re thinking, “Wait, aren’t editors the ones who reject authors?” Yes, but we also compete for projects alongside other publishers. There’s only ever one winner.

As I’ve written before,

“Acquiring books is not for the faint of heart. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve labored over a proposal, typed out talking points about what I appreciated about the author, hand-written personal notes, filed tedious, time-consuming paperwork, renegotiated offers, and prayed over a project—hoping to acquire it, only to hear ‘no.’”

Publishing has been a certification in rejection. If my heart isn’t in recovery, I’m consoling another editor who just got “broken up with.” And you know what? As strange as it sounds, I’ve grown to appreciate this dynamic. Before this job, I was unhealthily attached to anything I put a lot of effort into. If things didn’t pan out, I became bitter and defeated.

But I’ve realized that, while rejection stings, it slowly builds resilience. Not getting what I want, even when I try hard, inoculates me against entitlement. Pushing through mini-rejections and disappointments makes me far more emotionally buoyant. It frees me from the little hissy fits and wallowing sessions that make life miserable.

Sitting in the rubble of a crushed dream, big or small, we either become bitter people who grumble or stronger people who grow.

Spiritual Fitness

My friend Caroline refers to the process of weathering disappointment and rejection as “spiritual fitness.” I love that image. No’s are to your soul what weightlifting is to your physical body. It tears ya up real good, then puts you back together tougher. Like a fractured bone that binds itself up like cement.

As Paul puts it in Romans 5, “We glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”

Right now, I want you to think of a specific no or almost that’s haunted you, maybe for years. Got it? Now consider, what if the letdown you’ve misdiagnosed as rejection is actually part of your formation? In other words, what if the thing that fell apart is the very thing God uses to bind you back together—stronger, wiser, and freer?

If we dare to believe it, every no and almost is an invitation, as Jen Thompson writes:

Here is a rarely asked for invitation: Ask God: What are you not giving me? What spiritual gifts will I never have, what influence will I never have, what positions will I never be given, what projects will I never oversee, what will I never get to do?

Most of us would think that this would be a hope killer, but it’s the opposite! If you courageously build your hopes, dreams, ambitions, and wants in the will of God (as seen in what gifts—and the power in those gifts—you are given) and not on your own untested expectations or wants then you will have joy and rest.

God’s ‘no’ is one of his greatest gifts.

A “no” can be a gift if we learn to spot it. John Mark Comer writes, “We can think of the ‘thorns and thistles’ that fight back against our work as God’s love in disguise. His mercy incognito.”

Frederick Buechner says, “I discovered cracks in the ground of my life through which I was able to glimpse the subterranean, life-giving grace of God.” It’s not until our expectations split apart that we glimpse the underground blessing of God, flowing undetected beneath our feet.

Eventually, we all come up short. In such moments, I commend to you this prayer from John Baillie,

It is you who have given me the power to do one kind of work and have withheld the skill to do another.

It is you who hold in your hand the threads of this day’s life and you alone who know what lies before me to do or to suffer.

But because you are my Father, I am not afraid. Because it is your Spirit that stirs within my heart’s most secret room, I know that all is well. What I desire for myself I cannot achieve; but whatever you desire in me you can help me to achieve.

So be revolutionary. Be audacious enough to thank God for the no’s in your life. Consume almost’s like a buffet, knowing they will nourish your soul. Success is not necessarily winning the gold (although that’s awesome, too). It’s becoming the type of person who’s okay no matter what happens—whether the answer is now, not yet, or never.

I’m still tripping along the trail, learning to navigate the no’s and almost’s. If you are too, let’s put Shawn’s advice to the test. The next time something you want slips through your fingers, throw a little celebration.

I’m rooting for you,

Will

PS - I’ve filled 3 out of 5 1:1 coaching spots. If you’d like my help strengthening your writing and growing your Substack following, apply here.

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When I read Garrett’s feedback, I was surprised to see the words “a bit preachy” in one comment. But when I read through the highlighted section again, I saw what he meant.

No one wants to be preachy. But how do you avoid it?

In today’s guest-post, Garrett shares a lesson he recently taught me. You’ll find his solution is brilliantly simple…

Greetings, my fellow word-nerds! My name is Garrett.

The quickest way to alienate readers is by being preachy. A preachy tone isn’t always moralizing or patronizing; sometimes it’s more subtle. By “being preachy,” I mean speaking on behalf of your reader.

The reader needs a trail to follow through the woods, not an incessant tour-guide nipping at her heels. The best works of nonfiction simply lead the reader somewhere and invite her to explore. (This is true for the best sermons too. Even a preacher can be “too preachy.”)

I had the pleasure of working with Will on the sample chapters for his book proposal, and his authorial persona is certainly that of a “fellow explorer,” if you will. Yet there was a paragraph at the end of Will’s introduction that broke from his established tone. It struck me as a bit preachy. Do you agree?

Just for a second, picture the final moments of your life. Maybe you’re lying in a bed somewhere, surrounded by those dearest to you. Your best friends huddle around, laughing at old photos and retelling those stories that always come up but never get old. Your kids are there too, smiling through tears. Your heart swells with gratitude as you reflect on who they’ve become and how proud you are of them. One of your grandchildren, who just turned six, clutches your hand and talks your ear off like it’s a normal Saturday at the park.

What makes this paragraph sound preachy? If you’ll get nerdy with me for a minute, it all comes down to pronouns.

I knew this paragraph was crucial to the introduction, so the challenge was to change the tone without cutting any of the content. And my suggestion was simple: swap the pronouns. As you read Will’s revised version, do you notice a different tone?

I don’t know where I’ll spend the final moments of my life, but perhaps I’m lying in a bed somewhere, surrounded by those dearest to me. My best friends huddle around, pulling up old photos on their phones and retelling those stories that always come up but never get old. My kids are there too, smiling through tears. My heart swells with gratitude as I reflect on who they’ve become and how proud I am of them. One of my grandchildren, who just turned six, clutches my hand and talks my ear off like it’s a normal Saturday at the park.

By using “I” here, Will creates some distance between himself and his reader, and (perhaps counterintuitively) the scene becomes more relatable.

The “you” version was prescriptive and assuming. It prevented us from imagining our own final moments, whereas Will’s “I” version is an invitation to imagine and explore right alongside him.

Yes, absolutely use “you,” and speak to your reader, but never speak for your reader. Speak for yourself. Then, once your reader has warmed up to the idea, address him directly—even if that is only a couple paragraphs later, as Will so skillfully does in his introduction:

While I hope your final moments are filled with confidence and trust, you don’t have to wait until the end to experience it.

So, how can you detect a preachy tone in your own writing, and how can you fix that tone without abandoning your intended meaning? Try swapping “you” and “we” for “I” and “me.”

Happy revising,

Garrett

Final note from Will:

I receive frequent requests for chapter and book-length edits, but I’m so busy with editing at Penguin, sadly I have to turn folks away. If you’re looking for a writing coach, I highly recommend my friend Garrett Kincaid.

Check out his free mini-course on essay structure. I’ve personally taken the course and found it incredibly helpful.

Take Garrett's Free Mini Course

I’m rooting for you,

Will Parker Anderson

Ever feel like your story is too ordinary to matter? Or too messy to share?

Don’t believe it.

Your story matters. That’s why I can’t wait for you to meet my good friend Caroline Beidler.

Self-described as “a woman in recovery,” Caroline brings warmth and wisdom into every conversation. A few weeks ago, we hit record and talked all things writing. Words became a safe place for her long before she had language for everything she had lived through. And she’s here to remind you that your story is more useful than you think.

No matter where you’ve been or what you’ve experienced, your honesty makes others feel less alone.

Enjoy this conversation with my friend Caroline. I hope it gives you some courage to keep telling your story.

I’m rooting for you,
Will

PS - You can find more of Caroline’s warmth and wisdom at her Substack, Circle of Chairs:

Circle of Chairs

Addiction recovery expert and author, Caroline Beidler, MSW explores facets of recovery like mental health, supporting loved ones with addiction, trauma, and more. Pull up a chair.

By Caroline Beidler, MSW

By the end, every wall was covered with giant pieces of paper—each one mapping out parts of my story, future plans, and vision statements. It was clarifying and emboldening. And yet, as we neared the finish line, a little voice whispered, “Clarity is great, but you’ll never actually accomplish any of this. Life is too busy. You’re not disciplined or daring enough. This fire will fade.”

I didn’t voice my hesitations, but Jon said something that confronted them head-on, “Will, the greatest threat to your calling will be the soul-sucking voice of reason.”

That phrase has haunted me like the echos of a bomb blast ever since: the soul-sucking voice of reason.

Fighting the voice of reason

Just this week, the soul-sucking voice of reason has been ringing in my ears.

Sitting at my favorite coffee shop, I noticed a woman sitting outside. She was clearly suffering from a serious medical condition. One of her legs was covered in a gaping sore that was literally leaking onto the sidewalk.

My first thought was, Jesus would beeline to a woman like that. He would kneel down, pray with her, and touch her with a hand of healing and compassion. I should pray for her.

In the next moment, the voice of reason retorted, “Do you really think a miracle will break out in the middle of suburban Orange County? Lots of people have probably prayed for her already. Don’t expect so much. Just pray silently and love her from afar.”

I wish I could say that was the end of it, but yesterday the voice of reason showed up again. I listened to a podcast about friendship that genuinely moved me. Two best friends (both men) were sharing some habits that have helped them stay close through the years. Immediately I pulled out my phone and texted this to my best friend:

I’ve known my best friend Michael for over twenty years. He knows more about me than anyone. There’s no reason to feel self-conscious, and yet, when I sent the text the voice of reason popped up again, “You’re both too busy to follow through with this. Your friendship is good enough. Why bother?”

I wish that was the end of it, but it happened again today. I’m launching a new coaching arm of Writers Circle. I’ve spent months praying and planning and testing, and I genuinely think it’s my strongest offering yet. But when I woke up this morning and saw applications coming in, I heard it again, “You can’t take everyone. You’re going to disappoint people. The workload will be too much.”

In fact, the more I think about my life, I can’t think of a single area the soul-sucking voice of reason doesn’t show up. Perhaps you know what I’m talking about. Every time you try to take new ground, that still small contrarian hijacks your thoughts:

I want to stop [enter bad habit here].
You’ve always been this way. Always will be. Who are you kidding?

I want to change the culture in my workplace.
You’re not in charge. No one cares. Blend in. Just do your job.

I want to create ______ and share it with others.
Why would anyone want to see your work? You’re a wannabe. Oh, and you’re not as talented as ______.

I long for my marriage to grow stronger.
The hurt is too deep. The patterns are already set. Change isn’t possible.

I want to try ________, which I’ve never done.
Why now? What if you look stupid? Be content with your life.

I wish I had more time with friends.
You have responsibilities. Grow up.

I want to share the love of Jesus with my neighbors.
You’ll come off preachy and weird. Keep it surfacy.

The voice of reason keeps us frozen in the starting blocks, afraid to set off in case we come in last. It keeps us locked in jobs we despise, not because we’re being faithful and resilient (which is noble), but because we’re too terrified to take risks to pursue work we’re fully committed to. We stay for the paycheck, security, comfort, and predictability. We settle for the status quo. We close our hearts, dim our imaginations, and quell our passions.

Meanwhile, the fire meant to consume our hearts and fuel our joy dwindles to a flicker. One more puff of reasonableness, and it might go out forever. Which is why, as a follower of Jesus, I’m fascinated by his life. From start to finish, nothing lulled his heart to sleep. He was fully alive, fully himself, even when it cost him greatly.

Here’s how he did it.

Unreasonable Jesus

Jesus was accused of many things, including being demonic, a drunk, a glutton, and a friend of sinners. He was called a blasphemer, a deceiver, a son of Satan, and a backwater hick.

But one thing he was never accused of is being reasonable.

He touched lepers, the untouchables “reasonable” rabbis kept their distance from.

He ate with tax collectors and sinners, while reasonable leaders carefully curated their social circles.

He welcomed children into his arms to bless them, even when his reasonable disciples tried to turn them away in disgust.

He was the Good Shepherd who left the ninety-nine for the one, while the reasonable shepherds cut their losses to focus on the majority.

He chose common, uneducated men to be his disciples, while reasonable rabbis gathered the elite and intelligent.

He prayed for the well-being of his executioners and mockers while hanging on the cross, while any reasonable man would have cursed them with his dying breath.

He mesmerized multitudes with this teaching and healing, yet he refused political power, which no reasonable revolutionary would do.

He loved his enemies, forgave them, and offered them a better life.

Thank goodness Jesus was not a reasonable man.

Living an unreasonable life

Like Jesus, the life you long for will never come from being reasonable. There’s nothing sanitary or safe about the life he calls his followers to:

If you want to save your life, lose it.
If you want to be first, put yourself last.
If you want to become great, become a servant.
If you want to be exalted, humble yourself.
If you want to receive, give.
If you want treasure, give it away.
If you want to rule, wash feet.

The soul-sucking voice of reason wants you to live an easy life, not a great one. Let Jesus be your vision of unreasonable hospitality. Unreasonable compassion. Unreasonable power.

Audit the soundtrack humming in the background of your life. Have you been listening to the soul-sucking voice of reason? If so, call it out. Shut it down. Then go pray with the woman at the coffee shop. Write the chapter. Form the LLC. Call up the friend you hurt, or who hurt you. Invite your neighbor over for a meal—inside your house, where it’s uncomfortable and vulnerable. Release the song you’ve been working on for two years.

Imagine what could happen if you chose to live an unreasonable life. This is the life you and I were built for.

I’m rooting for you,

Will

PS - For a short time, doors are open to work with me 1:1. If you’d like help growing your writing chops and your Substack following, apply here.

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Hey friends,

Calling all writers who want to grow their chops and their Substack following. I don’t do this often, but I’m opening up three spots for 1:1 Substack coaching.

How it works

This is my highest level of coaching. Each month, you send me one post of 1,000 words or less, and I give it my full editorial attention: title, subject line, opening, structure, big idea, conclusion, and ideas for Notes. You’ll receive an in-depth feedback video and a document with comments and suggested edits.

It’s the exact process I use with my authors at Penguin.

Who it’s for

This is for Substack writers—or bloggers—who are already writing at least one post a month and are eager, teachable, & joyful learners. Most writers try to grow by doing more: posting more, tweaking more, testing more, guessing more. And yes, consistency matters. But in my experience, 1:1 feedback is the best way to grow.

Even as a senior editor, I hire my own writing coach. I believe in it that much. The moment you invite someone else in—someone who can read deeply, name what’s working, spot what’s missing, and give you specific, actionable feedback—your writing will never be the same.

I want to help you write better. I also want to help you increase engagement on your posts and attract more subscribers:

I’m keeping this small on purpose. I’m only accepting 3 more writers, and there’s already more than 20 applicants. I’ll review applications over the next two weeks, then doors will close.

I’m rooting for you,
Will

Apply now

Except for Katie.

She smirked, “You?”

She eyed me the way people look at a twentysomething who drops out of college to pursue an acting career in Hollywood. Sure kid, good luck.

Nonetheless, I bought a mixer on OfferUp and booked my first gig at a friend’s birthday party. He paid me $100. I had to borrow speakers and a folding table. During the party, a guy walked up and requested a song I didn’t have. A DJ without a song is like a taco guy without tortillas. This was pre-Spotify, so there was nothing I could do. After some awkward silence, he shuffled away. So there I stood, fiddling with my new mixer, all alone. No one danced the entire night. It was a casual party of twenty people, but still, an empty dance floor isn’t good for any DJ’s confidence.

I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Katie was right. Perhaps I wasn’t cut out for this.

There’s always a Katie

Most of us have something we want to try but feel embarrassed to say out loud. It could be as simple as a hobby or as life-changing as a career pivot.

The first time you speak your ambition out loud, it feels like an audition. What will your friends and family say? You scoop up every ounce of courage and let the words spill out. Then you wait.

Few moments affect us more deeply than the few seconds after sharing a dream with those we hope will receive it. In those tiny windows of time, dreams are either kindled or extinguished. Try as we might to slip past the naysayers, there’s usually one person whose careless or critical words smash our spirits like a hammer.

“Wait, you? Seriously?”

“But you’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Are you sure you really want to try that?”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“Why now?”

It’s so deflating. We imagine that great ideas deserve a supportive hurrah, or at least a casual stamp of approval, but this ignores an immutable law of the universe:

Every dream worth chasing comes with a Katie.

The first thing to say is: Katie is not the enemy. She usually means well, but without realizing it, she’s so tied to who you’ve been that she can’t see who you’re becoming. She’s not heartless; she simply lacks vision. And believe it or not, her doubt is a positive sign you’re attempting something great. Something that stretches you. Something that requires risk and raises the stakes. Growth causes disruption, and every time you shake off the dust of apathy, someone you love will sneeze and complain.

If no one’s skeptical of what you’re attempting, your dream isn’t big enough. If Katie doesn’t raise her eyebrows, you’ve settled for someone else’s script instead of the one you were created for. God didn’t create us to coast along, placid and uninspired. He built us for wonder and awe. Even a simple, quiet, faithful life is stuffed with adventure because in God’s kingdom there are no little people and no little places. From the smallest hobbies to the most heroic acts, following Jesus turns ordinary pursuits into holy encounters.

God doesn’t want you to play it safe. He wants you to come fully alive.

The reality is, most of the time we’re so terrified of what Katie will say, we water down our dreams and talk ourselves out of the leap our hearts long for. As nurse Bronnie Ware pointed out, one of the greatest regrets of people on their deathbed is, “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”

A life of catering to critics ends in regret. But another life is possible—one where you lean into the unknown, embrace the discomfort of risk, look silly, and trust the Lord to lead you. When I think back on my first DJ gig, standing awkwardly by myself in that backyard, I’m proud of that guy. Because even though Katie thought I was crazy, she was wrong.

You’re not crazy

A few months after that party, I met up with an engaged couple who were considering me as a wedding DJ. After guiding them through the planning process as if I’d done it a hundred times (I hadn’t, it was the first time), they hired me on the spot. Next thing I knew I was loading $3,000 worth of speakers, lights, and turntables into my Nissan Versa, setting up under a huge tent on a ranch in Flagstaff, Arizona, telling 300 guests how to enter the buffet line.

That night, the dance floor was packed. Over the next decade, I DJ’d over fifty weddings. I ate filet mignon at wineries and ranches up and down the California coast. I DJ’d school dances and assemblies and some of my best friends’ weddings. In our first years of marriage, it helped pay the bills. Plus, the wide-eyed reaction when I told people I was a DJ and a pastor was priceless. It was one of the best decisions of my twenties.

So you’re not crazy for refusing to settle for the status quo. Whatever is in your heart to build or try, big or small, there will be a Katie. Rather than resenting her as a roadblock, consider her a signpost—an affirmation that you’re on the right track.

Who knows, someday you might see Katie out there on the dance floor, having the time of her life to your DJ set. She probably won’t shoot you a knowing glance that says, “Hey, I take it back. You’re great at this.” But you’ll know. And rather than rubbing her face in it, seeing your idea bring her joy will be recompense enough.

I’m rooting for you,

Will

PS - I rarely open up coaching spots, but if you’d like to join the waiting list to work with me 1:1 to grow your writing chops and your Substack following, please apply here.

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We do not have to be doing all the time to be.
In fact, if we are doing all the time, we are not being.
—Madeleine L’Engle

I’m sitting in a quaint courtyard at an Airbnb just off State Street in Santa Barbara, California. It’s 7am. Emily’s still sleeping (a rare gift for a mother of three young kids), so I grab my laptop, head outside, and try to write. My mind is freshest in the morning and life feels ripe with possibility.

But despite my charming surroundings, I’m stuck. It’s been over two months since my last newsletter—an intentional break to focus on my book, travel, family, and some health issues. I should have lots of ideas after taking time off, I think, but instead I’m caught in a creative cul-de-sac, cycling through topics that don’t excite me. There’s no spark. I’m getting nowhere.

This is when my thoughts get darker.

If I’m struggling this much to write a single newsletter issue, was I ever good at this to begin with? Does anyone care about this newsletter anymore? Why did I let it go dormant this long? Someone with more grit would have kept it going.

I’ve always struggled with discipline and consistency. When I started my newsletter two years ago, I was nervous about trying to publish something every week. I managed to write over 100 newsletters and produce 54 podcast episodes without missing a beat (besides a few planned breaks here and there). Kind readers sent me messages like “I don’t know how you produce so much content” and “I’m impressed by your healthy grind,” and it spurred me on.

Consistency is satisfying. It’s rewarding to push through resistance and do whatever it takes to ship something you’re proud of. When you go hard after a goal—whether it’s professional or personal—it feels good to be on a streak. This is what I call ‘positive momentum.’ It’s the compounding ROI of slowly building a body of work, which at first feels like pushing a huge boulder up a hill. However, the more you stay with it, the more momentum you build, until the boulder starts rolling faster with the same amount of effort.

Positive momentum is a wonderful feeling. But lately, I’ve experienced the opposite.

Breaking the streak

Sitting there in Santa Barbara, the momentum I’d worked so hard to build seemed to disappear. Even though I planned my newsletter hiatus to free up creative bandwidth for my book, I still felt guilty about it. Suddenly, everywhere I looked I saw someone being more consistent, producing more content, receiving more engagement. I was oozing along like molasses in a world of meteors, wondering if it was worth it to keep going.

Have you ever felt this?

Eventually, we all break the streak. Life happens, you lose steam, get distracted, get sick, or just need a break. We dig ourselves into a mental hole that feels impossible to climb out of. If you let it, negative momentum will bully you into self-doubt. What’s helped me hasn’t been positive self-talk or doubling my efforts to try to make up for lost time.

What’s helped me most is simply giving myself permission to pause.

The freeze

Even Duolingo, one of the most successful apps to use the streak feature, acknowledges our need for breaks. They have a feature called the “streak freeze” which allows you to hit pause on learning for a day. The company says,

Having this type of leeway actually helps people stay persistent. Offering people a little “slack” as they pursue their goals can be more motivating than a rigid set of rules.

Rightfully so, we obsess over consistency. It’s the “key to creativity” as they say. And I agree. But while consistency makes creativity possible, flexibility makes creativity sustainable. A stick that’s too rigid will snap. So it is with our lives, our creative work, everything.

Recently I was part of a discussion about an author’s upcoming sabbatical. His plan was to pause all professional pursuits. Specifically, we were discussing whether he should let his weekly newsletter go dormant for several months or schedule “replays” of his previous issues to avoid losing audience engagement. This author works hard, is a content machine, gets a few hours of sleep each night, and does it all with contagious joy and puzzling energy.

Unexpectedly, someone asked me, “Will, what do you think?” All eyes were on me.

I felt torn, caught between the strategic answer (keep publishing) and my gut answer (let it rest). I said something like, “A world where it’s not possible to take breaks scares me.”

And it does, even though I’m often the very person beating myself up whenever my consistency wanes. I wanted to give the author permission to pause. I want that for myself. I want that for you.

If you’re driven and passionate, chances are you need someone to give you permission to pause. So if you’ll accept it, this is your permission slip. Every once in a while, cut yourself a little slack. Let the boulder sit there for a while.

If God has lit a fire in you to make this thing, to do this thing, to pursue this thing… giving yourself permission to pause will not derail your calling. And even when it happens unexpectedly and it feels like failure, it’s normal. If you’re so in love with this thing, so caught up in wonder about its possibilities and the joy it brings you and others, don’t assume that flexibility is the enemy of consistency. Let them mingle, then watch how you return to the work renewed and determined.

I’m rooting for you.

Will

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Here are 39 things I know on my 39th birthday.

1. I know that I know less about God than I thought I did ten years ago (he is beyond me), and mysteriously, I know more of him than I did ten years ago (he is with me). I think this is how it’s meant to be.

2. I know that hosting people in your home is rarely convenient, especially when you make it a weekly rhythm, but few things quell the isolation of modern life like filling your home with noise, mess, laughter, and conversation.

3. I know that personal growth doesn’t just happen; it must be pursued. For the first time, I invested in a leadership coach this year. There are seasons for organic, whoever’s-in-your-life mentorship, but this was a season of seeking out more intentional mentorship, and I’m glad I did. It’s always worth asking, What’s making me stagnant? Once you know, address it. Stir the waters.

4. I know that our house bears the fingerprints of friends and family who have offered their time and skills generously. I’m grateful for those who, over the past six years, helped me install lighting, nail in baseboards, install a garbage disposal, put in sprinklers, solder pipes, lay down patio pavers, tamper dirt, build garden boxes, weld our gate back together, scrape off five decades of wallpaper, hang drywall, paint walls and ceilings, and convert one corner of my garage into a workable office. Without them, this house wouldn’t be what it is.

5. I know that every season holds unique reasons to hide our sin, but it’s always worth it to live out in the open. To confess to friends. Secrets lose their power in the light. It’s tempting to believe we should be further along, that we shouldn’t still struggle with ______ after all this time. However, the only way to beat shame is to be fully known and loved anyway.

6. I know that deep friendship is not a social luxury, it’s a spiritual necessity. As Justin Earley says, “The goal of modern American life is to become busier, wealthier people who used to have friends.” This year I upped my effort to spend time with my closest friends more regularly. As J.C. Ryle said, “Friendship halves our troubles—and doubles our joys.”

7. I know that my greatest impact does not come from the paycheck I earn, the talents I possess, or the reputation I build. My greatest impact comes from choosing to be fully present with those I love. I’m learning that being present means doing less. Being present sometimes means making less money. Being present means setting boundaries and living within healthy rhythms.

8. I know that our God-given calling is not a predictable, straight line. It’s a zigzag of surprises. It’s sneaky like a fox. It dawns on us over time and shifts with the seasons. It chooses us just as much as we choose it.

9. I know that I still don’t like sushi. I’m the guy ordering California rolls and edamame. Hard pass on the tuna rolls with eel sauce (I mean, does that really sound appetizing?!)

10. I know that, increasingly, I find myself leaving the house without my phone—on walks, at lunch meetings, at the park with the kids. And it brings such relief. I’m terrified of becoming another expressionless zombie, face buried in some dopamine-delivering triviality that pretends to be urgent. These days I find myself needing more time away to feel sane, clear-headed, and alive.

11. I know that there’s a big difference between being around someone and being with them. This is especially true with your spouse. Without realizing it, married life can slowly turn best friends and lovers into coworkers, chaperones, event coordinators, and eventually, strangers. How to fight the slow creep of disconnection? With long hugs while kid chaos ensues around us, date nights, eye contact, and saying the simple things often, like “I love you” or “I’m grateful for you.”

12. I know that committing to and serving a local church over many years is a great decision. Indeed, it’s costly to give up weekends and other things we could do, but we gain so much more in return. To sing in unison (quite powerful in a disembodied, individualized age), to serve in community, to build friendships with multiple generations—from students to retirees, to pray for others and be prayed for, to be reminded of the good, true, and beautiful, to watch your kids receiving love from other adults… it’s all a human, messy, wonderful, irreplaceable gift.

13. I know that it’s good for my soul to do one hard or uncomfortable thing every day. It could be a reluctant apology when my pride resists it, striking up a conversation with the grocery worker when I’m not feeling talkative, tackling a work project I’ve been dreading, or slowing down to teach my children something when I simply want to bark orders or do it myself. Resilience is only gained by making a habit of hard.

14. I know that generic questions produce shallow answers and trivial conversations, but thoughtful questions open the door for deeper connection. Going deeper is low-hanging fruit that few of us reach for. Before any meaningful interaction, I think of 1-2 questions to have on hand. I keep a list of questions and update it often. A simple place to start: What has been the best part of your day? (Instead of simply “How are you?” Or “What’s new?”)

15. I know that, as Ann Lamott said, most first drafts are shi**ty. Knowing it up front helps you push through and get to the good stuff. The trick is to place your rear in the chair and get going.

16. I know that calling is a plural word, not a singular one. We have many callings. Some of mine include being a follower of Jesus, father, husband, brother, son, editor, neighbor, writer, and friend. Why this matters? Our misc. callings will always clash and compete. While tending to one, we will feel we’re neglecting the others. That’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up. Just do the next right thing.

17. I know that Mexican food is one of God’s greatest gifts to the world. This goes for Tex Mex, authentic taquerias, and everything in between. Here for all of it.

18. I know that for me the perfect day involves reading a good book, spending time in nature, or live music.

19. I know that the 15 pounds of lean muscle I’ve been trying to gain for the past twenty years continues to evade me. Maybe it’s a late thirties shift, but working out is more about longevity than looks these days.

20. I know that life is far more miraculous than we give it credit for. Even mundane moments are staggeringly complex and holy. Two facts that wowed me this year: 1) The number of molecules involved in just a single breath is somewhere around twenty-five sextillion molecules… in each breath you inhale at least one molecule from every single person who has ever lived. 2) We’re currently spinning at 1,000 miles per hour on a planet hurtling through space at 67,000 miles per hour.

21. I know that writing is hard. It’s about routine, not emotions. Two ways to improve: 1) Write, write, write. Rinse and repeat. 2) Get feedback from better writers. We know this, but how many of us do it?

22. I know that being responsible is different from being reasonable. I never want to make decisions out of fear instead of faith. I never want to cower before What if’s. I would rather whole hurt than half try.

23. I know that these two questions, which I stole from a mentor, provide courage when I’m considering something risky: 1) What’s the worst that can happen? 2) Can I handle that? If the answer to the second question is yes, onward. If it’s no, I stop waffling and just move on.

24. I know that we’re so wired to earn affection and attention that the best thing we can do is affirm those we love unprompted. You don’t need an occasion for affirmation. God loves us because he loves us because he loves us. To receive this is the best gift we can accept. To give others this is the best gift we can offer.

25. I know that being intentional with others takes courage every time. It takes guts to interrupt a meal to give a toast. Or to push through the awkwardness of going around the table to affirm someone on their birthday. Or to tell your spouse they’re attractive even though you had an argument that morning. Or to ask a friend about those parts of their life they’ve been hiding. When you initiate, you make love more possible for someone else. This is the gospel: God goes first. He pursues us. We love him because he first loved us.—1 John 4:19

26. I know a great mantra for friendship is “Show up, speak up, keep up.”

27. I know that this quote from George Eliot has haunted me ever since I heard it: “When death, the great reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.” Anger is so easy to misuse. It feels good to let it rip in the name of agency or justice, but careless words echo miserably through decades. I want to limit my soundtrack of regret as much as possible.

28. I know that when people mean you ill, when they plot against you and slander you behind your back, the best course of action is to ignore them. (Prov. 20:22: Do not say, ‘I will repay evil’; wait for the Lord, and he will deliver you.)

29. I know that I don’t want to spend my forties reminiscing and rehashing my twenties and thirties as the good ol’ days. I want to make new memories, have new adventures, and take new risks. I like Clint Eastwood’s advice when someone asked him how he keeps creating and dreaming even at age 88: “I just get up every morning and go out, and I don’t let the old man in.” That’s it. Don’t let the old man in. Becoming old is inevitable; acting old is a choice.

30. I know that if I live to be eighty, half of my life is already behind me. This isn’t something to run from; it’s something to dwell on. It adds urgency to the things that matter most.

31. I know that the only way to know, deep down, you’re okay is when people reject you. It’s a rough learning curve, to be sure, but when you process the hurt with God and those who love you, you emerge a little sturdier and wiser. A little more free from the shackles of people pleasing.

32. I know that it’s unhealthy to ignore death. Our bodies and lives are terrifying fragile. This year I was diagnosed with a autoimmune condition that makes sitting, standing, and working out painful and fatiguing. I had a spinal tap, two ER visits, met with two different neurologists, had several ultrasounds, MRIs, and CT scans, rounds of bloodwork, an EMG test, and spent several months awaiting results that ranged in my fearful imagination from life-altering to life-ending. By God’s grace, I’m still standing, still thriving, just with a bit more limitation and discomfort than I prefer.

33. I know that it’s always good to pray because God loves us dearly. And yet, it’s also good to accept his answer, even when it’s not what we prayed for. Charles Spurgeon wrote, “My dear friend, sometimes God works a greater wonder when he sustains people in trouble than by delivering them. To let the bush burn with fire and not be consumed is a greater thing than quenching the flame and saving the bush.”

34. I know that when life is hard, these two questions have helped me immensely: 1) What does God want to work out of me? 2) What does God want to work into me? In pain, purpose helps produce perseverance.

35. I know that some of the most sacred moments happen two inches from my kids’ faces, when we’re laying in bed, eye to eye, or I’m holding one of them close, and they tell me a story or ask me a question. As a general rule, life is richer when there’s someone you can talk to from two inches away without it being weird.

36. I know that a short hand-written note is increasingly sacred in a world of texts, screens, and AI summaries. We wield great power with a pen in our hand and a good word to share. This year I sent a note to a friend whose art studio burned to the ground, a neighbor who lost his wife, a family member who lost his job, and coworkers who received promotions. I also reflected on two of the best letters I’ve ever received.

37. I know that sticking with things is costly up front but pays dividends over the long haul. It you want to be happy, work at it. Stay. Be faithful. Endure the mundane. This goes for your sex life, your faith, your writing, your parenting—anything and everything.

38. I know that contentment is less about killing your desires and more about savoring your surroundings.

39. I know that most of the time we don’t need a direct word from God to live the life he’s called us to. Too many of us carry guilt and insecurity, like maybe we’ve let him down so he’s gone quiet. Silence is not punishment; it’s an invitation to draw nearer and make decisions out of trust.

Grateful for the time I’ve been given. Here’s to the next lap around the sun.

Will

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In this episode:

I share about hitting a wall with my book idea, the temptation to pivot to another topic, and the crucial conversation with my agent who talked me off the ledge—encouraging me to keep at it.

This episode will remind you that any idea worth it’s weight comes through struggle, not genius. Every thoughtful book is a labor of love. Inspiration is the starting line, but completion is an act of obedience.

We wrestle, question, write lots of bad sentences, and eventually—painfully—something of beauty and truth emerges.

Enjoy the episode,
Will

PS - If you’re not interested in this podcast, rest assured, my free newsletter will continue to release every Saturday. For those who want to come along for the whole writing journey, join us.

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If you make it to eighty, you’ll have spoken approximately 500 million words in your lifetime, give or take.

That’s nearly half a billion opportunities to build up, tear down, persuade, comfort, confess, question, explain, and affirm. Now add to that every word you write down, and the number gets bigger.

At the end of our days, if we could play back everything we’ve said and written, we’d hear careless words, hopeful words, fearful words, inspiring words, loving words, spiteful words—all colliding into the soundtrack of our lives.

But what will be your best words?

What phrases will you be most proud of? What sentences will do the most good? What words, though small and momentary, will echo into eternity?

It’s impossible to predict, although I have a hunch our best words won’t be those we publish, speak from a stage, or post on social media. Our best words won’t be scripted or outlined, edited or polished.

Our best words will catch us, and the world, by surprise.

Two notes

Two pieces of writing that have most shaped my life were not bestselling books or Pulitzer winners—they were two hand-written notes.

One was from an elderly man named Jerry who sang bass in the church choir (he was, in fact, the only bass in the choir, so hard to miss). To this day, I don’t know much about Jerry. He was a man with a quiet authority, who read something I wrote as a sixth grader and decided to write me a letter.

Honestly, I don’t remember much about the actual wording of his note, but the message got through. It said something like:

Will, I read your piece in the church newsletter. Wow. Surely God has some kind of leadership in store for you. I’m sure of it. Keep on writing and watch what the Lord can do with your gift.

Short. Simple. Incredibly kind. I may be biased, but those are some of Jerry’s best words. I’m guessing he never thought about that note again after sending it off. He’d likely be shocked to know twenty years later I’m still thinking about it. Sadly, I lost that note somewhere along the way, but in a deeper sense, I still carry it with me.

Last words

The second most impactful piece of writing I’ve ever read was only nine words: ”Just have to hold on until Will gets home.”

It was one sentence, scrawled by my mother in a small spiral notebook during her last 48 hours in the ICU. That notebook was a makeshift way to communicate, since it was hard for her weak voice to project past the tubes and oxygen mask and chirping machinery. One short phrase, written by a mother clinging dearly to life until her son could fly home from college to say goodbye, will stay with me forever.*

Your best words

How will you steward your 500 million chances to speak life into others?

You never know which phrases will stick to someone’s soul. You never know what prayers whispered over your kids will follow them all the days of their lives. You never know what passing compliment will restore someone’s confidence. You never know what honest rebuke will jolt someone out of destructive behavior. You never know how a hand-written note will serve as a compass for someone searching for their calling, or balm on the wound of discouragement.

We don’t know when our best words will spill out. That’s okay. We can’t manufacture them; we can only be intentional. We can form the habit of speaking aloud what lovers assume but never say, what parents think but don’t pronounce as blessing, what friends intuit but don’t look each other in the eye to declare.

We can speak up, trusting our best words to choose us as much as we choose them.

I’m rooting for you,

Will

*If you want to read the full story about my mom, here it is.

PS - If you need help developing a book idea, check out my book proposal course.

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Enjoy!
Will

For anyone unfamiliar with you and KidLit Lab, tell us a bit about yourself!

Absolutely! My name is Laura Wifler and I’m a poet, educator, and writer based in central Iowa. I’m a person that likes to dabble in a lot of different things, but writing is consistently my primary heartbeat.

I’m the author of 7 books, soon to be 8 (My first poetry book comes out in September 2026!) and I write adult nonfiction, poetry, and children’s picture books. Some of my books include (the creatively titled), “Risen Motherhood” book, as well as “Any Time, Any Place, Any Prayer,” and “Like Me,” for kids.

While I love writing for all types of audiences, children’s books will forever hold a special place in my heart. I think it’s because I love the ability a children’s book has for spiritual formation and development—in both adults and kids. Plus, the primary audience is pretty cute.

Because I want to see more incredible books in the world, I created The KidLit Lab, where I help aspiring and published authors write books children will read again and again from a Christian perspective. This includes weekly writing and publishing tips, 1:1 coaching, and courses and resources like this one on how to write a publishing-ready children’s book manuscript, and this list of 50+ places to find an illustrator for a self-published book.

Check out the KidLit Lab

What’s a misconception writers have about what an author actually does—and what the job is really like day to day?

I think a lot of people picture a very idealized version of the writing life for a full-time author. Something to the effect of: Home all day, sitting at a large oak desk with their coffee, tapping away at the keyboard while the ideas flow. And while that is part of the writer’s life (although I sit at my kitchen table as I don’t have a home office), it’s more like being an entrepreneur. My days are filled with meetings, making website updates, crafting marketing copy, troubleshooting tech issues, and balancing my books.

Somedays I don’t even do any writing on my actual projects! While there are certainly days where I’m cozied up with my laptop, working on a project, most days are filled with a lot of different things to keep everything moving and organized.

You write in a variety of genres, from children’s books to adult nonfiction to poetry. What is one piece of wisdom you can offer about each genre?

Uffda. This is a great question. Here’s a stab:

• Adult nonfiction: Don’t just write something, live it. It’s easy to riff on something while standing in your tall ivory tower; it’s much harder to be the peasant below on the ground doing the work. Before you type it, live it. It will change your message and make it more effective.

• Children’s books: Children are being formed by stories every day. What they read shapes what they believe is possible in the world. So give them something beautiful to believe in, yes. But also be sure that it is true. For what is most beautiful is also most true.

• Poetry: Not everyone will love what you write. For the same reason someone loves a piece, another loathes it. For each creative choice, there will be those that resonate with it and those that reject it. The goal then for the poet, is to not worry about taste, but instead write something that you love and can stand behind. Write what is urgent and chewy and completely you.

For a nonfiction writer who dreams of writing a kids book but feels intimidated, where should they start?

My top advice is always just to start! Try your hand at writing a story under 1,000 words and see how it goes. (It’s probably harder than you think!) From there, read lots of children’s picture books. You’d be surprised how many people tell me they want to write kid’s books but haven’t picked one up in years. Go read the books for fun. Go read them to study the craft.

Where do adult nonfiction writers tend to struggle when they move toward kidlit—what skills have to get built or rebuilt?

Often I see long-form writers struggle with not knowing how to “show” rather than tell in a children’s book. You have to imagine the illustrations and think through what can be shown in the picture rather than read, even if it feels helpful or beautiful. While this sounds easy, it often takes several passes through a manuscript to find areas you can tighten and darlings you can kill. It’s not for the faint of heart.

What’s one thing about writing kids books few people know—or what’s a false assumption they commonly get wrong?

That it’s easy. It reminds me of how I used to think about abstract art. As a child my dad was an artist in paint and ceramics. He would take our family to all these museums for his shows and I would look up at the big pieces of modern art on the walls and think, “I can do that, easy.” Then I would go out in his studio to attempt it and utterly fail.

This is a lot like kidlit. It looks fairly easy to write a solid draft and put together a book, but in reality it takes a lot of time, creativity, and skill. Especially if you’re trying to write a book that’s theologically true. My first children’s book was a theological primer on prayer and is 954 words. I honestly think it would have been easier to write a short book then to be so limited by word count!

You’ve built a thriving platform on Instagram and Substack, and of course, this is a major challenge for every writer. What are some best practices you’ve learned about building an engaged audience?

I love this question. I see marketing as stewardship of our calling as writers so this is fun!

Okay, first thing: Forget the rules and be you. I know everyone says a version of that but it’s true. In an age of AI, what will stick out? Whatever it is that makes you weird. Lean into your weird art as hard as you can and you’ll find your people.

Second thing: Remember the rules. There are very real strategies and tools for growth out there that you can employ. Like right now? Instagram is prioritizing carousels, hard hooks, and time on the actual post/reel. Substack loves snappy headlines, video and audio content, and when you comment on other’s notes and posts.

Try to be at least slightly aware of “what’s working,” and then decide if you’re going to play into that or not. If you do, don’t be ashamed. Own it. Nobody’s paying that close of attention anyway. If you don’t, don’t be mad if you’re not growing as fast as you want to. Marketing or “growth strategies” exist for a reason. You don’t have to do them (I personally like to cherry pick), but then don’t complain if things are not going the way you want.

One final tip: Have you heard of #buildinginpublic? If not, it’s the idea of founders building their business in public and they share it all. Wins. Failures. Everything. In a way, we’re all #buildinginpublic on these platforms, and with how fast everything is moving, frequent pivots are common. I like to create my art exactly as I would normally, then think about how I can layer in some of the strategies that are “working” right now. If it flops, I see it as information, not failure. I remind myself that 1) I can make a change if I want, or 2) I can accept that I like what I’m doing, I don’t want to change, and therefore I’m okay with the results.

As a Christian, my identity is not rooted in how my content performs or the size of my community. It’s rooted in Christ—so there’s room to play, change, win, and fail—without fear.

For an adult nonfiction writer who’s curious but unsure, what’s one practical, low-risk next step they can take in the next 30 days to test whether they should pursue an children’s book?

Most nonfiction book ideas can pivot to children’s books with the right scaffolding. Since it’s pretty low-risk to start writing, take your current book idea and start building out what it might look like as a kid’s book. Write down the transformation you want your reader to take away: That they can talk to God anytime, anywhere? That people matter more than things? That all people have dignity?

Then start building out the bones: What might make it interesting or unexpected for the reader? Putting the characters on the moon? Creating a sweet but sassy main character? How can you surprise or delight them? Writing in rhyme? Adding an adorable but naughty puppy to the illustrations?

Once you start thinking creatively in the kidlit genre it’s hard to stop. And I hope you don’t! If you have a children’s book in you, come on over to The KidLit Lab and we’ll write together.

As Will likes to say, “I’m rooting for you, too.”

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We know this, so we use phrases that give them permission, like:

• “Just be honest”

• “I won’t be offended”

• “Tell me what you really think”

But deep down, we know these phrases are useless. They don’t remove the pressure.

Thankfully, there’s a better way to test your ideas. I’ve been using it a ton as I interview folks for the book I’m working on right now.

Let me tell you about “The Mom Test”…

The Mom Test

This strategy comes from a fantastic book by Rob Fitzpatrick, and here’s the premise:

Typically, moms are our biggest fans. They think we can do anything, and we love them for it (yes, I know this is a stereotype and our stories vary, but roll with me for a moment).

The mom test offers a way to get feedback so objectively, even your own mama won’t tiptoe around your feelings.

Quite a promise, right?

The Mom Test has 3 simple rules:

1. Talk about their life instead of your idea.

2. Ask about specifics in the past instead of opinions about the future.

3. Talk less and listen more.

Let’s break it down.

Rule #1: Talk about their life instead of your idea.

Our typical approach is “Hey, I’m writing about ________. What do you think? Does it make sense? Is there a market for this?”

This method practically guarantees you won’t get an honest response. So here’s the catch: Don’t even tell them you have an idea.

It sounds strange, I know. How do you get feedback on an idea if you never mention you have one?

The trick is to say something like, “Hey, I’ve been thinking a lot about [your topic]. Can I ask you some questions about your experience with that?”

Then, when you chat, make the whole conversation about them. Since you know what you’re writing about, tailor your questions accordingly. They’ll feel zero pressure to affirm your idea. Plus they’ll feel valued because you’re asking them to share about their life (which people rarely do). People love talking about themselves.

It’s a win for them and a win for you.

And if they ask you a direct question about why you’re asking, give a vague answer and gently redirect the conversation back to them. This isn’t to be shifty or deceptive. It’s simply the only way to keep them honest and pressure-free. The goal of these conversations isn’t to share about your idea; it’s for them to tell you about their life. This honors them and provides better intel about your topic.

Rule #2: Ask about specifics in the past instead of opinions about the future.

Nonfiction writers must become avid students of their reader’s problems. Where do they feel stuck or frustrated as it relates to your topic?

Too often, writers pitch their pre-determined solution, then ask, “Would you try this?” or “Does that sound reasonable?”

It’s easy for them to say yes (again, to make you happy), but who’s to say they really would? Not helpful.

Instead, ask them about their habits.

What have they already tried?

What are they doing now to solve the problem?

You’re after history, not theory. This is valuable for two reasons:

1. First, if they’ve done nothing, they don’t see it as a big problem.
   
   If the problem isn’t urgent enough that readers are actively seeking a remedy, you need to dig deeper or pivot to a different topic. If you have to persuade readers that a problem is serious, you’ve already lost.
   

2. Asking them what they’ve already tried sharpens your solution.
   
   Let’s say you have a proposed solution in mind, but several people say they’ve already tried that and it didn’t work. Well, now you can adjust your solution. Or pivot to something better. Instead of assuming readers will love your solution, have a few conversations and adjust it so it’s more realistic and less predictable.

And lastly…

Rule # 3: Talk less and listen more.

It’s easy to violate this rule because you’ve been studying your topic, so you have lots of thoughts. Passion produces gab. Resist that temptation.

Instead, listen for specific phrases. Words you wouldn’t think to use. Angles you wouldn’t see on your own. Sprinkle those insights into your writing. The more your readers see their world in your words, the more invested they’ll be.

Writing is listening

The Mom Test has transformed the way I test out ideas. Good writing comes from deep listening. So get out there and talk to folks.

And thankfully, you’ll never have to utter those dreaded words again: Please, just be honest. Here’s to less pressure, better conversations, and richer writing.

I’m rooting for you,

—Will

👉 Become a paid subscriber today and get access to ‘Writing with Will”, a behind-the-scenes podcast where I document in real-time the process of writing and publishing my first book. You can sample the first episode here.

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The words of the reckless pierce like swords, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.

—Proverbs 12:18

“If that’s the best you can do, find another vocation.”

His words hit me like a sucker punch. I was sitting in the office of a pastor who was a decade or so older than me, doing my best to look calm and receptive even though I was crumbling inside. I’d applied for a youth position, and as part of the interview process, he invited me to speak to middle school students at the church over the weekend.

For several days, we shared meals and talked about my passions and goals. We worked on my message together. Fresh out of college, this was one of the biggest “go for it” moments of my life, and over the weekend it started to feel like this pastor was warming up to me.

But I was wrong.

At the end of my two-day audition, he invited me back to his office, where he repeated back little phrases I’d shared during our meals together. My openness to multiple career paths was a big red flag: he felt I needed to be “all-in” or “not in at all.” Next he critiqued my message. Though acknowledging I may be “new” at this, he let me know he was unimpressed with my ability.

That’s when he delivered the sentence that has echoed in my head for the past fifteen years:

If that’s the best you can do…

A crushing word

Isn’t that remarkable? Seven words, spoken in less than five seconds, have dogged me for almost two decades. I know I’m not alone.

What’s the sentence or phrase that once crushed you? Say the words out loud, right now. Like shrapnel, those words have embedded themselves in your consciousness, slowly cutting you up every time you try to live out your God-given calling.

Nobody thinks you’re pretty.
You’re irresponsible.
You’re weak.
No one wants to be your friend.
Your not very smart.
You’re not very likable.
You’re not good at anything.

Many authors have confided in me that, at one point, someone told them they were a terrible writer. No matter how many book deals they’re offered, that old wound still stings.

Living to prove them wrong

A few years ago, I talked with someone who built a very successful business over several decades. I asked him about the vision that’s sustained him through the ups and downs of building a business. What’s kept him going?

His answer stunned me. Early in his career, he was suddenly laid off by his company. Dazed and angry, he launched his own business and became a competitor.

He said, “I just wanted to prove them wrong. That’s always been the goal.”

Those words still haunt me. Without realizing it, we devote years of toil and effort trying to justify our existence to people who couldn’t care less. It’s a fool’s errand, as Justin Welsh writes, “The critic is long gone. They found someone else to tell what’s wrong with their work. They’re not waiting around to see if you fixed what they complained about.”

Sometimes a harsh word can light a fire in you, and that’s fine to a point, but be careful… before you know it, that tiny spark will slowly consume you. You’ll look back and realize you slaved away for decades to prove yourself, but no amount of success or approval will heal the wound within.

None of us can remove the initial blow. But slowly, piece by piece, we can remove the shrapnel. But how?

The last word

Proverbs 12:18 says that reckless words cut like a sword, but on the flipside, wise words bring healing. The question is, which type of words get the last word?

In a 1907 interview, the famous inventor Thomas Edison recounted a moment that forever changed his childhood…

One day I overheard the teacher tell the inspector that I was “addled” and it would not be worthwhile keeping me in school any longer. I was so hurt by this last straw that I burst out crying and went home and told my mother about it.

Then I found out what a good thing a good mother is. She came out as my strong defender. Mother love was aroused, mother pride wounded to the quick.

She brought me back to the school and angrily told the teacher that he didn’t know what he was talking about, that I had more brains than he himself, and a lot more talk like that.

She was the most enthusiastic champion a boy ever had, and I determined right then that I would be worthy of her and show her that her confidence was not misplaced.

One of the most important decisions you will ever make is who you allow to have the last word in your life.

Jon Tyson once told me, “Most lives have been destroyed by four or five careless words. And many of them have been healed and restored by four or five healing words.”

It hasn’t been easy, but slowly God is teaching me to let him have the last word in my life. However, this doesn’t mean tuning out the voices of others and retreating to a prayer closet where it’s just “me and Jesus.” No, God often uses the voices of others as his primary way to rebuild the ruins left by reckless words.

A healing word

Several weeks after I heard those words, “If that’s the best you can do…”, I reached out to an older pastor from another church, sent him the recording of my “audition sermon”, and asked for feedback. He generously agreed, and as we walked the streets of Colton, California, the moment came to debrief. There was a lump in my throat. Would this man confirm my deepest fears—that I’m not cut out for this?

We ordered our food at McDonald’s (his favorite spot) and sat down on one of those hard plastic booths. Then this pastor pointed out all the positives he saw in my message. He moved slowly through each of my points, showing he’d truly listened. He said something like, “I can see your words helping a lot of people, Will.”

He also pointed out a few areas for improvement, though with the gentle precision of a surgeon operating on a conscious patient. He knew I was still reeling. However, he didn’t puff me up, because love is truthful, not blind. In that booth, he restored a part of my calling that reckless words had sidelined. He never spoke an ill word about the other pastor, but his kindness and wisdom said far more than any insult could have.

So here’s my question for you: Who in your life has the last word?

Who calls out your gifts even when they’re all potential and no polish? Who shoots straight with love and gentleness? Who refuses to let you settle but still loves you when you do? Whose encouragement reminds you to keep going when it’s tough? Who reminds you of the gospel when you’re in the pit? Who draws out the best in you?

Let them have the last word.

I’m rooting for you,

—Will

👉 Become a paid subscriber today and get access to ‘Writing with Will”, a behind-the-scenes podcast where I document in real-time the process of writing and publishing my first book. You can sample the first episode here.

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Do you ever feel haunted by the possibility that there’s a place that could offer a better life, if only you could find it?

When we think about calling, we often think of the what… what skills we possess, what school to attend, what city to live in, what vocation to pursue, what person to marry, etc. But we rarely consider place as part of our calling.

But what if where you are is just as much a part of your calling as what you do?

Greener pastures

In the modern American world, our go-bags are always packed, not for emergencies, but to chase opportunities. We change locations like we change socks, thinking little of it. But our endless search for happiness is, well, miserable. We feel unsettled and untethered. As we scan Zillow, looking for the Promised Land, our affections cool for where we are as we pine over where we could be. I’m embarrassed to think of how many times I’ve fantasized about living in that place, or saving up enough to buy that sort of house, or about having those sorts of neighbors (who, in my fantasy, always insist on babysitting our kids so Emily and I can go on dates twice a week).

So this year, we resolved to bind ourselves to this place: our street, our neighborhood, our city, our state. We’ve resolved to choose this place, as long as God has us here, with all its imperfections and charm. We’ve accepted our call here.

A simple practice

The other night, feeling exhausted from the relentless what ifs, Emily and I sat down and wrote out prayers, asking God to bind us to our place. If you too suffer from “endless option” fatigue, this is a simple practice I recommend. Call it a prayer, a commitment, a vision statement—but we found it slowly warmed out hearts, and opened our eyes, to the goodness around us.

A prayer for this home, this neighborhood, this city…

Here’s what I wrote:

Lord, make this home, bit by bit, a place of gathering—for those who know you and those who don’t. Fill this space, inside and out, with the light of your holy presence.

Lord, turn us toward our neighbors in love, even when it’s difficult and feels futile. Turn us toward one another. Bring manna in the wilderness where we currently feel alone. Surprise us with relational provision, just as you’ve done materially with this house, my vocation, and so many instances of financial help.

Lord, we choose Orange. We delight in its beauty; help us not despise its familiarity. May it be the same with our state: as long as we are here, California is our home and the place you’ve prepared good works for us to do. Keep our eyes from scrolling the endless options, especially those that deaden us to real opportunities—the less glamorous but nonetheless powerful, humble, daily realities where joy can be found, people can be loved, and contentment can be learned. Remind us that even greener pastures have brown spots.

Amen.

Here’s Emily’s prayer (when you read it, you’ll understand why I astutely presented mine first, so as not to have to follow her…)

Lord, will this home be a place you dwell. Will it be warmed by our generation and the ones we’ve created. Will our garden fill our eyes and bellies, will the grass absorb our falls and splashes and kid-pees. Will the walls warm and cool us and echo our songs and laughter back to us. Will our table be full and loud and restful.

Lord, will our neighborhood be filled with backyard and front yard conversations and BBQs and splash pads and sidewalk chalk art and bare feet on the hot summer cement. Would we share popsicles and burdens and holiday treats and the heavy load of parenting. Would it be a street that loves one another.

Lord, will we be noticers in our own city. Will we see fall leaves and needy friends and struggles and the sun setting over the Chapman lawn and be full. Will we give and be full here in Orange.

Amen.

The moment you start to take seriously that God has placed you here on purpose, the more you will enjoy and serve where you are. How to start? It could be a simple journaled prayer like Emily and I. Andrew Peterson, in Adorning the Dark, offers a bunch of other great ideas:

Wherever you are, you might as well go ahead and pull up the carpet. Make it beautiful, even if you can’t afford it. Let your imagination run wild. Give your house a name. Watch how it changes the way you treat it. Let thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, in our house as it is in heaven. I started keeping bees… Jamie hung pictures on the walls. She keeps candles lit in whatever room we’re hanging out in, year-round.

If we ever move (and I hope we don’t) we will have left our mark on this home and on this property—in the same way our children, who are too old to play in the woods anymore, have left behind clubhouses and stone paths and Wizard of Oz signs nailed to the trees that say, “HAUNTED FOREST” and “I’D TURN BACK IF I WERE YOU.” When I walk the trails now I can hear the memory of their laughter echoing in the trees.

We have become members of this place, members of this community, of this Kingdom—praying his will to be done in these woods as it is in heaven.

Where are you called?

Right now, where do you call home? God in his wisdom plunked you right here—in this place, at this time, so your address is no accident.

Who around you needs someone to listen or a warm meal dropped off? Which little league team needs a coach? What coworker needs a free oil change? What cluttered space in your garage can be converted into an art or podcast studio? What dusty, forgotten ping-pong table can be set up in the driveway for a neighborhood tournament? Where in your front yard can you put a picnic table to spark conversations with passerbys while you eat? Whose dog can you compliment? (oh how people love this!) What curmudgeonly neighbor needs an anonymous plate of freshly baked cookies left on their porch with a kind note? What walls in your home need a fresh coat of paint?

What simple next step will sink your roots just a bit deeper into the soil of here and now? Take that step, then utter the words:

Let thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, in this place as it is in heaven.

I’m rooting for you,

—Will

👉 Become a paid subscriber today and get access to ‘Writing with Will”, a behind-the-scenes podcast where I document in real-time the process of writing and publishing my first book. You can sample the first episode here.

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The sunrise, meant to be a thing of beauty, becomes a burning reminder that I will never have the time I want to pursue writing. Though I’m grateful for the life I have, I long to gallop headlong into my passions, but most days, I creep forward like an inchworm.

Add to this frustration the fact that, seemingly everyone else—influencers, musicians, entrepreneurs, authors—seem to spend their days doing what they love and getting paid handsomely to do so. If only my job was my passion, I theorize, then I’d be fulfilled.

What about you… Do you ever lament the fact that you don’t have enough time to pursue your passions?

If yes, let me assure you: you’re not alone. The fact that you’re not pursuing your passion full-time doesn’t mean you’re untalented. Or boring. Or unimaginative. Or lazy. And it certainly doesn’t mean you should give up.

Surprisingly, the solution to our frustration isn’t finagling our schedules for more time; it’s reframing how we think about passion and calling.

Perhaps an overused Venn diagram will help clear things up…

A terrible definition of calling

Maybe you’ve seen this Venn diagram, which depicts “calling” as a combination of “things I like to do”, “things I’m good at”, and “things that make money.

The goal, it’s argued, is to find the perfect overlap of all three, but the problem should already be obvious: few of us get paid to do only what we love. Instead, our jobs and families take the bulk of our time.

This perplexing disparity between what we have to do to earn a living and what we want to do is what I call “the passion pay gap”.

If we revise the Venn diagram to reflect real life, it looks like this:

So, what now?

At first, realizing your passions may not produce a paycheck is deflating. But it doesn’t have to be. If, like me, your passions are squeezed into the minuscule margins of a very full existence, here’s a few encouragements to keep your spirit buoyant …

1. Even if your job isn’t your passion, it makes your passion possible.

The problem with expecting to be paid for our passions is that when it doesn’t happen we grow resentful toward the job(s) God has provided. It stings to realize that we may never professionalize our passions.

You may not enjoy your day job (thankfully, I do), but even so it funds your passion in one way or another. In my case, I’ve funded my own podcast for the past two years. Without my editorial role at Penguin, Writers Circle wouldn’t exist.

From another angle, even the fact that we have time to think about our passions reveals how fortunate we are. Had you asked the ancient blacksmith or peasant what his or her passion was, you would have been met with a vacant stare. In many places in the world today, harsh economic and political realities make survival—not passion—the primary concern. Every minute we spend pursuing a passion is a gift.

What about you? In what ways does your unglamorous, dutiful full-time work make your passion possible?

2. Pursuing your passion full-time could kill your love for it.

Getting paid to do only what you love sounds dreamy, and it might be. I say might because pursuing your passion full-time could, paradoxically, drain your love for that thing. When passion becomes work, sometimes joy is swallowed up by obligation.

One full-time author confessed to me, “I miss the days of waking up at 4am to work on my book before starting my full-time job. It was tough, squeezing writing into the margins, but it motivated me to work hard on something I believed in.” Ironically, now that he writes full-time, motivation is harder to muster since he technically can write whenever he wants to.

What if scarcity—not having as much time as you want to pursue your passion—creates the necessary urgency to do your best work? For some writers (or fill in the blank with your passion), having eight uninterrupted hours a day to pursue your passion would eventually feel more like purgatory than paradise.

3. Just because you don’t get paid doesn’t mean it’s pointless.

It’s easy to feel like a loser in a world teeming with twenty-something influencers who make multiple six figures (or more), or solopreneurs who have monetized their skills lucratively (and want to sell you their course so you too can stick it to the man and pave your own path). Or perhaps you simply know folks fortunate enough to do the thing you dream of doing full-time.

There’s a myth that says if you don’t get paid to do what you love to do, you should stop doing it. Says who? The word amateur literally means “lover.” If something’s in your blood—if you love it—who cares whether or not it grows your bank account?

Os Guinness writes,

“There are many things we do, not for profit, but for the sheer love of doing them. Whether we are doing it for our own sake or the sake of others, we are happy to be doing it, even if nobody is watching us and nobody pays us.”

Live in the gap

Here’s an uncomfortable but liberating question: What if, despite your deepest hopes and focused efforts, the three circles of your Venn diagram never fully overlap… but even so, you still enjoy what you love and use your gifts to make things that are good, true, and beautiful?

My friend, if you never make a living from your passions, you can still make a life. Even the scraps of time, so tattered and thin, can be woven into a tapestry that brings warmth to you and those you share it with.

Don’t lay down your joy to sing a dirge to the paycheck that refuses to come. Do what you were created to do, and if and when someone offers to pay you, let it be a pleasant surprise.

Here’s to living in the gap.

I’m rooting for you,

—Will

🎧 This week on the Writers Circle podcast, I interview songwriter and author Andrew Peterson about learning to be misunderstood in order to create honest art. You can listen here: Apple or Spotify.

👉 Become a paid subscriber today and get access to ‘Writing with Will”, a behind-the-scenes podcast where I document in real-time the process of writing and publishing my first book. You can sample the first episode here.

Subscribe now