My life as a not-quite-famous writer

At age 11 I published my first newspaper, dubbing it Life and Times. Hand-printed on leftover notebook pages, produced in triplicate using carbon paper, the price was two cents per copy.

Featured stories included: where I had gone on my bike that day; how my dog stole a package of cigarettes from the neighbour’s patio; and how the cat dropped a dead mouse at my mother’s feet, grossing her out. (Hmm…social media ahead of its time?)

With the first edition completed, I decided it would be a weekly publication. Maybe monthly. Because (a) my hand hurt from pressing so hard, and (b) I didn’t know what else to write about. The second issue never happened. Sales were down and carbon paper cost money.

Still, I loved language – especially learning new words and arranging familiar ones creatively. I lived at the library. A few memorable teachers inspired an appreciation for good literature. I wrote stories, poetry, plays and an occasional piece for the local newspaper. My own byline in print – what a thrill.

I dreamed of becoming a “real writer” someday, but took a paying job instead. I learned accounting, credit management and commercial law. Not too creative, but I loved the logic and orderliness of it. When I married Farmer Jack, bookkeeping proved far more useful than story telling.

Years later I entered a contest for novice writers at the God Uses Ink conference, sponsored by Faith Today. It was to be a 500-word character portrait of any person – alive or deceased, real or fictional. I wrote about Jack. And we won. Faith Today published it.

A few weeks later Bert Witvoet called. He liked my sense of humour and offered the chance to write a monthly column. “450 words. Keep it lighthearted,” he said.

Move over Erma Bombeck

At first, I cranked out columns on an electric typewriter and drove into town to have them faxed. Eventually we got a household computer and internet. Entire paragraphs could be altered, relocated or deleted. No more Wite-Out. The whole document could be submitted with one keystroke. Amazing.

Marian VanTil took over from Bert, diligent and skillful. Laughter and word counts abounded in the days of Harry der Nederlanden, generously supported by his lovely wife, Rose, and the ever-faithful Ineke Medcalf. When Harry had to resign, Bert stepped into the gap – along with Angela Reitsma Bick and Brett Alan Dewing.

The new team ushered in a younger vision for the ailing publication. Would they put me out to pasture? Angela emerged as editor and my worries subsided. She remains a consistently patient and encouraging friend. Together with Meghan and Maaike (the M&M’s), Angela treats me as a real writer.

It’s been 25 years since Bert’s phone call. Unbelievable. As CC celebrates its 80th anniversary, I feel privileged to have been part of it for so long. One of the great joys of writing is that feeling of connection to people – those who tell me they’ve read something I wrote that resonates.

So, cheers to 80 years! Sincere thanks to all who have served in the past and continue in so many ways to keep the paper going, especially our faithful readers. And most of all, I thank our gracious Lord for the gift of words – apples of gold, and for allowing me to live the dream.