ONE OF THE COOL THINGS that also happened Thursday is three of us who enjoy writing came out of the closet. We all even hesitate to even agree when someone says, “Oh, I didn't know you were a writer.”
Nothing scares me MORE than if someone says that, I noticed, much like these other three ladies, I am quick to disagree and interject,
“No, I'm NOT a writer... I just LIKE to write...”
I was intrigued when one of the ladies started sharing she has been writing again. “What do you write?” I asked her.
“Well,” she said rather reluctantly, and very much not like her, this woman in her mid fifties, now entering a new stage of life, having nearly all the kids out of the house, a successful businesswoman and someone I've always viewed in previous classes with her, as a very strong woman, she finally eeked it out, rather sheepishly,
“I'm writing a book on prayer.”
I felt like I could literally see it on her face, as if she was saying to herself, I wish I had never said anything!
But we kept asking her questions, drawing her out further and she began to grow more comfortable again and explained more of the process to us. And I was like, that's awesome I love to write too.
Then another girl piped up on how she's been blogging about each chapter with five of her best friends from college, they have a private blog just for them all to communicate. Then the lady writing the book, said, *”Janelle, you're a writer too...” to another lady.
Just hearing the lady writing the book, share about her journey and fight with herself to write again stirred something deep within me that has not been able to die.
She said some things that resonate so deeply within, I felt like she had somehow gotten a sneak peek at everything I've been writing about in my written journal lately.
But it inspired me and was another whisper from God pushing my heart forward.
So, three of us “writers,” who are still deathly afraid of that word, we are much more comfortable saying we just ENJOY writing, came out of the closet yesterday.
We talked afterward about how hesitant we all are to even call ourselves “writers.”
“Well I think it's because when you say that,” *Karen, the lady writing the book said, “Everyone's expectations shoot through the roof and then you never want them to see anything you've written.”
EXACTLY I told her. And felt so known and understood, less weird. Those words were spoken with the strength of a woman who has fought this battle for more than twice as long as I've been alive.
But the Lord has been speaking to me about several things related to writing, and Thursday was more fire being ignited within me.
Then it hit me.
Why do I get self-conscious sometimes about my writing. Why do I compare myself to others? Or secretly wish I could write shorter blog posts or emails, why can't I be like everyone else?
But, then it hit me again,
We are all UNIQUE.
There is no one else LIKE me. There is no one else LIKE you. Whose standard am I trying to meet that says there is something even WRONG with that?
I began to gain steam as I felt my perspective shifting...
Why do I sometimes think what I have to say is stupid or dumb or no one cares.
Or why do I fear sending emails sometimes because I'm worried what people will think of me?
Or allow shame to hold me back. That I'm different. That there's something wrong with me. That no one else writes that long of emails, what is WRONG with you???
::
Yet something hit me last Saturday when I was out running errands.
I realized why not being able to drive has been so hard on me the last few weeks.
For whatever reason, the minute I step into the car, it's like this scrolling marquee goes off in my head, ideas and thoughts and this onslaught of words and things I'm pondering start hitting me.
I learned a few years ago that the worst thing to not have in my car is a pen.
I always get random ideas in the car.
And jot things down on random pieces of paper I can squander in my purse at stoplights.
Usually it's maybe the back of a few receipts or note cards with verses on the other side.
But this time, I had written on the back of nearly 30 note cards. I kid you not. Of 8-10 different things I was planning to blog about.
What is WRONG with me?! I thought. As literally every stoplight or when I'd get to a parking lot, I'd be jotting down the words as fast as I could write to keep up with my mind, and sit there wondering why I had just written five blog entries in the last 30 minutes of driving.
Many that never make it to getting posted because, for some odd reason, all my emotional energy is tanked by the time I get home lol.
But, as I was sitting there thinking, WHY in the world do I DO this?
It hit me.
What if you're asking the wrong question...
What if there is NOT something wrong with me, what if this is the way I've been MADE?Instead of something WRONG, what is this is how I AM?
What if this is who God created when He made Mazvita.
Instead of trying to figure out why I'm so weird, maybe this how it was supposed to be, as my mind raced to the box of chapter books I wrote in third grade, a box that has been unearthed by my mother to give Ben more embarrassing things from my childhood now that he's seen all the baby photos... you know, the stories you're supposed to write in class in second and third grade.
Well, I was writing stories with 16-20 chapters, when I guess the norm was 3-4. Shame was internalized then, at such an early age, why don't I write like everyone else. But it is interesting to go back and see how this has begged for another look.
My mom began looking for the books and told me one day recently. “Your imagination and insight in these books... I can't believe you wrote these when you were so little...”
(Now, trust me, they are not masterpieces, I only share this because it makes the rest of this make a little more sense.)
But as I started thumbing through them, it was like re-entering the mind of little eight-year-old Mazvita.
I remembered drawing some of the illustrations. Story lines were coming back to me.
It was then, in the last few weeks reading some of those stories, I realized writing has been with me for a while. Something to help me make sense and respond to life, even when I was a little girl.
::
It hit me again, when I heard these words...
“I made you to write.”
There was no mistaking the words, even though I even asked God to repeat Himself.
What did you say?
“I made you to write.”
Now, even just typing that I want to erase it. It sounds so vain and conceited. Full of myself.
But let me explain. Not like I'm going to be some big author or anything like that or that I think I could even say I write well... it had nothing to do with any of that or any opinions of myself or how others may think or feel about my writing.
I heard the Lord ask me again, “What if this is how I MADE you?”
Huh? I kept asking.
I mean, one of my wildest dreams would be to author a book some day, but I knew that wasn't what He was talking about.
I heard it again, “What if this is how I MADE you?”
Then it hit me. Again. (As I realize I have written that “it hit me” now nearly five times lol)
*names changed to protect confidentiality
to be continued...
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