Write about your favorite round of applause; that one time when you were clapping so hard your hands were stinging, or the overwhelming sound of it as it filled the room in waves like thunder, or that experience you had when applause seemed the only proper response in that moment.
Write a word, write a sentence, write a story, write a scene.
(Here’s a few examples to get you intrigued.)
Example #1:
Five hours. Two testimonies. Six songs. Eight saved. Three, Four, Ten rounds of applause.
One night. One Jesus.
Example #2:
The lecture hall was quite empty for the presentation that afternoon. This I found surprising, since I figured that the title “#YAFic” would send everyone at the Literature Convention for the Philosophical and Pretentious simply dashing for a seat.
That was sarcasm, if you missed it. You might notice, if you look again, that this writing convention took place at a college full of pretentious, tea-drinking literary snobs, who preferred titles like “Refining the Art of Psychoanalyzing Your Characters” over and above one with a hashtag.
God forbid our titles aren’t complete sentences with words over three syllables.
So as I selected a seat near the back, unfolding the tiny desk attached to my theater chair and spreading my belongings around me in a nest of creativity, I questioned the wisdom of coming myself. Sure, I hated tea and refused to write with a parchment and quill like some of these people, and maybe I did enjoy young adult literature more than most other genres (give me Thoreau and I would vomit), but really? A hashtag in the title? I mean, it’s one thing to attach hashtags to your presentation, but in the title? That was truly taking the ‘be relevant to the youth’ principle to the extreme.
Then this guy, this author guy with the hashtag title, walked to the front of the room, his sinewy muscles and mountain-climber figure evident even from my birds-eye-view from the back. With a broad smile set in his rugged, energetic face and eyes that looked directly into your own until you felt like he was looking straight into your soul, I couldn’t help but look surprised.
I mean, let’s be clear here–this guy looked NOTHING like a YA author.
Sure, I suppose there’s no guidebook describing the exact description of an author who writes for those crazily hormonal young adults in need of love triangles and melodrama.
I guess I can’t say that this guy really looked NOTHING like that kind of author, since I don’t know exactly what one would look like, but You get what I mean:
He was not what I was expecting.
For someone who was supposed to be typing away at his computer day in and day out, composing dystopian societies and characterizing “unique” female heroes, this guy was surprisingly–not like that. As he clicked through his seamless presentation, the screen lit with a flawless design you can’t find in Google Slides or Prezi, I was drawn to this guy–this author who dared to use hashtags in his titles and who knew how to make a visually stimulating presentation despite the fact that he looked ready to climb a mountain. Soon I was lost in frantically trying to note everything that left his mouth, because somehow I knew that this wisdom would serve me for many years to come.
He was nothing that I had expected. He was athletic and honest and straightforward and charismatic. He told his own personal story of loneliness and loss with the familiarity of a friend–a familiarity that wasn’t supposed to be possible at a writing convention, and wasn’t supposed to be exercised by real authors with real titles and real mugs of tea in their hands.
But he was more real than all of them. He was himself. And he was inspiring.
As he concluded his presentation with a prayer of blessing over each of us in the room, I felt tears dripping down my cheeks and into my open palms. For the first time in a long, long time, I felt deeply inspired and incredibly passionate about something, and I felt a resounding peace settle in the depths of my soul.
With the final amen, I leapt to my feet and clapped until my hands stung from over enthusiasm. I hoped he could hear in the gratefulness and appreciation and respect in my applause. I hoped he knew, as the room filled with a standing ovation and the entire audience swept at tear-stained cheeks, how much he had done for us.
the Story Café 
I absolutely adore watching well-performed musicals. My favorites include Les Miserable, The Lion King, and Newsies. Those are the shows I’ve seen done at a Broadway level. And each time I couldn’t help but leap to my feet to applaud. The singing and dancing were inspired and brought tears to my eyes. What an amazing Creator we have that gives us such abilities!
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Same! I never even thought about this until now but you are so right–one of my favorite performances of all time was seeing Wicked in London and I will never forget the applause at the end of it. Thanks for sharing!
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