Becoming a Writer

The past several months have brought considerable change in my life. September 30^th 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.