Tell Me What He Did: A Memoir

My heart broke over the message Heather Marsten sent telling about enduring years of sexual assault and abuse. “Every morning without fail, after one of my father’s visits, my mom would say, ‘I heard him in your room last night. Tell me what he did.’ She wrote down the details, filling two notebooks….”

The title of Heather’s memoir, Tell Me What He Did, refers to two aspects of her abuse—that question her mother asked, and what He—God—did to rescue Heather from her abusive home.

Her healing was a long, meandering process. It included therapy, paganism, New Age practices, witchcraft, voodoo, Macumba, tarot and, she says, “ultimately real healing through Jesus.” Heather now says, “It was only when I discovered God that I was able to put the pieces of my life back together and walk forward in a joyous life.”

“Writing this book has been an adventure,” she says, “because God has been showing me where He was in the midst of all the chaos of my life. Some of the ways surprised me.” 

For example, Heather now sees that God was in the nots—those bad things that could have happened but did not. She says, “I did not get pregnant by my father, did not go insane, and did not get a communicable disease. At the time I saw God as a do-nothing, but in reality, He had put a hedge of protection around me.”

She sent us the following excerpt, giving a glimpse into her mother’s backstory. Heather was in third or fourth grade in this scene.

     Clotheslines crisscross our backyard. Mommy stretches and rubs her back. “Damn hot. Sheets should dry in no time. I’d sell my soul for an automatic washer and dryer.” 

      I hand Mommy a clothespin. “I like our wringer washer. We make a great team. You send the clothes through the wringer. I catch ’em.” 

      “Bet ya Hazel has one. Bastard takes better care of her than he does us.” 

      Shut up about Hazel. 

      After the sheets dry we make my bed. I point to a photograph hanging on my wall—a short-haired Indian princess wearing a fancy dress and a sparkly headband with a feather. “Who’s that?” 

      “Me in my favorite dress. Don’t I look good? Let’s get a drink to cool off. I’ll tell ya about it.” 

      I sip cherry Kool-Aid at the kitchen table. “Why does the dress have those hangy things?” 

      “Fringe. That fringe moved like wild when I danced. Maggie, a hoity-toity maid who worked down the block from me, wanted that dress too. I bought it. You shoulda seen her face when I wore it on my day off.” Mommy smiles and sips her orange juice. “Had this picture taken right after I got my Flapper haircut. Was all the rage. My parents said I was trashy to have my hair so short.” 

      “Flapper?” 

      “We called ourselves Flappers in the twenties. I was so good at dancing the Charleston. Here, let me show you.” She puts her cigarette in the ashtray and stands. She wiggles her hips as she walks forward and backwards, puts her hands on her knees and quickly moves her hands back and forth across her knees while her knees move in and out. “My fringe flied.” 

      “I saw someone dance like that in a movie.” 

      She sits. “Saved five months for that dress. Back in those days you only earned a few bucks a week. That’s the first new dress I ever had.” 

      “Your parents didn’t buy you new clothes?” 

      “There was twelve of us. Daddy was a coal miner. We were dirt poor. We used to run and meet him after the whistle blew. He saved crusts of bread from his sandwiches to give us kids as a treat. Couldn’t afford new clothes. All my dresses were passed down from my three older sisters.” 

      “Didn’t the kids in your class make fun of you?” 

      “No, we were all poor. ’Sides, I only went to school ’til eighth grade. My baby sister, Anna, was the only one to get new clothes and graduate high school.” 

      “You didn’t go to twelfth?” 

      “Nope. My parents needed money so they farmed me out as live-in housekeeper to a rich family in Chicago. Most of my money went home. With the little I could keep, I bought the dress.” 

      “That’s not fair.” 

      “Anna got everything. I got shit.” She sighs and sips her orange juice. “Still, I had fun. On my day off, my friend Betty and I went dancing. Those were some good times. Go play.” 

      I can’t imagine Mommy dancing and having fun. She never smiles.

Wow!

After you catch your breath, notice Heather’s writing—how she develops her mother’s personality and her own, sets the tone, includes details, writes tight (avoids wordiness), and creates curiosity for readers. Especially note how Heather writes dialogue. We don’t find even one “she said,” yet we all understand who is speaking. That’s impressive! Good job, Heather!

She is writing her memoir to encourage those who have endured abuse. In fact, even before publication, her story has brought help to others. God has lovely and powerful ways—even miraculous ways—of using our stories. I know He will continue to use Heather’s memoir to bring His healing to countless others.

Heather is a happily married mother with three young adult children. She and her husband are proud to witness their kids grow into compassionate, loving people venturing into the world.

A scene from her memoir-in-progress, Tell Me What He Did, appeared in Heavenly Company: Entertaining Angels Unaware, an anthology compiled by Cecil Murphey and Twila Belk.

“Hope is the answer” and you’re cleared to go

“During my intense grieving moments,” writes Dana Goodman, “other people’s stories gave me words to describe the ache that was indescribable. They gave me hope that a new day would dawn, and I would not be stuck in the black forever.”

Hope.

“Sharing hope truly is the heart of this writing business,” writes Mick Silva. “Words are like packaging. They’re pretty or flashy or sad or boring. And while everyone appreciates good packaging, ultimately it’s the hope inside them that matters…. We each have to ask…whether we want to share hope or not.”

Read that again. “We each have to ask…whether we want to share hope or not.” That zings, doesn’t it?

The Bible tells us to comfort others

with the comfort we’ve received from God.

(2 Corinthians 1:4)

Your memoir can do that.

That means writing your memoir is not a hobby, it’s a ministry.

Eugene Peterson suggests the church should ordain writers in the way they ordain pastors.

“There are never enough storytellers,” he says. “There are a lot of people who want to write stories but they don’t want to go through the discipline, the agony, the immersion in life it requires…. I think writing is one of the sacred callings. I wish, in fact, that the church would ordain writers the way they ordain pastors….”

Is that a new thought to you?

If so, make time to ask yourself these questions:

How different would your writing be if you viewed yourself as ordained to tell your story?

Can you—will you—consider yourself ordained to tell your story?

Let’s take a minute to ponder: What does it mean to be ordained?

It means to be approved, authorized, appointed, anointed, selected, and chosen.

It means to be commissioned, empowered, assigned, entrusted, and consecrated. And cleared to go.

Last Thursday I asked, “If your scars could talk, what stories would they tell?”

Have you thought about that question in the past few days?

Maybe something or someone maimed you, left you blemished, flawed, maybe even deformed—maybe in little ways, maybe in massive ways. Perhaps they left you broken, immobilized. Some scars are visible, some are hidden inside.

But remember: A scar is evidence of healing.

How did God transform your wounds into scars?

Who and what did God use to bring healing?

As a result of your experience, what hope can you pass on to others?

Are you now super-inspired to write your story? Please say Yes!

Believe God has

approved, authorized, appointed you.

He has anointed, selected, and chosen you.

Believe God has

commissioned, empowered, assigned you.

He has entrusted, and consecrated you

to carry out our key verses:

Always remember, and never forget,

what you’ve seen God do for you,

and be sure to tell your children and grandchildren.

Deuteronomy 4:9

Jesus said, “Go tell your family everything

God has done for you.”

Luke 8:39

Like Kellie McGann said, “Hope is the answer your readers are searching for…. Tell them they’re not alone in their dark night of the soul.”

“…Writing your story is the only way

to truly express what God did.

And you can’t believe just how remarkable he is

until you step back and see it for yourself.”

Mick Silva, Higher Purpose Writers

Your story can change a life.

Someone needs the hope you can offer.

So hear this:

You know what you’ve been commissioned to do,

and you—you—are cleared to go.

If your scars could talk, what stories would they tell?

Scars. You have a few. So do I. When writing our stories, we’ll almost certainly need to examine one or more of the wounds that caused our scars.

Keep in mind that a scar is not the same as a wound.

A wound is an injury, a laceration, a gash, a blow, a rip. Some wounds are superficial, but others are deep and agonizing.

On the other hand, a scar is “a mark left where a wound or injury or sore has healed” (Oxford American Dictionary).

Read that again: A scar is what you have after healing has occurred. After the bleeding has stopped. After the scab has fallen off.

A scar is evidence of healing.

When we think of a scar, too often we associate it with something damaged, defective. A disfigurement, an impairment.

But isn’t it better to recognize that a scar is something that has healed?

Think of your scar as an emblem declaring you’re repaired, a symbol of surviving, evidence your wound has mended.

So I ask: 

If your scars could talk, what stories would they tell?

Most of us are good at keeping our wounds and scars secret—maybe even from ourselves, but a good memoirist will not leave them in hiding.

Dani Shapiro says, “What we ignore, we ignore at our own peril. What we embrace with courage, perseverance, humility, and clarity, becomes our instrument of illumination.”

“Our instrument of illumination.” 

A good memoirist will

invite God to stand alongside—or maybe inside—

and help peel back layers,

get out a magnifying glass,

connect the dots,

and discover the deeper, broader, bigger story.

A good memoirist will make time

to examine the chapters of his life

in which God used wounds

to turn his story in a different

and better direction.

That reminds me of Bev Murrill’s words about Romans 8:28, “Paul said all things work together for good for people who love the Lord and are called according to His purposes. That doesn’t mean what happened is good, but that God can use even the most terrible things if we will let Him treat the wounds and heal them.”

C.S. Lewis said, “Hardships often prepare ordinary people for an extraordinary destiny.” Your job as a memoirist is to look back and discover that extraordinary destiny God has been working out for you—a destiny you couldn’t have experienced if it weren’t for your hardship, your wound. You have a scar to prove it.

Search for answers to Thornton Wilder’s question: “Without your wounds where would you be?”

How did God transform your wounds into scars?

Who and what did God use to bring healing? 

• A doctor, counselor, or medicine,
• a Bible passage or Bible study, 
• a book, 
• prayer, 
• a strategically placed friend or relative,
• time and distance,
• writing or journaling.

God has many ways of turning wounds into scars.

Bev Murrill says God is capable of “turning ugly gaping wounds into scars that serve as badges of honor and trophies of the grace of God at work in me.”

What badges of honor

and trophies of God’s grace

will you include in your memoir?

Someone needs to know your story.

Someone needs the hope your story can offer.

If your scars could talk,

what stories would they tell?

“Marked by inner scars, yet also empowered by your experiences”

When we begin writing a memoir, we believe it's for others. We believe our story will inspire them. We hope they'll fight and win their own battles because they learned from us how to do it. We hope our stories will inspire them to arrive victoriously on the other side of their messy stuff.

But as much as our memoir is for others, part way into writing our rough drafts we discover something much bigger is happening, and it's happening inside us, the writers. And that surprises most memoirists.

We discover we're on a journey of healing.

That's because writing a memoir includes writing about the painful stuff. Often our ache is so great that we can't endure the writing. But those who persist, who write anyway—crying and clawing and fighting their way through, if necessary—find that getting their stories into writing results in healing.

Writing a memoir changes us because if we give it the needed time and dig deep enough, the process helps us wrestle with ourselves, our memories, and God.

Writing a memoir can:  

• help us make sense of hurtful, confusing incidents,
• reveal answers that have too long evaded us,
• process grief,
• reshape our perspectives,
• help us get un-stuck, and
• move us toward healing, forgiveness, peace, and hope for the future. 

Secular studies show that writing can improve our physical and emotional health and, I'm convinced, it improves our spiritual health as well. The most powerful result of taking time to reflect and unravel is to discover the ways God was actively, graciously, mercifully working out His good plans for us—which you and I probably didn't recognize in the midst of the incident, or saw only dimly.

In that way, writing our stories helps us learn from the past, strengthens us as individuals, deepens our relationship with God, and makes us more grateful than before.

But we won't discover the many blessings unless we're willing to take the time and make the effort to put our stories in writing.

Let's look at what others say:

“When I first started writing out my stories, facing painful memories was difficult,” writes memoirist Kathleen Pooler. “As I kept writing, new insights revealed themselves…just through the process of facing them and writing about them. I experienced healing through reading my own words and began to feel I was on the other side of the pain.” (The Role of Mindfulness and Memoir Writing in Healing: A Reflection) 

“It's hard to go back. To take a moment to stare at the burned parts, the ones seared into the fabric of my life,” writes Amanda Hill. “Sometimes it's okay to remember. Because in the hurt you see all the healing that's taken place over a lifetime. You take note of the way it's formed you.... You see for the first time how far you've really come.”

“[T]hrough writing I've discovered that...protecting and preserving our stories is about discovering God's story,” writes Mick Silva. “What he did through us, with us, in spite of us.... To speak its life-affirming power in proper words and context, it can be the delight of our lives, an endless source of inspiration.”

So we work out the pain, we work through it. Mick also says, “So face the pain. And how is that done? I believe that's done by writing with God.”

“Some days I could not write and some days I could only write a little,” writes Martha Graham-Waldon. “But by the time I finished my memoir, I did have a sense of closure and resolution of my past that brought me to a place of peace in the present. Even though writing my memoir was painful, I know it would have been even more painful not to write it. To carry around the hurt and memories like a cloud hanging over my head would have been harder still. Instead, I was able to release the clouds into bursts of cleansing rainfall and healing sunlight after the storms.” 

Sherrey Meyer writes, “With each word typed, I felt changes taking place. The invisible scars created by years of verbal and emotional abuse seemed to loosen. Old hurts seemed to soften despite the painful process of remembering.”

She also writes, “Writing soothes and heals by extracting those memories from your inner being and on the computer or paper. No longer do those bad memories live in you. You have moved them to another place and time outside yourself. ” 

You’ll especially want to read Cecil Murphey’s words. He describes himself as a “hurting, fragmented individual” as a result of childhood abuse. He writes that after he became a Christian, “I grew beyond the pain, but those childhood memories remained. For most of my life, I wanted to obliterate them.”

He shares significant lessons he has learned since then:

“First, I couldn’t undo my agony, no matter how many times I relived the memories or wished my childhood had been different.

“Second, I… connected with people on a more-than-surface level…. I sensed their pain and felt deep compassion for them…. I assumed it was in spite of my dysfunctional background—that is, that I had overcome the trauma of a negative childhood. About four years ago, however, I realized I’ve been able to connect with others because I experienced pain and struggled for spiritual healing. I call that reusing my pain.

“The agonizing memories no longer hurt or cripple me. Instead I’m using my experiences to understand others enmeshed in trauma. At the same time, my soul remains scarred. For me, that means the trauma has been covered by God’s grace, even though the distressful memories won’t be totally erased. Not only do I accept those scars, but I’m at peace. Because I experienced emotional damage and anguish, I find common meeting places with others whose wounds still fester.

“Here’s the best lesson I’ve learned: Although I’m marked by my inner scars, I’m also empowered by my experiences. I need both. We need both.”  (Scars)

Recognizing God’s loving involvement in your life,

even through the painful parts,

transforms you and deepens your faith for the future.

If you doubt that, give it a try—

write your stories,

discern what God was up to

and discover how your life and faith have changed.

Bullies and their victims

When you were a kid, did someone bully you? Or did you see someone bullying another child?

Or were you the bully?

Bullying is more than a childhood problem. Adults bully adults, too. Have you been victimized by an adult bully? Have you witnessed someone bullying another adult?

Or are you the adult bully?

Bullying is a form of abuse!

I applaud those who, in recent years, have set up school campaigns against bullying. It was long overdue. God bless every person who has stepped forward to prevent bullying!—and those who try to bring healing to innocent victims of bullying!

What stories can you write

to teach your kids, grandkids, great-grands,

and other readers about bullying?

Writing about bullying can be difficult.

It took me more than half a century

to write a story, below,

about bullying I witnessed in sixth grade.

Don’t let the pain involved

keep you from writing your stories!

Shine light on the darkness of bullying.

Just think of the dear innocent ones

who could benefit from your story.

At the bottom of this post,

you’ll find links

to help you write about bullying.

If you were the victim of bullying,

don’t miss

10 Reasons Why We Never Forget

Our Childhood Bullies

So, here’s my story. Let me know if you spot typos or have suggestions to make it better. Thanks!

I thought highly of Mrs. C, my sixth grade teacher. I admired everything about Mrs. C, even her fingernails—so much so that I filed my nails into sharp points just like hers. She ran a tight classroom but I always followed her rules and the two of us got along fine.

     I still remember the day Mrs. C patched together my dignity at a time my parents were struggling financially. My shoe’s sole had torn apart from the leather upper and it flapped every time I took a step. Sensing my humiliation, Mrs. C whispered, “Let me slip this rubber band around your shoe to hold it together.”

    

     Until age eleven, I viewed teachers, especially Mrs. C, as saintly, set-apart beings, more honorable than average people. I knew the rest of us would do well to revere and model our lives after them.

    

     But in the latter half of sixth grade, when Tom Durr joined our class, he showed me what a saintly, set-apart being looks like, for he was more honorable than the average person, and the rest of us would do well to revere and model our lives after Tom rather than our teacher.

    

     Tall and slender, Tom had moved from Texas, or so I remember, and unlike the rest of us suburban Seattleites, he wore dark blue jeans and a jean jacket every day, pressed and perfectly clean.

    

     When Tom joined our class, I witnessed a different side of Mrs. C.

    

     At first I misunderstood what was happening. I thought Mrs. C was treating Tom the same way she treated all students who misbehaved. For example, if, Mrs. C was teaching a lesson about the Gettysburg Address and noticed Mike pulling Diane’s braid, Mrs. C would stiffen and shout a question Mike probably couldn’t answer, like, “Mike! What year did Abraham Lincoln give The Gettysburg Address?” More likely than not, Mike didn’t know the answer because he had been preoccupied with his naughtiness and had missed what Mrs. C had just told the class. The threat of public humiliation resulted in Mrs. C’s hoped-for outcome: Rarely did anyone misbehave.

    

     The first few times our teacher narrowed her eyes and spit out such a question at Tom, I assumed she had spied him misbehaving. As the days passed, however, I noticed that unlike the other students, Tom knew the answers to her questions.

    

     “Tom! What is 12 times 12?”

     “The answer is 144, Ma’am.”

     When that happened, Mrs. C acted surprised, and then angry, and then she sneered, swiveled in a huff, and changed the subject.

     I started paying closer attention to Mrs. C’s outbursts and I discovered, consistently, that Tom had not been misbehaving. Nevertheless, with regularity our teacher spewed out tough questions trying to stump Tom.

     She never did.

     But why did she treat Tom that way? Why did she target him in a way she did not target other students?

     My young heart puzzled over the hatred she displayed in public.

     Did she hate him because he didn’t wear the same kinds of clothes we did?

     Did she despise him because he came from Texas? And if so, what was so bad about Texas?

     Day after day I fretted, but then I figured it out. Tom had a birth defect: a cleft lip. Back then people called it a harelip because it resembled the cleft, or split, in a hare’s lip—a rabbit’s lip.

     I started to see, through my young girl’s eyes, that Mrs. C loathed Tom because his face looked different from her other students’ faces.

     She humiliated him in public because his face looked different from her other students’ faces.

     She inflicted emotional pain upon him because his face looked different from her other students’ faces.

     And here is what gets to me—really gets to me—still, half a century later: Tom responded to Mrs. C’s taunts with politeness and evenness, and he always addressed her as “Ma’am.”

     I tried to put myself in Tom’s place, treated so cruelly because of his birth defect. Surely he was a tortured soul.

     And he was only a sixth grader.

     I wondered how I would act toward Mrs. C if she treated me that way. Would I strike back? Would I cry in humiliation and frustration? Yes, I know I would have.

     Then it occurred to me that Tom must have hated going to school every morning. I began to recognize that Tom, all day, five days a week, faced public abuse that would defeat the average person, yet he just kept doing what was right.

     How did Tom do it? How did he keep coming to school day after day? How did he always reply politely to Mrs. C?

     With that, I began to marvel at Tom’s composure, his strength of character. Without an ounce of arrogance, he held his head high.

     And then one morning, a few weeks after Tom joined our class, he didn’t come to school.

     Someone asked Mrs. C where he was. Through tight lips she hissed, “He moved away,” and changed the subject.

     I never saw Tom Durr again or heard anything about him, but I have always remembered him and the lessons he taught me during those few weeks. The questions I had back then have only multiplied over the decades.

     Had our teacher’s cruelty given my classmates the idea that they, too, should treat Tom with scorn? Had Mrs. C’s humiliation carried over to the playground? In those days, we girls played only with girls so now, years later, I wonder: Did the boys exclude him? Humiliate him?

     And what did Mrs. C hope her public scorn of Tom would make him do? I understand how humiliation in a classroom setting could motivate students to change behavior, but Tom could not change his face. He could not remove his harelip. So what did she expect Tom to do? What did she hope to accomplish by heaping contempt upon him? All these years later, I remain appalled at her hateful, barbaric behavior.

     Did Tom beg his parents to let him stay home? If I had been in Tom’s place, I would have fallen apart in sobbing and tears, and I would have begged my mother not to make me go to school. I’m certain he didn’t want to go to school each morning, knowing he’d face another day of disdain.

     But where did he get the courage to do go anyway?

     Where did Tom’s will power come from?

     Did anything or anyone give Tom hope?

     Did Tom have parents that encouraged him? Did his family value him for who he was and not what he looked like? Were his parents good listeners? Did he feel safe talking with him at night about the harsh treatment he received? Did his parents help him gain perspective and courage for the next day? Did they tell him to hang on, moment by moment, because his persistence would pay off?

     Did his parents pray with him before he left for school and pray for him throughout the day?

     Were Tom’s parents the reason he could say “Yes, Ma’am” and never reply with anger or impatience? Did they encourage him to stand tall?

     Oh, I hope the answers are Yes! I hope so much that he had loving, supportive parents! I can’t bear to think that Tom faced the cruelty of Mrs. C, and perhaps that of his fellow students, without strong, loving, involved parents!

     But maybe Tom’s parents didn’t sense Tom’s pain, or maybe they didn’t care. Or maybe he lived with grandparents, or with foster parents.

     Perhaps Tom didn’t have involved, protective, proactive adults in his life.

     If that was the case, then, all on his own, Tom possessed a rare, humble nobility of spirit that enabled him to value himself for who he was and reject the vile contempt heaped upon him. That must have been the hardest thing he’d ever done—many a time he must have wanted to give up—but somehow he mustered the conviction to cast aside Mrs. C’s voice and every other voice that tried to demonize him.

     From somewhere deep inside, that eleven-year-old boy chose to reply with dignity, remain composed, and speak with patience. Tom must have defied his own fragility and, instead, hoped for a better future. But how did he protect his heart?

     Did he know Eleanor Roosevelt’s words? “Nobody can make you feel inferior” she said, “without your permission.” Did Tom understand and embrace that message? Or, all on his own, did he just sense it within himself?

     Did he know he was made in God’s image and thoroughly loveable? And of great value?

     For more than half a century, I’ve wondered if Tom recognized his goodness. And his strengths. Did he know he was a significant role model for our classmates—if only we’d watch and ponder?

     For 54 years, I’ve wondered how life treated him: Did someone ever befriend Tom? Did anyone accept him into their circles?

     Did Tom’s suffering make him into a better man? Did his hardship inspire him to reach out to other lonely, excluded people?

     Or did Tom finally give up? Did hateful people wear him down and break him? Did he give up trying to fit in? Did he give in to self-loathing? I don’t suppose any of us could blame Tom if he grew weary of the battle and became bitter and angry. But, oh! I hope he didn’t! I hope he didn’t!

     I wish I could tell Tom that his actions and attitudes were not futile, they were not wasted. I wish I could tell him I’d been watching. I learned from him. He showed me how to overcome, minute by minute.

     The book of James in the New Testament points to people like Tom: Who is wise and understanding among you? Let him show it by his good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from wisdom.… The wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere. Peacemakers who sow in peace raise a harvest of righteousness. (James 3:13, 17-18)

     Tom was born with a physical birth defect, but he was in no way inferior. Indeed, he was more honorable than the average person, and the rest of us would do well to revere and model our lives after him.

     He was a humble young man of distinction, and I am a better person for having known him.

     I wish I could find Tom Durr and tell him he has always been one of my heroes.

Copyright © 2017 by Linda K. Thomas

Additional links:

10 Reasons Why We Never Forget Our Childhood Bullies

  

Leaving That Kid Behind in my 50s 

The Bully Project 

8 Keys to Handling Adult Bullies 

How to Spot and Deal with an Adult Bully 

How  to Deal with Adult Bullies 

Tuesday Tidbit: Polish your writing skills at a writers conference

Cecil Murphey says, 

“If your New Year’s resolution 

was to learn how to write 

or to become a better writer, 

one of the best decisions you can make 

is to attend a writers conference.”

In March, Cec will be the keynote speaker at the Blue Lake Christian Writers Retreat held at Blue Lake Camp in Andalusia, Alabama.

Cec is a man I studied under at a writers conference a few years ago, a man with a most remarkable heart and extraordinary skill. He has authored or co-authored more books than any other living writer—135 books and counting. Several have been on the New York Times bestseller list for years at a time.

In addition to two keynote speeches, he will teach three workshops (see below) and will take appointments for one-on-one mentoring.

Cec’s three workshops are Ghostwriting, Memoirs and Autobiographies, and Writing About the Hard Issues.

In his workshop on memoirs and autobiographies, Cec will teach the difference between the two and how to write both.

I can’t think of a better person than Cec to teach a workshop on Writing About the Hard Issues. This dear man has experienced more than his share of hardships—and yet he has survived and thrived and now loves to help others do the same. The conference website describes his workshop this way: 

“Because of the pain and the trials in your life, 

you have a message 

that can offer healing and encouragement 

to others. 

But to write about them effectively 

you must relive the experiences 

and allow old emotions to emerge. 

We’ll discuss how to make these feelings work for you 

to deeply impact readers.”

Learn more about Cecil Murphey at his website, and learn more about the Blue Lake ChristianWriters Retreat at its website.

Give serious consideration to attending this retreat. It could change your life and your writing.