I have decided to take my writing to the next level. Excitement soon turned to despair as I continue to sit in front of this computer screen. Nothing but pitiable bits of paragraphs, rambling rubbish. My husband says I am trying too hard. That is rubbish too. How does one try to hard? Am I not to try? “Yes” he says, frustrated with my tantrum, “just write”. I can almost feel his eyes starting to roll, but they don’t, he is too mature for that, too wise. I, however, stick my tongue out at his receding back, as he leaves me to fight with myself.
I am fighting, wrestling with a force that will not give up. I wonder if this force is God, and I am wrestling with him like Jacob did before he had to face Esau, to face his past. What am I afraid of? Five days into this exercise and I am tired of wrestling.
Skimming a book this morning, I read a paragraph that suggest in journal writing to write freely for ten minutes. It basically says the same thing as my husband, “Just write” freely. I get my spiral notebook, my favorite pen and I just write. It felt like I was going backwards but it worked. The author stresses that it is very important to title your work, to give it a name, an identity.
Words set free…
Shadow hand on the page, creating a mountain of darkness on the stark white. My words flow from the pen’s tip, shrouded in darkness, shielded from the bright morning sun. Black scribbles, glisten when the mountain moves and the sun shines upon it. Drying the words permanently onto the page. It almost seems cruel to expose them to such harsh conditions; maybe I should keep them protected under the shade. Keep them hidden.
What would they mean if no one read them? Who would see their beauty? For they are black jewels strung upon white, a lovely contrast.
To be a writer is a contrast to the busy life of most. Every moment filled with chores and obligations of working for money to buy fulfillment. Yet it is a cheap pen and notebook that fills me with nourishment that I cannot find in stores. I have finally found the very thing that satisfies my hunger.
Truth is the light, shining on my words. How can something that feels so right be a waste of time? It is in the fighting of it that wastes the time. I could say I am learning a new language, one of hope and of beauty.
It took only ten minutes to write this passage and it is the only thing I have produces in the last few days that speaks to me. It is me speaking to me, telling me that it is okay to be me. I could be unique and contrast to the “normal” way people go about their living.
Jacob fought with God all through the night until his identity changed. He was no longer Jacob, the deceiver but Israel, one who struggles with God. Jacob was a changed man after his battle. A brave man bold enough to face the brother he had deceived. He faced him as Israel.
I strive for a new identity, new labels to apply and replace the old. A new language to go with a new identity.