In college, my writing professor shared an interesting quotation with his students (a line I’ve just learned was said by novelist Philip Roth): “Nothing bad happens to a writer. Everything is material.” I didn’t take it too seriously at the time. It just seemed like an extension of the old writer’s mantra, “Write what you know.”

Not long after that, Taylor University Fort Wayne (my alma mater) was visited by Jerry B. Jenkins, author of the then-popular Left Behind books. He gave a special lecture to all the students of the communications department. One thing he said has stuck with me in the decade since. He admitted that he’d had a comparatively “easy” life—and lamented that that meant his “writing well” wasn’t as deep as others’. I was surprised by this, to say the least. Not that I was a huge fan of his writing (I tried reading the first Left Behind book and got bored after two chapters), but it seemed a little strange.

I don’t like getting too personal on this site. I had a blog for that for a long time (not anymore), but I often thought I revealed too much there. I like maintaining a certain level of privacy, especially since I’m in a position to become a public figure.

That being said, I’ve faced the greatest trials of my life since college. I’ve struggled to find work. I’ve lost jobs. I’ve had several painful break-ups. I’ve scraped by on little money. That’s just a few of my tribulations.

Twice I’ve gone to a pastor I’ve known all my life for counseling. I don’t mean I saw him on two occasions—I mean I’ve twice gone to him once a week for several months. During both of those times, he told me the same thing: “I think this is to make you a better writer.” I was frozen in shock. On one hand, I wanted my suffering to end. On the other, I wanted to be a better writer.

If you study an artist’s works enough, you can get to know them. His worldview bleeds through. His thoughts, emotions, and philosophies are the metaphysical raw materials he uses to create the work. People gravitate toward certain artists or works because they can identify with them; they have a kinship with them, just like they would with friends and family.

For example, I identified with Clark Kent from Smallville because for a long time I felt like that show was a superhero version of my life. Clark was raised with old-fashioned values in a small Midwest town; he had trouble talking to the girl he liked; he was betrayed by his best friend (Lex Luthor); and he often suffered for doing the right thing. (I won’t say more for the sake of privacy). I doubt that show would’ve had the potency it did unless the creators had experienced similar things themselves. You can’t fake something like that.

The same is true of my own stories. I often use them to try to make sense of my own life. I fill them with disguised versions of my own questions, longings, and disappointments. Honestly, I often wrestle with God in them. But this usually happens subconsciously. My journal is where I do intentional (and often Hamlet-esque) introspection. Regardless, I don’t think I would’ve written the stories I have if not for my life experience.

These stories aren’t just for me, though. Heck, I wouldn’t even say they’re primarily for me. They’re for you, my readers. Each one is, in a way, an invitation for you to examine your own life and find answers to your questions. I may not always have answers for you, but they can inspire you to take a journey of discovery. You may see a piece of yourself in one of my characters. You may identify with one of my plotlines. However it happens, consider it a service I offer you besides simple entertainment. (And if that’s all you get out of them, then I helped you escape from your problems for a short time).

Who knows, I may save you thousands in therapy bills.