What’s your hook?

Upon arrival at Wheaton College, I was immediately immersed in a world of new lingo and a rush of creative energy. I was rubbing shoulders with hundreds of writers from around the country at my first writers’ conference. One thing disturbed me right from the start, however. Everyone was asking, "What’s your hook?"

Hook? I panicked. Immediately thoughts of the fish hooks filled my mind. When I lived in a jungle tribe in New Guinea, we used to trade hooks with the Iwam people. I don’t much care for hooks. Such nasty little things, with flesh-tearing barbs! On occasion, we even had to face the nauseating task of pushing hooks through the small fingers of children who should have been playing with safer things, but the nearest ToysRUs was about 15,000 miles away. Then again, perhaps my distaste dates back to an earlier childhood memory.

I can still visualize something that happened when I was five and we went to the drive-in for the first time in Massachusetts. The film was Peter Pan. Innocent enough, right? I’m sure my parents expected me to love being swept away into a world of fantasy in Never, Never Land. But for my tiny eyes, a thirty-foot image of the red-coat and black mustache of the villainous Captain Hook was enough to give me nightmares for weeks.

“He’s going to get me!” I shrieked. The sight of him snarling and scooping up young children with that pointy appendage horrified me.

“Karen, he can’t get you. It’s only a movie. It’s make-believe,” my parents assured. But such was my fear that they finally relented, took the clunky old speaker off the car window, and brought us home early that night--to the dismay of my brothers. Even now, I know that real fear can practically materialize out of thin air.

That same sense of dread came over me when people asked, What’s your hook? Do you have a hook? No, I thought. I don’t have one, and I don’t really want one either. I don’t like anything that even vaguely reminds me of that mean old Captain, or the screaming children. Can’t I just speak from the heart? I hate memorized speeches and a canned sales-approach to sacred matters of the heart.

My mind balked at the very thought of trying to corner some publisher and “sell him” on my writing. The whole business seems as sinister as the snarling Captain on a pirate ship. This is my whole life, my alabaster box ready to be broken and poured out for the Lord. How can I treat it like something to be snagged or sold? Never! Never land me there!

Though everyone was wonderful at Wheaton, much of what I was hearing in the first two days wrought real fear in my heart. The talk on the street, at least the way I was picking it up, went something like this: "Good luck! Nobody wants what you’re selling. Great stories, but no market value. Better write for magazines and try to get a byline first. Practice and rehearse your hook if you do get a slot with an editor. Don’t blow your first interview because you never get a second chance to make a first impression. Oh, and none of the top editors will ask you for anything on paper, so don't even worry about printing anything."

Man, do I have a lot to learn, I cowered. I don’t know anything! I was reminded of young David with my five little stones in a well-worn pouch. I’ve just been in a wilderness out there by myself. How can I even think about making any valid connections my first time up to bat? But as I turned these things over in my mind and turned to the Lord in prayer, I sensed that the message on my heart was beginning to take a whole new shape. More importantly, I began to be more convinced and convicted that this message was not mine, but God’s.

The next day was Thursday, June 8th. I attended a wonderful worship service and tears flowed freely down my cheeks. I was praising God and singing of his glory. I yielded all to Christ and put my faith in Him alone. Afterwards, there was a panel discussion with twelve voices across the spectrum of Christian publishing. Throughout the session I paid close attention and took copious notes on everyone’s answers and opinions. The MC of the meeting was from Tyndale House and everything he said seemed to stand out above the rest. THIS is what I feel, I kept thinking. THIS is my passion! By the time the meeting wrapped, I stood up with a definite realization. I need to talk to that man. But how, Lord?

Having just opened my eyes to the goal, the Lord was now ready to lead me to it. “Go to the board,” he said softly. I turned around, and walked straight up the aisle out of the theater without talking to anyone. All I could think was, go to the board, go to the board. I wound through the lines of women clustered around the book tables and coffee urns and turned to the right, down a hallway lined with sign-up sheets for all the visiting editors.

My heart pounded as I made my way along the wall. From Z to P, I searched for the name of the man I’d just heard. There it was, one of the most limited in offerings, Mr P’s sheet only had SEVEN lines for about 250 attendees to jostle over an entire five-day conference. I blinked in disbelief. The second line must have just been scratched out and no one had taken the slot yet! I pulled my pen from my purse and wrote my name with a trembling hand. Literally, the letters looked like they were scrawled during an earthquake!

Then I remembered, what about my other meetings? I’d already taken my allotted limit, and another was scheduled that very afternoon, so I felt bad about upsetting the whole apple cart. I finally found the list and saw that my name had been deleted with a large black X. The other editor had been canceled. God had already arranged everything!

Face Not Fake!
But what had I done? Now I would have to FACE this heavyweight champion in the publishing world! I should go to some corner and start memorizing the best darn speech of my life, I thought.

No, I can’t fake it. Lord, I have to speak from my heart. Put your words in my mouth and if this is your will, let them hit their mark. Yes, like David, I cannot put on Saul’s armor now. I haven’t tested it. I will pull the smooth stones out of my well-worn pouch and trust you to slay this giant.

At lunch, I quickly scarfed down some salad and headed to the auditorium, scouting for the prestigious name, Mr. P. Here goes nothing!

I started with words of thanks and appreciation for the opportunity to sit down together. Then I proceeded to hear myself outlining the reasons why I wanted to talk to him. I listed three things he had said in the panel discussion, explaining from my heart why they resonated so clearly with my own passion. He nodded with approval and I launched into describing the writing I’ve done and what I have on my heart. I'm sure I exceeded the recommended minute-long spiel, but he broke into a generous smile. Then he asked a question I never thought I would hear. “Do you have anything on paper?”

What? I felt like shouting, EVERYONE SAID YOU WOULDN’T ASK FOR PAPER! Instead, I bit my lip, reached into my folder, and gave him the prepared manuscript. I think I had stopped breathing at that point.

As I looked on, with my stomach and heart doing the rhumba together, he read two chapters. He read so quickly I wondered if he was really getting everything. Then he folded the pages back, paused, and looked at my wide eyes. “Your writing is very good,” he began. “It’s almost poetic! I like the opening, the arc and shadows. You drew me in very quickly, from the first sentence!”

I wondered if some cartoon character had just clapped some cymbols over my ears. They seemed to be ringing and I was feeling faint. Oh, maybe he’s just being a super nice guy and is now preparing for the big punch. I expected the next words to be, “But we don’t need this sort of thing, so keep trying.” Instead, he smiled again and actually started quoting the passages he liked best. Are editors super human in retention capabilities?

He gave me some great tips and we talked some more about the story. Then he announced, “I want more. Can you send me more of what you have?” He gave me his email address and told me what to write in the header saying, “I’ll remember you.” Wow! It was all such a blur I probably wouldn’t have even remembered all this unless I had written it down as he was speaking.

Dear God, that giant was slain and I am more amazed than anyone. The first conference in my life and I know there are writers who have been trying to do this for twenty-five years. I walked outside in stunned silence and looked up at the sky. Dear Lord, what an amazing gift of hope and encouragement you have given me. And you know what day this is. You have certainly saved a wonderful present for this special day, my wedding anniversary. If Frank were still here, we'd be celebrating it together.


There’s a timeless lesson in how this whole event transpired. No matter what everyone else is doing, no matter what others may expect, or how seasoned those soldiers may be, NOTHING can replace a simple trust in God. All the do's and don’ts I had been hearing seemed like Goliath’s spear and breastplate. His helmet and stature grew more threatening with every word, BUT GOD will be glorified as we go in faith. Although you may feel like young David stepping out before the Philistine armies, when you go in God’s Name, even a pebble can slay a giant.

I certainly don’t intend to undermine the advice of those who have gone before us. There is wisdom in hearing the counsel of many, but we need to know God’s Word and rely on his power above all else. We need to listen and trust him when we face life’s battles. All else is secondary.

Conclusion
So let me ask you, what’s your hook? What’s the thing in your life that you’re told you have to have or have to do in order to succeed? What’s the thing you fear or the thing you think impossible to achieve? Is it something contrived in the mind of man, like some shady cartoon character with a sneer? Is it something "THEY" say and you’ve just accepted it, hook, line and sinker?

Cast off such nasty barbs. The only hook you need is the one that binds you live by faith and not by sight (2 Cor 5:7-8).  God replaces tears and sorrow with joy and hopeful anticipation for a bright future.

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The Lord bursts through our logjams and makes all things new!

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We despaired... we felt the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead... and he will deliver us.

On him we have set our hope
that he will continue to deliver us... 
Then many will give thanks on our behalf
for the gracious favor granted us
in answer to the prayers of many.

(2 Cor 1:8-11)