The
past several months have brought considerable change in my life. September 30th
was my last day working at Every Home for Christ. I left on good terms, and although
two or three co-workers questioned my decision to quit during such a poor
economy, I was blessed with the support of my friends and family. I had enough
of a financial buffer to go a few lean months without a job, and I was looking
forward to some time to pray, seek God’s vision for the future, and write.*
I have decided to become a writer.
For many, this so-called “decision”
will sound a bit silly. After all, I’ve been writing (although not finishing)
novels since I was in junior high. I have a degree in English. I read a lot,
and then I talk a lot about what I read. Of course I’m a writer!
But there has always been a safety
net, one which isn’t immediately apparent to others. You wouldn’t know it, but
somewhere in the back of my mind, I am whispering to myself, It doesn’t really matter. I enjoy writing,
but it’s just a hobby. I’m only playing.
This shrinking away—where nobody
knows it but me—keeps me safe if I fail, protects me from the vulnerability of
full commitment. Secretly, I have been holding out.
I’m tempted to wait until I know I’m a writer, deep in my gut. I want 100% certainty. I want a renowned writer
to press his hallowed fountain pen into my hand and pronounce, “Son, you’ve got
what it takes.”
Unfortunately, this mystical
passage into writerdom has yet to take place. “I am a writer” is a statement I
can only breach with a deep breath and a running start. I’ve read dozens of interviews
with writers, and they all say the same thing: insecurity is part of the job. Even
after being published, many writers wonder if it was a fluke. The more writers
I read, the more I realize that the only thing uniting them is a decision to
write, a decision that has to be made day after day after day.
I am a better writer than most
people I know, a sentiment that sounds proud until you consider that your
garbage collector is a better garbage collector than most people he knows. But
I am not a better writer than most people I read,
which is where insecurity comes in.
Not to mention the social
implications.
Every time someone asks me what I’m
doing these days, it’s with a certain sheepishness that I admit I’m working on
a novel. I’m afraid they might associate me with that pale dude who lives in
his parents’ basement, constantly mentions dead writers, and sometimes wears a
Batman onesie. (Wait a second… that’s me.)
Consider: I am 25 and living with
my parents. I am 25 and single. I am 25, and I just quit my full-time job with
benefits to work at a coffee shop and write a novel. From day to day, I can
hardly keep up the confidence that I am doing something worthwhile, let alone
explain this to someone else.
The greatest encouragement I’ve
found comes from (surprise!) Flannery O’Connor. She writes in a letter to a
friend, “No matter how just the criticism, any criticism at all which depresses
you to the extent that you feel you cannot ever write anything worth anything
is from the Devil and to subject yourself to it is for you an occasion of sin.
In you, the talent is there and you are expected to use it. Whether the work
itself is completely successful, or whether you ever get any worldly success
out of it, is a matter of no concern to you… You [must write only] for the sake
of returning your talent increased to the invisible God to use or not use as he
sees fit. Resignation to the will of God does not mean that you stop resisting
evil or obstacles, it means that you leave the outcome out of your personal
considerations.”
I could write an entire blog on
this idea alone, but I believe that we will all be held responsible for what we
have been given. Whether it is much or little, we must all bear increase to
God. That’s why I have chosen to be a writer. I’ve allowed ample time for the
desire to desert me, time to realize that writing was merely a schoolboy’s
dream. I don’t know that I am “called” to be a writer. But this desire, and the
skills the desire has honed, aren’t going away.
So I choose. And I am thankful for
the grace God has given me to keep that choice, with the encouragement of my
friends and family.
Choosing to pursue writing has been
difficult—more than I expected. But it is a choice I am free to make, whereas
other choices have not been opened to me. I have been reading Ecclesiastes, a
book of unlikely comforts, and it reminds me that we go through seasons. Yes, I
have decided to become a writer, but I will not always have 10 hours a week to
write. Seasons change. I hope to get married someday (soon?!) and have kids.
But I have been given this space,
today, to write—and I don’t want to have to give an explanation as to why I
squandered this time. Life offers seductive halls of ornate locked doors, all
of which must be ignored in favor of the few that are open.
The only commonality between
writers is that they write. And I think by choosing to write—in whatever
capacity I am able—I am entering territory that many so-called “writers” have
declined to tread. (How many artists, intercessors, entrepreneurs have yet to
follow the most basic necessities of their pursuits?) I must write. I must sit
down before a literal computer and type physical keys, and through this process
I must suffer the dry feeling that comes when all the advice and all the theory
and all the mysticism surrounding this mysterious endeavor is peeled away. I am
only writing.
I have committed to create for at
least 10 hours every week, a goal I have only come short of twice. Most days I
write for two hours—which takes three hours, because (similar to other important
endeavors) the first step is to surmount the distractions, insecurities, and
impediments to the work. This takes more or less time, depending on the day,
but I do not include that extra time in my weekly count. If there seem to be
fewer blogs lately, it is because I fear anything that might make me lose
momentum on my novel. There are many momentum killers. I follow the advice my
friend John Mark has posted next to his easel, which reads, “Don’t think. Just
work.”
I don’t know if I will ever be
published. I would love to sell millions of novels, to win a Nobel Prize for
literature. Heck, I would love to get a good review on Amazon. But being
published isn’t something I can decide. Writing is.
Of course, writing is but one of
the many things I give myself to, all of whose outcomes “are best left out of
my personal consideration.” To be a writer, or intercessor, or lover of God, or
lover of people—these are decisions which must be reawakened each new day,
dressed, and snapped to attention, to await what grace God will give.
*This is an impossibly brief recap
of the past several months. I will probably write more soon. Blogs aren’t
optimal for describing all that goes into a big life decision, but I’m happy to
talk in other forms if you’d like to hear the full story.
