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 love. The worst part of being a writer, then, is that I find just how often I’m losing the plot. Either I know the plot and tell it to screw off, or I just forget it in a bout of soul amnesia.
Or I just act like a prick. One of those three.
So when I pound on my macbook air—because God knows I handwrite like a clumsy eight-year old boy who just finished fourth in an arm-wrestling tournament—I brush up against a way I want to live but so often don’t, or worse, can’t.
Words are prepackaged hopes, gifts I wrap for the world but am still fumbling to unwrap with my heavy hands. With each movement of my fingers, I am becoming blissfully and painfully aware of grace I’m too proud to have experienced yet.
In that way, I guess, writing is my own way of saying: dear everybody, I might have a gift to wrap gifts for us—a way of seeing beauty in life’s raw stuff with all its things & people— but I sure as hell need your help opening them with me. I’ll need you just like you’ll need me to throw a few lights on in my life, tell me that I’m pretty good 51% of the time and loved the other 49% by the people I see but often ignore and the God I can’t see & even more often ignore.
You know, help me find the Plot. Again.