While writing my novel I truly felt God’s pleasure. And I know that He felt mine towards Him. I walked in His love, understanding the magnitude and limitlessness of His blessings and I glimpsed the heritage of deity that is offered to me as His daughter.
The magic and mystery of writing, of sobbing next to my computer when one of my characters had broken my heart with the choice that he had made, felt euphoric and otherworldly. Writing was my passageway to a secret place where worlds are created and souls are brought to life. We required nothing more from each other–writing and me–than a promise to meet each night after my kids were in bed. Until, allowing myself to be influenced by others–well meaning as they may have been–I began to wonder if I should be requiring more.
“are you published?”… “it’s nearly impossible to get published”… “you can’t make money with writing”… “unless you know the right people, writing’s pretty much a waste of time”
Turns out that if you tell people you’re a writer they in turn will tell you–in not so many words–that you are a fool. And just like that my beautiful, otherworldly sanctuary became corrupted by this world of money, statistics and practicality.
I started to feel self conscious and selfish for spending my time on something that–by the worlds measurements–had no worth. So I quit my nightly rendezvous and tried to work on “better” things. Until the world of blogging knocked me right off the wagon and back into self indulgence.
But blogging felt different. Blogging was public, unpolished and open. And as much as I loved to write I couldn’t get over the level of vulnerability that came with it. So once again I moved on to “better” things.
Unable to permanently stay away, posting on Facebook became my new outlet, leading my sister, my mom and some friends to say, “I miss your words. Please start writing again.” And the truth is that I missed me too. Because writing is me. So I started a new blog and I promised to write which, in time, sent me bolting back to the security of “better” things.
Now as I write of these, my “better” things, I see that they too can be placed into the category of self indulgence. And yet no one has ever asked me what I plan to do with working out or how I plan to make money decorating. They–and more importantly I–find value in these things simply for the soul fulfilling happiness they bring to my life.
I am a writer. That is a complete sentence with nothing more to add. I am a writer. I don’t need an agenda. I don’t want a plan. All I want are sleepless nights and stomach butterflies. I want to look up to find my chores completed while my mind’s been off at play. I want to sneak from my bed and tiptoe through the wardrobe to find dear friends, awaiting my return. I want to listen to their stories with reverence and awe, honored to be chosen to bring them to life.
I am a writer. A writer who’s discovered that a novel awaits, a novel meant for me.
Hot dang, the butterflies have already started.