Write Well Special Edition: Classy Authors

Special Edition

Do you know the difference between classy authors and working writers?

Classy authors never show their toes in public. Writers go barefoot as often as they can.

Classy authors are always dressed up. Writers don’t comb their hair before lunch and wear sweat suits while they’re working if no one is coming over. Because I live in Florida, I’m usually in shorts with bare feet. Or in my jammies.

Classy authors never yell. Writers get excited and scream when their kids are pounding on the door, the printer won’t print, or the power goes off unexpectedly. We used to live in a rural area where our power transformers were mounted atop high telephone poles. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been hard at work, heard a large kaboom, and stepped outside to discover that a squirrel had committed suicide atop my telephone pole. Being a dedicated female writer, naturally I went back into the house, called Florida Power, and went shopping.

Classy Christian authors only read newspapers, the Bible, and My Utmost for His Highest. Working writers read those things, too. But we also read the comics first thing in the morning and wistfully peek at Best Seller lists. We read other authors and gleefully note grammatical errors in the margins.

Classy authors do not eat except at banquets where they’re always the speaker and guest of honor. Writers snack all the time and consequently gain two pounds per book—unless they learn to chew sugarless gum instead.

Classy authors have housekeepers who cook for their families. Writers make tons of spaghetti and memorize the phone number for any pizza place that will deliver.

In 1983, when I started writing, I wanted to be a classy author. I’d dream about people standing in three-mile lines for my book signings and people stopping me on the street and saying, “Aren’t you--”

But five years later, I actually wrote a book that a publisher wanted to buy. And the night after I got “the call,” I lay awake thinking that the time had come to get serious, I would soon be writing things that didn’t get tossed into the waste bin when they’d finished. And my books might change their lives in the way some books had changed mine. And that God had just given me an weighty responsibility . . .

A couple of summers ago I went with my husband’s youth group to a camp that offered horseback riding. I mounted a hot, sweaty mare and leaned forward to brush horseflies from her face. “What’s this horse’s name?” I asked the trail guide.

“Classy,” he said.

I grinned. I knew that was as close to classy as I would ever be.

Until next week,

Angie