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Donna K. Wallace | Donna K. Wallace | Writer

Posts by DKW Nomad Leader

Uncle Remus, John Wayne, Jerry Falwell & Me

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What is your speaking voice? Is it different than your voice at the dinner table or in the pub or on the baseball field? Do you take on a persona that sounds a whole lot like someone else—your hero maybe?

Have you visited a church only to discover that all the pastoral staff sounds eerily alike? I have.

Of course, when we visit churches we are hearing denominational language, but I’m talking about voice inflection, slang, prayers, illustrations. I guarantee that in churches who pride themselves as being on the leading edge, they work hard to sound hip and laid back like college kids. Even when the pastor is 45 or 50?

Still, the most extreme example of this was when I (never having met a black person in real life until I moved away from home to Ohio) met new white friends, we hung out, laughed and played…

Uncle-Remus-&-MeBut when we went to church all of a sudden they prayed and preached like black people. I was baffled. I didn’t yet know that Pentecostalism has its root in African American spirituality and was astounded to watch this fascinating drama play out: when the “Spirit fell”, white people who are otherwise poker faced, uncoordinated and stiff as boards, started dancing and acting and sounding black. I couldn’t help but wonder what full-spirited cowboys and ranchers from CO might look and sound like. Cowboys square dance and do the two-step for a reason. Native Americans shuffle and hi-yi-yi and pound drums because that is authentic to their design.

Church felt confusing and lonely. It was a culture foreign to me. I didn’t belong and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

What is my song? What is my dance? Maybe I don’t have one.

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12 Reasons to Write Even When it’s a Time Hog

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Who knew this venture into the unknown worlds of your imagination, that stroll down memoir lane, or the pull of the blogosphere would soon overtake all other passions, casual outings (bull riding, garage sale-ing, hang gliding, storage unit organizing) and rob you of sleep and sunset strolls.

12-Reason-to-WriteIn spite of its rooting up black dirt of your life like Bertha the pig happily looking for truffles, there are countless reasons for writing, many of them honorable. Below is a list of a dozen proven truths to justify what otherwise seems like a pork-ish endeavor:

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Blitz Blockers: 7 Questions to keep you from Getting Slammed, Part II

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Are you perpetually stuck in crunch time?

Does you work extend past 8-10 hours per day? A blitz of concentrated effort is the way to wrap a scene, launch a product, slam dunk a fundraiser…once or twice a year. But if your work days extend past 8 -10 hours any more frequently and for longer periods than a week or two, you are establishing a dangerous lifestyle design, a recipe of great and enduring fatigue and loneliness.

My mom used to say, “Necessity is the mother of invention.” She was right. It is time for you to choose, to give yourself some love and come up with a new plan, a new way of pursuing your mission.

Missions are not accomplished on auto-pilot!

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When Life Becomes The Blitz

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BlitzDo you find yourself putting life on hold “just until you finish this project?” Until you are on the other side of “that impending deadline?” Seasonal blitzes are the way we get things done, dial it in, focus, knock it out of the park. A blitz of concentrated effort with all hands on deck is the way to go…once or twice a year. But what happens when life itself become, “the blitz”?

When I was a collaborative writer for celebrity authors, my life was entirely deadline driven—always someone else’s deadline. Notice I didn’t say, “my work day” was deadline driven. No, I allowed years of priceless time with family, friends, neighbors, community outreaches… to pass by because my days were perpetually in CRUNCH TIME.

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My 9/11 Story

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My 9-11 story began on the 405 Freeway. My greatest obsession for several months leading up to the big event was that damn SoCal freeway. Everything paled in comparison to the dreaded commute between Newport Beach and Anaheim. What if I went into labor during traffic hour?

God was merciful, my husband protective, and the baby content to stay put for a few hours after my water broke, so I was able to stall labor until traffic reports gave the “all clear.” Making great time, we sped north toward Kaiser hospital. It was then that I turned to the baby’s father at the wheel and said, “This child needs a name.”

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