“Writing is its own reward.” – Henry Miller
I love to write. I’ve been writing since I was a child. In junior high school, I wrote in my diary about the “dreamy” blue-eyed boy, Gary, who I had a crush on or the kind of “modern” house I wanted to have when I grew up, how I loved my cat Tabby and how much I wanted a horse.
I’d write fiction short stories, then hide them in my dresser drawer. My sister Maria would sneak into my bedroom, read them, and we’d fight, even though it should have been a compliment. I’d throw her Barbie doll, she’d scratch me with her long fingernails, and we’d both get into trouble by our parents. Today she is one of my biggest fans, for which I’m grateful.
My husband Ray has been encouraging me a long time to write fiction. Since I’ve never written one before, it’s treading new water and a little scary. But he feels it will “stretch” me as a writer.
I believe I’ll be writing books, articles, and blogs for the rest of my life. Annie Dillard wrote, “Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now.”
No, I don’t want to hoard words. I couldn’t anyway. I have to write; it’s innate, an obsession and a compulsion.
Yeah, I can break up with writing, tell it that I’m just done and so over it, but eventually I come back. It’s like word crack.
I believe writing is a gift God has given me, a treasure, and it’s not for me or about me. As the prophet Jeremiah said, “his word burns in my heart like a fire. It’s like a fire in my bones! I am worn out trying to hold it in! I can’t do it!”
Yes, a fire. At times the embers die, but when I fan them into flame, they ignite.
Words are a force and contain great power, like rocket fuel taking astronauts into an unexplored part of space like Mars-or like a 100-foot-wave tsunami that slams into a village, killing thousands.
Sometimes the writing is powerful, stark, slices right through someone’s heart, making a deep but needed wound to impart truth that you don’t really want to hear.
Other times, it bounces off the heart, like a neon-yellow, Wilson tennis ball. Flat. Boring. Inefficacious as wilted iceberg lettuce for a lunch salad.
But still, I can’t imagine a life without writing. Writing is life.
I’m participating in the writing contest: How Writing Has Positively Influenced My Life, hosted by Positive Writer.
Writing means freedom for me.
As I write, I learn about myself more. What I think, what I feel. What has happened in my life. And I heal more. Sometimes sharing my pain and struggles heals others, God’s grace droplets.
Ultimately, writing is telling God’s story, through my hands.
Hands open to receive and give life,encouragement, inspiration~and truth. Including what hurts, what angers, what violates, what seems just senseless.
Life is beautiful and sacred, but often very messy and gut-wrenching painful at times. We don’t understand it all. We can’t figure it out.
Nor should we. That’s God’s job. Ultimately He’s in control in the driver’s seat. We have to trust Him, and know that no matter what has happened or will happen, He is good and has good plans for us (Jeremiah 29:11).
But we as writers can write.
Writing helps us to get through life. Crying. Laughing. Coping. Overcoming. Inspiring.
Writing heals. Writing empowers.
Writing sets free.
Writing is beautiful.
Writing is a precious gift, to be unwrapped, opened, and enjoyed by you, me, others, like a sweet red wine and a thick, juicy prime rib steak. Or like a newborn, innocent baby, whose smile just melts us.
Don’t hoard your words. They matter too much. Give, give all, give now, as Annie Dillard wrote.
Never stop. Keep writing.