I'm supposed to be writing tonight, but as I sit quietly in the corner of this coffeehouse, I realize that purposefully taking time out to do so proves to be more difficult than my imagination makes it out to be. This isn't new; each time I intend to spend a significant amount of time writing, I somehow find that I have nothing to say. How can that be when every moment of every day, I try to make sense of the jumbled mess of thoughts that are bursting to be written out? You'd think that they'd spill out the moment I give them a chance to, but instead it's as if they've suddenly got stage fright, like they're shy children who refuse to say out loud what they've whispered to their mother in the privacy of their own home.
But God said, "Write." The message was direct--and confirmed many times. The most recent time was perhaps an encouragement for me to do so, sure, but sometimes, his confirmation feels overwhelming, and I think, "How in the world will I ever write anything worthy of what You want me to say?" Part of me has wondered if this desire in me was born of my own selfishness, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that my desires are lining up with God's dreams for me--and isn't that the way it should be? Before, His gentle encouragement felt like Him saying, "Sure! Go ahead and write." But now? I feel a sense of urgency, like it's a sort of command--like I need to do it, like I must do it, like something's on the line and I need to do my part--and I don't want to disappoint. Oh, how easily I could disappoint the God of the universe. The Creator of the universe. The ultimate in creativity. He's got endless reserves of it. There's no end to it. How can my piddley little mind create anything worthwhile? Anything of particular interest or wonder? I'm just me, little ol' me, with a heart desperate to write, and words bubbling up to the surface and falling into a jumbled mess.
The problem is that there's simply so much to say, and I honestly don't know where to start. I have stories--several, in fact. But they live inside of me, they're mine--and to put them to paper risks someone else sharing them. Which, I suppose, is exactly what a good author would want, isn't it? Isn't that the point? To create something for another to enjoy, or to enjoy right along with someone else? Watching the face of my daughter as I read a story to her that I've written, seeing her smile as she points to the picture that makes her breath catch in her throat, knowing that her uncle drew it for her to enjoy? Knowing that somehow my experience could encourage or inspire someone who's encoutering the same sort of heartache that I've walked through? It all feels so important, so overwhelming, so necessary, so difficult.
I think that people assume that writing is easy. It's not. It's perhaps one of the most difficult things in the world, but like anything, if you love it, or if you're good at it, it comes a lot more easily than for those who do not share the same sort of sentiment toward it. As for me, I love it. I love it so much that I pray that one day it will be my occupation. To write, to read, to raise my children, and to serve my Lord. Perhaps somehow they'll all be related.
For now though, I must not be morose when I do have an opportunity to write. Slunking around feeling sorry for myself that I cannot do what I love simply won't work. Instead, stealing every moment possible, writing down every last thought or idea that happens to cross my mind during the course of a normal day, exploring thoughts and ideas on paper or on screen--someday it will count for something. And someday starts today.
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