My internal alarm clock woke me at 7:00 this morning. I looked over to see JD still sleeping, and nowhere near waking up, so I got out of bed and prepared myself some oatmeal with honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon. I’ve been bitten with the writing bug again so I decided to read some past writing – summer 2005. I scrolled through post after post of my blog entries in Europe, and fell in love with the experience all over again. I emailed Teddy just to remind her of the Charles Bridge, Ebel Cafe, our massages, Cream and Dream, and the 20 pounds I gained overseas.
Now I’m nearly finished with my oatmeal and JD is snoring softly in the other room. These moments of solitude are precious to me. I thought of driving to a coffee shop, but home is nice and knowing my husband is nearby comforts me. Besides, Bakersfield doesn’t get much more original than Starbucks here, and buying drinks for full price at my previous place of employment is depressing.
Blog entry ideas have been floating around my head for days now. Just long enough for the novelty of the story to wear off and another new idea to surface. Time in my day does not often allow for the fruition of creative thought and so my ideas remain merely that – ideas. However, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve been bitten with the wriitng bug again. References to writing, stories, etc., literally flood my mind and enter my daily life throughout intersecting moments of each day. This frightens me. I owe it to God and myself to do something about it, but when it actually comes to sitting down with my laptop strategically placed and fingers hovering the keyboard, I feel as if I haven’t a clue where to begin.
And then God says, “write for me.”
Truth be known I haven’t written in months. More than months. My blog entries and meager journal entries do not constitute the discipline of sitting down with the intention of compiling extensive creative thought into an outline and then something cohesive and tangible – a story or essay perhaps. Herein lies my struggle. My expectations for myself shoot through the roof, and my perceived expectations of others go nearly as high. Instead of settling with writing crappy stories, essays, and poems (with the possibility of improving this craft), I simply run away and occupy my time with something else. Like myspace or facebook. Just as productive.
But it’s not about me. Or others really.
JD says, “just write.”
“Write about what?” I ask.
“Anything. Just write.” His candid, frank, and honest response.
He tells me Bakersfield will be very disappointed if I don’t get a book published someday 😉
Another encounter with my writer friend, Jenny Hall, further prods me to get over myself and just write.
“If you don’t like a story, just scrap it and start something new. If you see potential, work on it,” She says after I ask her what she does with stories she doesn’t like.
Jenny is going to start writing nonfiction again. I think I like nonfiction. It’s easier to write. Anybody can write about themselves.
Do you see what I do to myself? I put all this pressure and emphasis on the success of my silly words. When really, I just like to write sometimes and if I am writing for God, truly writing for God, then it doesn’t matter what I or anyone else thinks of it. God and I had this conversation the other day when He hit me with the epiphany that writing is worship and a discipline and it pleases Him. So do it because it pleases Him. (I’m dense. really dense sometimes)…
Oh, and another thing? It doesn’t have to be Christian writing to please God. Obviously I will most likely incorporate Jesus into my writing, but for some reason I put this burden on myself to produce cheesy Christian writing when it still glorifies God to write about ESPN (which I might blog about to explain later). It’s the craft not the content that brings Him glory.
Anywho… if you followed this nonsense all the way through – first of all, congratulations and thank you, and second of all… I’m going to start writing. I told my husband, and I am telling you. Once a week I will sit down for a few hours (to begin with at least) and write whatever my little heart contents and if it ever becomes something, fantastic, if not, fantastic – at least I wrote.