So there I was, pacing the floor in the middle of the night, having a rather intense conversation with God.
You see, I was experiencing a bit of frustration. Surely, I thought, God would not have called me to write, and certainly not to leave my job to do so, unless he meant for me to actually write– to do something with it. Yet, despite my best efforts to figure out a way forward, and my not-quite-best efforts to “do the work,” progress was nonexistent.
I went to a conference once where the keynote speaker talked about failure, and how the only way we fail is if we don’t show up – our job is to write; the results are up to God. So what had happened? I’d shown up; I’d left my job, moved back to Oregon, self-published my poetry book, and attended writers’ conferences. I was doing my job, trying to write, but almost all of it was drivel, and not in a “you’re your own worst critic” sense. I know drivel when I read it.
It was drivel.
The day before the pacing incident, I’d made a solid attempt at two poems. They were horrible. But the next evening, I’d felt inspired. I was listening to Ginny Owens’ new album,** and I’d just gotten to the end of “The Fire.” I paused the music, picked up my pencil, and flipped open my notebook. I took a moment. I bent over the page. I began to write.