Writing

Writing has been hard lately–so, so difficult, like pulling weeds, like coming up against a stone wall repeatedly and unexpectedly. 

Finding words has been like looking for needles in the dark, like looking for a landmark in a thick, suffocating fog.

Nurturing ideas has been like the most delicate work with a micropipette or tweezers or a scalpel–tricky, dangerous work that’s easily destroyed by one wrong choice.

Mustering up the courage to write has been like searching for the mythic white whale or white stag or unicorn. I forget, sometimes, how very much courage it takes to write well and honestly and truly. 

I hate that writing has become a battle, with myself and with the words. 

I miss trusting the words and trusting God so effortlessly that the words flowed without stopping up, with barely a ripple.

Now I’m just glorifying the past. Writing has always been difficult. 

I expected it to become practiced, habitual, easy. I had visions of sitting in a beautiful room, at a wonderful, tidy desk, writing steadily and well for hours at a time. Someday.

Funny, the things I find when I really look at myself. I would have always said that, Of course writing will always be hard work. Of course writing well and honestly will always be difficult, because the tasks worth doing are always difficult. Of course. Funny how I expected older me to somehow have perfected the art of writing into a science. 

What is success?

As I prepare to graduate, and as I approach the date with no long-term plans for afterwards, I find myself thinking about my writing. My prospects are slim for getting a job straight out of my summer internship, and one goal I have is to make writing more than a hobby.  More than something I do in odd moments and only for myself. 

That goal feels so far away. The viewing numbers of this blog are pathetic. My novels are all half-written at best. The list of publications I’ve been paid to write for is nowhere close to becoming a double-digit number. The money I make from writing is barely a trickle. 

Yet, when I list my writing achievements to others, they are always impressed, even enthusiastic. “That’s so amazing!” they say, with utter sincerity, and “You could do far worse than the places you’ve been published in so far.” 

I have accomplished something as a writer. Sure, there’s more to do, more I’d like to do–always–but I have written pieces and reached goals that are worth celebrating. Sure,  I haven’t reached the point where I could live off of my writing, but I do make money, and I’ve worked hard and reached so many mile marks in the past year alone. Having farther I’d like to go doesn’t mean I haven’t already come far. I can be proud of what I’ve accomplished so far but still have more that I dream of doing.

So, that’s where I am right now: proud of what I’ve accomplished, but dreaming and planning and writing still.

Stories

By some odd coincidence, two of my classes right now are covering basically the same material. The only difference is, one professor chose to have us read an informational article about the topic, and the other chose to have us read a memoir. The difference was … incredible. When I sat down with a small group to discuss the article, I had to look it over again to even remember what the argument had been; when I sat down to talk about the memoir, I couldn’t stop talking, and I don’t think I opened the book even once. The memoir worked its way into my imagination and through there into my heart. I’ve found myself mulling over stories the author told in a way I don’t do after reading an article.

There’s something so powerful about stories. They seize our imaginations and our hearts; they teach us at a visceral level that recitations of ideas or facts can’t even get close to; they show us what an idea means and introduce us to new ideas. Stories engage our whole being.

People talk about learning styles: visual learning, verbal learning, social learning, and so on. I’ve always struggled to place myself in any particual camp (or even a few). But, sitting in class talking about that article, something clicked. I learn through stories. That’s the deepest, truest way I learn. I’m that person who always wants to tell people, “I read a book about that!” (I don’t; I doubt anyone finds that comforting or helpful) But stories work their way into my heart and change me.

Stories are my heart language, my learning style. I dream of giving life to stories, of sharing their joy with others. Stories are life-giving, and I want to give.

Fear

There’s so much fear in my life as a writer:

When I see “I was a professional writing major.” I was no such thing. My studies have been a joy in so many ways, but none of them had ‘writing’ in the title. I feel unqualified to become a writer, to put my writing out there. ‘I must fail, because I haven’t had all that training.’ I know nothing about the writing trade, and I’m learning as I go. I’m just someone who loves to read, who loves to write, who has all these feelings and ideas and knows no way to get them out except through writing, who loves to create beautiful things.

When I see somewhere I’d love to get published. But am I good enough? Is my writing? Is it really a good fit? How do I make myself stand out from all the others who want to write for you? What will I write?

When I sit in front of a blank page, waiting for the words to come. It’s such a place of trust. Will the words come? Will God come? What if I haven’t been listening hard enough? What if I have been separating myself from God all day; what right do I have now to come to this place of worship and expectation, and hope that God will come, when I’ve been shoving God away all day, all week? Or what if God and I disagree about the words that are needed? Sometimes I don’t have the strength to give in.

When I think about the future. Can I make this writing thing work? Am I submitting enough? To the right places? It’s just so overwhelming!

When I get ready to submit something. Is it any good? Will they accept it? Yes, submitting anything is a victory, but… That’s a bit of my soul I’m sending out.

When I think about writing. Writing is a lot of work. I think of stories I’d love to write, ones that need research. When will I do that, and how? How can I go from my images and emotions to words on a page? The work involved scares me.

When I read an amazing book. ‘I’ll never be this good.’ Everything that they did well, I despair of ever doing half as well. Will anyone ever be so completely drawn in and enchanted by my writing, as I am by theirs? It seems impossible.

 

Being afraid frightens me. I would much rather not be afraid, thank you very much. I would much rather power on through, supremely confident of my own abilities and where I’m going. Of course, that also sounds like a fantastic way to become an arrogant monster, so perhaps it’s for the best.

I can’t ignore my fear; it’s certainly not going away. Ignoring it sounds a lot like trying to stuff everything you hate in the closet until your closet explodes. Not going to go well, in other words. I can’t just pretend I’m not afraid, because I am. But then, life is scary too. There’s just as much uncertainty, just as much vulnerability, at least in the life I hope I’m living, the one that I strive for.

Sometimes I just have to acknowledge my fear, say, “Hey, I see you there” and then move on. And then do it anyway. My fear constricts me, but I’ve started to fight against it, to fight for the freedom to follow my dreams rather than allowing my fears to trap me where I am. Sometimes I just need to acknowledge my fears, say, “This is what I’m afraid of,” and go through everything that could happen if my fears were true. And you know what? Most of them are things I’m completely willing to live with. This article won’t get accepted; I’ll have to rewrite that devotional. I will have been foolish, perhaps, made mistakes, but I will have been fighting for the life I dream of. I will have been fighting for what God has gifted me to do. I will have been fighting to follow God, one step at a time.

I am afraid. But is it anything worth being afraid of?

A Writer?

Sometimes writing is just so overwhelming, whether because I have too many ideas, not enough, too many ridiculous expectations of myself, or just feel utterly inadequate. I’m someone who struggles with writing. It’s something I feel preposterous even admitting, as someone who wants to be a writer. Even more so as someone who is slowly beginning to call herself a writer.

Then again, what makes one a writer? Naming oneself? Writing? But what? How much? Is publication a necessity? How much? Where? Would my high school newspaper have been worse than an established magazine, made me less of a writer?

Is it how one writes? On paper or on a computer? Totally focused, regularly, sporadically, in spare moments, with distractions every few moments? I’ve done all of these.

Maybe categories aren’t the point. Maybe I’ve been a writer ever since I started my first journal in third grade. Maybe I’ve been a writer ever since I started wanting to be one, an event that’s much harder to pinpoint. Maybe it doesn’t matter, because I’m a writer now. Maybe it’s because of none of those things, but simply because God has placed the call, the need to write on my heart.

What can I do but write?

Doubt (Five Minute Friday)

Doubt.

This post comes at a time when doubt is beginning to creep in, when the shine is wearing off a new term, a new apartment, a new routine. The everyday is settling in; my optimism is rolling back. Is it possible to get everything done? Is it worth it? What is worth doing, and what is worth not?

Am I even doing the right thing?

The world is such a broken place. How does my one little corner, full of words and books and classes and a few hours in ministry, accomplish anything? How can I do such small things when the need is so big, so huge? I’m an ant before a dinosaur; smaller. The day is so long and yet so short, filled quickly with work and class and cooking and spontaneous conversations, and at the end of the day… what have I actually accomplished?

Yet what else can I do? I have been called here. After a few years of trying to finagle my way out, I’m quite sure that here is exactly where I’m supposed to be. And I am a writer; not because of anything I’ve published, but because words just keep on coming out, crying to be put on paper. Because Writer is a title stamped on my heart, right next to Child of God.

Who am I to argue with where God has placed me? It may not make sense, but I trust. I’ve gone off on my own before, and that’s never EVER gone well. I’m going to keep doing what I can, and give the rest to God; for God is always by my side, helping me out when I can’t manage. Which is pretty much all the time.