Any writer will tell you the inspiration-to-crap ratio is not good. I go through streaks where every sentence gets rewritten two or three times each, every attempt at style makes me feel like a try-hard, favorite words get waaaaaay overused, and the end result looks like a bunch of recycled ideas cobbled together. For any sentence I've written that's ever formed anyone, I've penned a dozen others that only moms would pretend to like. If my writing life is any indication of a
Trying to begin this post is like turning the keys over on an old Buick on a bone-chilling winter morning. It’s sputtery. It’s plodding. Every attempt feels like prayer, too. My breaths fume with desperate hope. This is odd, because my life is actually going well right now. Have you ever experienced a season where life hums and you don’t? When things feel clear, I suspect the whole world is a grand musical and I’m outside trying to figure out which flavor of Icee. Here’s what
Dear Liberal Arts Education (LAE), This is my official thanks to you for the bittersweet symphony you have made out of my early 20s. You met me under fluorescents and footnotes, putting all authority under microscope. I am convinced that is a very good thing, except that my soul is in knots: I can’t use my one voice without five others telling me I’m full of it. It wasn’t always like this. It began, you see, when an eighteen-year old punk arrived on campus. He loved Jesus an
I sat alone in Loring Park this morning. I was posted up on a bench-- legs crossed and extended-- with glazed eyes staring out past the mossy green pond and toward the cathedral in the distance. I’m trying to do more nothing recently, so I wasn’t trying to anything more than unplug and detox. I still couldn’t help but notice the pair on my right. The guy had a baggy navy cutoff, pocked skin, a black-and-gray mustache, and kept pacing around like he had some place to be. The
I found my soul on the corner of West Main and Highway 47. It was hiding, and I only needed pitter-patter of rain, George Bailey, and a few thousand poundings on my keyboard to uncover it. I was getting married the day after tomorrow. Kasey and I only invited those we thought would keep us to our vows, which left us with less than two dozen people. With a number that small and intimate, we decided to write each person a letter, telling them how grateful we’d been for th
I’m that guy that looks at celebrities’ Wikipedia pages, goes straight down to their personal life, and looks for the nitty-gritty spiritual beliefs. I don’t know when or why the whole fascination with who’s in and who’s out happened. Growing up, my aunt cut the world in two. You got your believers on one side and your unbelievers on the other. At first, I didn’t care because I was seven, and when you’re seven you don’t give a rip about Jesus unless he happens to be a billion
Truth is I’ve always been good at writing. But even just a few months ago telling people I was a writer felt kind of like telling people I’d found Ed Sheeran under my bed: maybe it’s true, but how the heck would anybody know? I’ve loved that I’ve been forced to write the last several months. Much like life, writing is a process that takes time, creativity, and a lil’ TLC. Much like life, it’ll surprise you the beautiful things that happen far beyond your expectations. I’ve be
Writing is a spiritual discipline for me. When I force myself to sit down and write, it’s like untangling thoughts into something you & I can experience together. I write so you’ll say, Life is like that, I hope God is like that, or, Maybe I don’t have to be a complete prick all the time. (OK, so sometimes I just write for myself.) The best part of being a writer, for me, is that I find that life’s a big, beautiful Story where God is at play, restoring all relationships to lo
I'm just trev.
I'm a 23-year old trying to make beauty out of life's raw stuff. I post stuff every Tuesday.