Don't wear a zebra-striped blazer

The other day, I interviewed Colby Jubenville, Principal at Red Herring Inc. and a professor of Human Performance at MTSU for a story about marketing. He showed up in a red and black Zebra-striped blazer.

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He then handed me a copy of his newest endeavor: a book entitled Zebras and Cheetahs: Look Different and Stay Agile to Survive the Business Jungle. And by golly, he's not just writing the prescription—he's popping the pills. He walked with confidence, not shrouded in zebra print, but completely enlivened by it. Everywhere he walked, people's eyes followed: and inevitably, their mouths puckered and slid to the side in a approving grin. One onlooker even said to me, "tell that guy that  I love his jacket."

It got me thinking. What's my Zebra-striped blazer?

What am I doing to look different as a writer? Do I already look different? Do I even want to look different?

To me, wearing a zebra-striped blazer would be absolutely terrifying. For one, I don't look good in red. But aside from that, I'd be afraid of the stares. Fearful of eyeballs. And most certainly, I'd be concerned that "I love her jacket," might turn to, "who does she think she is?" 

From a young age, we're conditioned not to call attention to ourselves. I specifically remember a time after a JV football game where I was cheering on the sidelines, and afterward, my mother came to me and said, "Be careful it doesn't turn into the Claire Carlton show."  Yikes. I didn't want to be that person that calls for the spotlight. I still don't.

But Colby wasn't wearing a zebra-striped blazer because he's a narcissist. He was wearing that jacket because he's an entrepreneur. A great one. He's wearing the jacket because he's not afraid to be different.

So why am I?

I need to come to terms with the fact that there's difference between hogging the stage and standing with confidence in your own skin—whether it's zebra-striped or not. After all, we all ARE different. Made by a creative God, full of individual talents, quirks, idiosyncrasies and gifts. We're all unique—we all have something to offer the world that's wholly different from the person standing next to us.

And the fact that we are each special shouldn't hinder us from serving others—it should spur us on to serving others all the more. Even God-in-flesh, the most special, most renowned of all—didn't use his peer to garner the spotlight or acclaim. He stood confident in his human skin to bring glory to God and to serve others. 

"For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many."  Mark 10:45.

So once we accept, even rejoice in the fact that we are different—how can we wear it with confidence?

What if you actually stepped forward and became the leader you know you are inside?

What if you actually put pen to paper and wrote the song God put in your heart?

What if you actually took out the canvas or the casserole dish or the computer and created what you were made to create...

Who would you serve? Who would benefit because you are different?

So don't go buy a zebra-striped blazer. That one's taken. Who has God called you to be? And more importantly, how might he use that to serve the poor, the oppressed, the needy... in other words... all of us? 

 After all, if we all wore zebra-striped blazers, it wouldn't really be all that special anymore, would it?

How do you become a writer?

It's a question I hear pretty often—and it's a question Kim Green heard me ask about a year ago. If you love writing, chances are you've asked it too, even if only in your own head. Is it possible to make writing a full-time career? And if so... HOW?

The answer is I have no idea.

I really don't. But like Kim did for me, I try to answer with as much honesty as I can muster. Usually, it means saying that this life isn't easy. There is less certainty, more isolation. There is less money, more inspiration. But if you love it. If you stick with it. If you hustle and pitch and try and don't give up and keep writing when it hurts and feels stupid... there is a career in it.

Right?

So, last week when my college buddy Sadie Cone called to ask this question—the question I STILL ask myself every day—I had the forethought to record the call.

Want to know what we said? 

GIBSON: Okay Sadie... so tell me about where you are. Are you working? What's going on with you?

CONE: So, I graduated from Grad School last May, I got my masters in Mass Communications from the University of Florida. Right now, I'm teaching part time at UF. I guess I started my interior design and event-planning blog as part of my class, and that's been really fun, but I don't know if I should write about interior design, because I'm so used to it, or if I should branch out and do other things?  During one of my classes, I profiled a prison chaplain, and I loved it, so I want to get more into writing features. 

GIBSON: If you want to branch out, I feel like one of the best places to start that people often overlook is just your local paper.  Newspapers are going through a lot of growing (and shrinking) pains right now. And they're using freelancers much more because they don't have to pay you a salary or healthcare or anything. They don't pay a ton, and I had to understand that going in, I'm going to have to do some grunt work at the beginning to be able to make a living at this. But I think that the local newspaper is a really good place to start.

CONE: So how did you make the jump from the local paper to The Christian Science Monitor?

GIBSON: Well, I had this idea for a long time that I wanted to write a story about a veteran. My dad was in the Army, and I really respect what our service men and women do, and I had a friend and I knew his story that he'd been injured in Afghanistan, and he was living in Boston, he was at Harvard.

So I knew I wanted to write a story about him but I didn't know where, I didn't know where it would fit. And in a separate story, I was writing about an author and I'd done some research on where she had done her writing, and I noticed on her bio that she'd done some work for the Christian Science Monitor, so i poked around on their website, and realized that they publish news stories about veterans regularly, and they are based are out of Boston. So I was like "Oh! My friend is in Boston, the Christian Science  Monitor is in Boston, maybe that's where I should pitch the story." So I pitched it out of the blue. Never thought I'd get a response. And I did. And it terrified me.

CONE: So I guess I just need to start researching and coming up with ideas. Do you keep a journal of ideas? How do you come up with ideas?

GIBSON: That's a really good question. Finding stories is like that's what it's all about. You can honestly be a pertty bad writer, but if you have a really good Idea i think you can find your way in. First and foremost I think it's talking to people, just really being out in the world. Like, go to coffee shops and do work at coffee shops and meet people and tell people you're a writer, and half the time someone's going to come to you and say "oh i have a really good idea for a story." So just telling people you're a writer and owning it, stories will start coming to you because people have stories they want to tell, but they're not writers, and they need you.

I keep an excel spreadsheet of stories I'm working on, but I don't have any specific place I keep ideas. I guess I just keep them in my brain.

GIBSON: Have you given a lot of thought to how to make a living doing this?

CONE: It's been interesting. I've always loved to write. My mom even says that I've always loved to write. I like the creative freedom of it. So I have this job teaching right now, but I just want to write. I love to learn and I love to tell stories, so I just want to do that. What are your thoughts about making a living as a writer? Do you think you'll do it the rest of your life?

GIBSON: Well. I think those are two different questions. Can you make a living as a writer? The answer to that is yes. People make a living as writers all the time. Its just a matter of how you want to go about it. The straightest path to make a living is to  find a 9-5 job, that's going to pay a salary and a living wage. That's just a given.

But when I first started writing, I was sitill a teacher, too, and especially in the summer, I had the flex time where I wasn't working but I was still getting a paychaeck. I was able to really focus on my first stories, and to get as many words on paper as I could possibly do. As my teaching paycheck stopped, I had a part time job at a magazine, which helped my pay check, but I wasn't writing as much, I was managing. If I wasn't married, it would have been essential in those early months to have something part-time or 3/4 time income, so I could build my portfolio. This year, January was a good month. March sort of sucked. So you just have to know that it's going to ebb and flow. But it's not impossible and it's not crazy. And yes, I hope to be doing it the rest of my life.

CONE: Yeah, I guess no one goes into this thinking they're going to strike it rich. 

GIBSON: I'd like to strike it rich.

CONE: (Laughs) True, but I guess not all of us are going to be Lena Dunam. 

GIBSON: Not all of us are willing to go to the lengths she has, if you know what I'm saying.

CONE: Well, I'm just glad to hear all of this, because even in journalism school, they say journalism is a dying breed.

GIBSON: No! It's a changing breed, not a dying breed. And in fact since it's changing so much—we need great writers more than ever before. Anyone (myself included) can go publish words today, but it doesn't mean they're great. So if there are a handful of us out there trying to be great at this... that's important. There's never been so much space for words, you know, which can be overwhelming, but it just shows that there's a lot of opportunity.

--

So, there you have it folks. Our conversation went on for quite a while, but I tried to keep it simple here, and just focus on the most important nuggets.

What do you think?

Writers... how did YOU become a writer?

Other people... how did you get started in the field you're in?

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

My story.

In an effort at being a little more bold, I want to tell you a story. It starts with a smiley, goofy, youngest daughter. You know, the one who tries to make peace and tries to be cooler than she is and tries to be older than she is? That was me.

I remember what my faith was like in 1993. I memorized verses and believed that it was by grace I’d been saved. Somehow, a little six-year old girl, with a high pitched voice and scraggly hair felt she needed a savior, so I was baptized in a chlorine-filled pool at Hillcrest Baptist church, tip toes on the rubber boot of a pastor. I was so short, no one in the congregation could see my little head dunked under water. Underneath the watery-death, my sinuses filled and stung.  I didn’t want to hold my nose because I felt that would be cheating.

But what did that little girl know of good or evil? What did I know of amazing grace?

I grew up. I learned to do flips on command. I wore Limited Too clothes when that was cool, then changed to American Eagle when that was cooler. I cried in school when I couldn’t understand prime numbers. I wanted so badly to get things right. But I knew something wasn’t right.

I have this very vivid memory of lying to my mom. A pointless, aimless lie. We were living in Virginia and I was nine. I dropped a glass of lemonade on the kitchen floor—it splattered, shattered everywhere, and I hastily cleaned up the pieces, but left the lemonade behind on the floor. I guess I was being lazy. When my mom got home, she asked what I’d spilled.  “Water,” I lied. It was lemonade, and I’m sure she felt the dried sticky sugar under her loafers. And I knew she knew. I was a liar.

At school I smiled and wrote notes and sang songs and got good grades. I was a cheerleader. I went to youth group. I tried my best to be good and look better. Around that same time, I learned to steal from my sisters. Make-up mostly, but clothes and purses later. I’d put them back just in the right spot, just in the nick of time. But I was a good friend, and I went to church. But I knew I was a thief.

Something was wrong.  And in a dark moment, I realized it wasn’t just me. 

Everything is wrong.

It was night and the clock read 2:02. I was 12 and at a friends’ house. I should have been asleep but his hot breath was loud in my ear. And it turned out nothing is right. And it turned out I wasn’t the only victim. And it turned out no one believed us until it was too late.

How could I believe in a God that saves when he allows a man to abuse?

There are days I don't really remember: the trial, the sentencing... But then a youth pastor sat in a room with me and the other girls. Was this really happening? Surely it couldn’t be. Surely all of this was a dream or some kind of script someone was writing for some new movie. He had the impossible job of busting through the rosy glasses of four pre-teen girls. He confirmed our suspicions about the world: all this evil, all this darkness.

And he said something I’ve never forgotten.

He said that in life, we are impacted by two things: our own sin and the sin of other people. Some of it hurts more, but it all does the same thing: it separates us from a perfect, holy God.

He said that we were made to be with God, and all the pain we were feeling was this deep expectation and desire to be near God—the only thing we need, and the only thing we can't have in our current condition.

And that’s when I knew this world needs saving.

And the Truth I believed as a child rang True once more. We’ve all sinned. I deserve a death sentence. And so do you. And so does the man that hurt me. But God created us for relationship with Him and He couldn’t stand to watch us walk like sheep to the slaughter. So He sent a replacement. A perfect Man to suffer and die to make a way to God.

A Man that was God in flesh. A Man that didn’t consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage. A Man who made everything, then made Himself nothing.

He never lied, but lies were told about Him in open court.

He never stole, but His life was exchanged for 30 pieces of silver.

He never abused, but He was stripped naked and beaten and mocked.

This Man. Jesus. The one who healed the sick, opened the eyes of the blind, payed attention to the poor, stopped what he was doing for beggars, knew names before faces. The One who pointed a finger at the men who pretended you could get yourself right with God on your own, and called them snakes.

He said, “I Am The Way, The Truth and The Life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.”

He didn't say he is "a" way. He said He is The Way. The. Only. Way.

If you believe in Him, He fills you with a new Spirit, a new life—His. I am no longer a slave to what my nature tells me to do: the lying, the stealing, the selfish jealousy and bitterness. He gives me power for life and godliness. Everything I need to be a conquerer, and to live with joy not despair, in a world where most of the time, despair is all that makes sense.

I can consider that my present suffering is not worth comparing to the glory that will be revealed in me through Jesus. And I can’t help but speak of Him. I can’t help but find hope in Him. Because without Him there is no hope for me.

This is a story about a God who loved me so much that He didn’t leave me here alone. And He didn’t just give me Jesus. He gave me Jesus in a pastor’s rubber boot, my parents, my sisters, my friends, and in Patrick.

I remember when I told my story to Patrick. The one about the night and the dark, and the man whose wife and children were blindsided by the evil in their own home. The one about how I still feel skeptical, and when I’m alone with an older man, how I still feel nervous.

And I remember what He said.

Quietly, softly, Jesus whispered through the love of a husband, “I want to spend the rest of my life proving to you that I’m different.”

It’s the gospel. It’s the good news.

And really—it’s the only story worth telling.

A little more bold.

When I hear the word "bold," I think about one thing.

I love coffee. I'm drinking some right now.

I especially like it when the bitter nutty flavor is rounded out with a dash of swirling cream, preferably the hazelnut variety.

How do you like your coffee?

The worst is when it's too watered down. When the magic golden ratio of grounds-to-water got all jacked up, and all of the sudden I feel like I'm just drinking brown water. The. worst.

But I'm not unlike that brown non-delicious coffee. I don't like to be bold all that often... because a lot of times I'm afraid of leaving a bad taste in someone else's mouth. I don't want to offend anyone. I want to be liked.

But I want to be a little more bold. With what I do, with what I say, and definitely with what I write. After all, how many blogs about hair tutorials do we really need? Bold is better. Bold is best.

When was the last time you did something daring? Something even a little bit dangerous? And I'm not talking about skydiving or rocky mountain climbing. I'm talking about speaking the Truth when it's easier to be silent. Saying the whole Truth and not the half truth about who you are.

I want to be bold like that. I'm convinced I was created to be bold like that. The way coffee was created to be bold and it's not fully itself when it's all watered down.

Since Sunday I've been thinking about all of this. How can I be a little more bold?

So I decided to write a story. My story. And I want to share it with you. But I'm nervous about it—because it might leave a bad taste in your mouth, either about me, or about God, or about life.

But I need to be who I'm made to be. So tomorrow morning, when it's here... in print ... maybe you can grab a bold cup of coffee and just drink in the words. They won't be perfect, but they will be bitter and sweet on the same page.

The words might surprise you and change your perception of who I am. But that's the risk I take. They may make you cringe and turn away because they are strong. But I'm giving you fair warning... they will be a little more bold.

Taylor Swift Infographic

I need to admit something. I've been listening to Taylor Swift a lot lately... and it's not just because I'm coaching a middle school girls' lacrosse team. I wish I could say that were the case (and it is) but also... Taylor Swift can write a pretty darn good song. So her music speaks to me. Deal with it.

By this point, I'm sure you've heard her impeccably written ballad, "We are never getting back together"... and I wonder. Does it make you think of someone in your life? It definitely makes me think of certain phone conversation had outside of building "G" at Furman University where a certain young female (me) told a certain older male (the guy in # 8 of this post) to never ever ever call her again. Gah. Where was T. Swift then?

Oh yeah. She was in elementary school.

Anyway, that's off topic. What I'm here to say is that while listening to this song and reminiscing about my dating missteps, I've felt this pressing need to communicate something to the men in Taylor Swift's life: your attempts at reconciliation are feeble, at best.

To help communicate this more clearly. See Exhibit A:

For more musical infographics (and the inspiration behind this post) click here and here.

Ten classic 30 Rock jokes retold as infographics.

Don't miss New York Magazine's "Approval Matrix" — it's one of my favorite infographics to read every week.