Category: Writing

To elaborate on that comment in the last post, that I feel like myself again now that I’m writing: I’d love to say that’s an exaggeration. Perhaps the proper thing to say is that writing just makes me happier but even without it I am happy. I mean, I have a whole heck of a lot of good things in this little life of mine. Between the family, the friends, the stable job, the work in the Church… am I being ungrateful to set such stock in writing? Maybe. I don’t know what kind of analysis should made. All I know is that I feel most alive, most engaged with life, when I am writing. Do I need more of a reason for this desire to write or for my efforts to get published or for my restlessness when I have to set aside the writing for other responsibilities?

The other night someone asked me what is most important to me about writing. It took me a few tries to really hit on what he wanted to know and it came down to this: God made me a writer. He knew all along I’d be a writer. When I began to write it was not a planned change for my entire life. It happened during a period when my plans were falling apart and I had no idea what I ought to be doing or could expect to be doing in the future. I was unhappy, to put it nicely, and in need of something to satiate the frustration. I can’t even identify the starting point for what became Full of Days, my first novel. I don’t remember exactly how the idea formed or how seriously I took it at first. By God’s grace and encouragement, I did not ignore the notion of writing that book. As I proceeded with the attempt (honestly, until it was more than halfway finished I only considered it an attempt to write a book without any particular expectations for it), my whole self became engrossed in the work. There was joy in the hours I dedicated to writing, while there continued to be disappointment in most of the other hours. In hindsight, I think it was by God’s great wisdom that the beginnings of my writing endeavors were in the context of all that frustration and disappointment. The roots were able to take hold and grow strong so that even when other things changed for the better and life brought new and good opportunities, the writing wasn’t forsaken. I had too thoroughly tasted and loved the experience of writing to deem it a temporary occupation now that I had other things to do. It stuck. The desire is not lessened; the satisfaction continues to sustain me; the determination and hope remain.

When I began writing, I couldn’t have known what would come of it or what else my life would include. Heck, I still don’t know what will come of any of it. As I write at present, I still wonder what else will enter my life – what jobs, what relationships, what experiences – but I don’t wonder if I will continue to write. I am me and I will be me, no matter the setting or circumstances. I am a writer.

A few posts ago, I was tossing hypothetical coins into a hypothetical well, making what I acknowledged to be largely self-serving wishes. Among them was the desire for a whole month of Saturdays in which I could write my new book. Maybe I should voice my wishes more often!

Rather unexpectedly, a friend invited me to join a small group on a trip to Breckenridge, CO. As it was a somewhat last minute invitation, my first instinct was to not give it any serious regard. But my friend’s generous offer occupied every other thought in my head for the remainder of that day, so the serious regard couldn’t be avoided for too long. As the group is traveling there for skiing, of course, and I haven’t skied in over 10 years, I thought it’d be silly to tag along but not participate in the fun. And then I thought, “What a great idea to tag along but not participate in the fun!” Translation: for at least part of each of the five days in CO, I could have the chalet to myself while they are skiing. I could write! It might not be a month, but suddenly I was faced with the offer of five “Saturdays” for writing. Once this dawned on me, I could not put aside the idea of accepting my friend’s invitation. I told myself not to get my hopes up since there were several obstacles that would need to be overcome if I were to go. One by one, each obstacle worked out smoothly. I was left without any valid reason not to go.

So here I am, six days away from my first visit to the Rocky Mountains; plane ticket purchased; arrangements made; anticipation building. The others in the group are likely wondering if they should feel sorry for me when they’re heading out for some adventure on the ski slopes and I’m left to amuse myself at the house. I don’t know if I’ll be able to convince them not too offer their pity. I only know I won’t be in need of it.

Another friend, when I told him about the trip and my excitement about having the time to write, asked why I needed to go away to write. Couldn’t I just stay at home and do the same thing? Maybe I should be able to do that, but I just can’t. When I am at home, I have other responsibilities, other priorities with rightful claims on my time. It’s not as if the only incentive for going to Colorado is the writing hours. There is also the chance to see a breathtakingly beautiful area of the country which I have yet to visit. There’s the time that will be spent with several wonderful people (when they aren’t on the slopes). There’s the fact that the chalet we have for five nights is free of any expense to ourselves. But the writing hours do count as one of the incentives, without a doubt. After months of setting my book aside, of taking it off the priorities list (sometimes with and sometimes without complaint), I feel as if the Lord is saying, “Here you go. Here’s a little time for you and your pen and your paper. Take it. Enjoy it. Use it well. And while you’re at it, soak in some of the beauty I created in this world and have a grand time with some of the people I’ve placed in your life.”

Maybe my hypothetical wishing well wasn’t so hypothetical after all.

“Good sir, this is not good.”

If anyone can tell me what romantic comedy that line is from, I’ll bake you cookies and send them through the mail. And I make good cookies.

Anyway, I started a new book this morning. “Lord! What are You getting me into?” What the heck am I doing starting a new book when I’ve had to set aside my current writing project for an indefinite amount of time? But the idea was there, the first paragraphs were there and I simply had no way around it. The words had to be written down. Truth be told, I’ve started several books, insofar as I’ve written down the seeds of the idea or the first paragraphs, and then never returned to them. No big deal; I just dislike letting a possibly good idea completely slip away. They’re all projects that could be developed in the future or not, either way being okay with me. So maybe this one shouldn’t have me worried either. I don’t know, though. The concept solidified with remarkable swiftness and the urge to dive into it is strong. It’s different than any of the others. Nonfiction, for one thing. I’ve always felt I could write nonfiction should the right project, timing and impetus converge on me. What will come of this is anyone’s guess. At the moment though, it’s just making it harder to dedicate myself to the responsibilities immediately at hand.

Oh yeah, and I have a vague idea for another novel too but that hasn’t been written down yet. This hole I’m standing in just got dug a little deeper. It’s getting tough to see from here.