You don't really need to read this
It happens quite often now. I'll be walking or reading, doing something that gets my thinking gears going and I'll say to myself, "Here's an idea, here's a story: write it."
I go to write and find that I've hit a wall. Because I want my writing to be like the writers I read, with sentences that start with a thought and end with a woah. The kind of writing that uses words in such a way that you can't help but admire the very art of their usage and how the words transmit a message more powerful in their placement than their pronunciation.
I read about motherhood, marital sufferings, and political opinions, and the way that the writer conveys their raw emotions makes me feel like writing some of my own. I wince, because it comes to mind that maybe I don't even have those "raw emotions".
I was with some friends, and one of them mentioned something we had both heard of and they said it made them almost cry. I thought of my reaction, and I definitely hadn't cried. Maybe something's wrong with my heart.
Perhaps I could make them up. Conjure the emotions by focusing on something till it really wrenched my heart and then I could effortlessly write an awe-inspiring story that pierces hope and meaning into the reader.
But maybe writing isn't my thing.
So I don't write. More and more, I write less and less.
While reading about writing somewhere or other, I learned about how you're supposed to start out your paragraphs with different words so that there's variety and the reader stays engaged. I notice that many of these paragraphs and sentences start with "I" and almost go back to rewrite, but the fact of the matter is that to do that would be deceitful. It would cover up that this is really about me and my selfishness.
I this, I that, I was, I am, I will, I won't.
I want to tell stories, but they don't seem good enough. I want to have figured out my problems, but they don't seem bad enough. I want to always be focusing others to Christ and the way He helps and heals me each day, but then my words just aren't adequate enough.
So I read other people's raw emotions and soak up their deeply meaningful writing and wish I could be like them. My comfort is that I can make butterfly shaped pb&j sandwiches by using a cookie cutter. They make 4 yr olds happy and it's fun to smoosh the white bread as if it's playdough.
No one writes about that though. Or if they do, they make it sound really meaningful. I just make the sandwich and wipe snot off of the 1 yr old's face.
I make a resolution to read more vocabulary lists, because a robust vocabulary should make me a better writer. Yet I'm already subscribed to Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day email and it hits my inbox each morning at 6:07am. So far, all I know is that I would get weird looks from normal people if I used the word Xanadu in an everyday sentence. People don't appreciate show-offs.
Then, when something does actually come up and all I can do is breathe through the moment, the fear, and the searing emotions, it's not something I want to share. Because I'm afraid that once I share it, it will no longer be a problem, or it will be too much or too little and I don't really want pity. I just want...
The 4 yr old throws a fit in the changing room and isn't getting dressed. I peer in and ask what's the problem because we need to go and Mommy said "put your clothes on".
"They aren't listening," she pouts.
"Who isn't listening?"
"My jeans," she says, pointing at the crumpled pair of denim pants on the floor next to her.
And doesn't this seem to happen to a large majority of women? One day they just curl up in a ball and cry because their jeans no longer listen to them. The worst part is that they know--deep down inside-- they know it's the most ludicrous thing to be upset about, yet they still are because they have fear. And fear dictates their emotions when a greater Love hasn't moved inside.
I get on my knees beside her, pick up the inconsiderate pants, and tell them they'd better get a move on because she needs them. Pretty soon they've slipped over her chubby toddler legs and she's ready for the real world. I sigh and it's the kind of sigh that's also a prayer. I pray she never even feels the need to change herself, to abuse her body and call it "being beautiful". I pray she finds beauty in her sense of humor, huge brown eyes, and love for butterfly shaped pb&j.
I just want to make a difference, and sometimes writing seems to be a good medium for that. But maybe my medium is soothing tantrums, cutting up grapes, and being a pretend dinosaur who eats little girls.
Maybe my raw emotion is found in losing that medium. In having to leave, in having to say goodbye. Perhaps what makes my life meaningful right now is just hard to talk about sometimes, and that makes writing about it hard, because if I don't think about it then I won't keep remembering that it's all ending soon.
I consider not even posting this, because I should just end it on an optimistic note and say that God is good and it's going to be okay. This is my prevailing attitude. I know how to hope in God, I know I can trust Him, I know He's going to be faithful. So maybe this kind of writing is just useless and not helpful at all. But. At least I was able to write something, so I'm keeping it.
I go to write and find that I've hit a wall. Because I want my writing to be like the writers I read, with sentences that start with a thought and end with a woah. The kind of writing that uses words in such a way that you can't help but admire the very art of their usage and how the words transmit a message more powerful in their placement than their pronunciation.
I read about motherhood, marital sufferings, and political opinions, and the way that the writer conveys their raw emotions makes me feel like writing some of my own. I wince, because it comes to mind that maybe I don't even have those "raw emotions".
I was with some friends, and one of them mentioned something we had both heard of and they said it made them almost cry. I thought of my reaction, and I definitely hadn't cried. Maybe something's wrong with my heart.
Perhaps I could make them up. Conjure the emotions by focusing on something till it really wrenched my heart and then I could effortlessly write an awe-inspiring story that pierces hope and meaning into the reader.
But maybe writing isn't my thing.
So I don't write. More and more, I write less and less.
While reading about writing somewhere or other, I learned about how you're supposed to start out your paragraphs with different words so that there's variety and the reader stays engaged. I notice that many of these paragraphs and sentences start with "I" and almost go back to rewrite, but the fact of the matter is that to do that would be deceitful. It would cover up that this is really about me and my selfishness.
I this, I that, I was, I am, I will, I won't.
I want to tell stories, but they don't seem good enough. I want to have figured out my problems, but they don't seem bad enough. I want to always be focusing others to Christ and the way He helps and heals me each day, but then my words just aren't adequate enough.
So I read other people's raw emotions and soak up their deeply meaningful writing and wish I could be like them. My comfort is that I can make butterfly shaped pb&j sandwiches by using a cookie cutter. They make 4 yr olds happy and it's fun to smoosh the white bread as if it's playdough.
No one writes about that though. Or if they do, they make it sound really meaningful. I just make the sandwich and wipe snot off of the 1 yr old's face.
I make a resolution to read more vocabulary lists, because a robust vocabulary should make me a better writer. Yet I'm already subscribed to Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day email and it hits my inbox each morning at 6:07am. So far, all I know is that I would get weird looks from normal people if I used the word Xanadu in an everyday sentence. People don't appreciate show-offs.
Then, when something does actually come up and all I can do is breathe through the moment, the fear, and the searing emotions, it's not something I want to share. Because I'm afraid that once I share it, it will no longer be a problem, or it will be too much or too little and I don't really want pity. I just want...
********
"They aren't listening," she pouts.
"Who isn't listening?"
"My jeans," she says, pointing at the crumpled pair of denim pants on the floor next to her.
And doesn't this seem to happen to a large majority of women? One day they just curl up in a ball and cry because their jeans no longer listen to them. The worst part is that they know--deep down inside-- they know it's the most ludicrous thing to be upset about, yet they still are because they have fear. And fear dictates their emotions when a greater Love hasn't moved inside.
I get on my knees beside her, pick up the inconsiderate pants, and tell them they'd better get a move on because she needs them. Pretty soon they've slipped over her chubby toddler legs and she's ready for the real world. I sigh and it's the kind of sigh that's also a prayer. I pray she never even feels the need to change herself, to abuse her body and call it "being beautiful". I pray she finds beauty in her sense of humor, huge brown eyes, and love for butterfly shaped pb&j.
I just want to make a difference, and sometimes writing seems to be a good medium for that. But maybe my medium is soothing tantrums, cutting up grapes, and being a pretend dinosaur who eats little girls.
Maybe my raw emotion is found in losing that medium. In having to leave, in having to say goodbye. Perhaps what makes my life meaningful right now is just hard to talk about sometimes, and that makes writing about it hard, because if I don't think about it then I won't keep remembering that it's all ending soon.
I consider not even posting this, because I should just end it on an optimistic note and say that God is good and it's going to be okay. This is my prevailing attitude. I know how to hope in God, I know I can trust Him, I know He's going to be faithful. So maybe this kind of writing is just useless and not helpful at all. But. At least I was able to write something, so I'm keeping it.
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