Either I’m not doing it right and still need to learn the universe’s secrets, or else the truth is that writing is masochism.
No, stop. I shouldn’t say that. Believe me, I love to write. Sometimes.
But it is really, really hard.
Why does it so often seem like other writers have their acts together? They feel confident in their abilities. They are clever and funny and smart … gahhh, I know I can be those things too. But mostly I just feel insufficient and terrified that I’ll be found out.
Not just writing either. Life. I’m 32, and I feel like I know so little about how to be successful at Life. I retreat in fear to my favorite things night after night: my bed, my prayer journal, my Jesus.
A few lines from Truest (as it stands today):
And while I sit in the stand and pray, I have the same sensation—that I am being outlined, defined, and that the definition doesn’t come from me.
I am trying to hold so many things—and failing—but this one thing is holding me.
Please tell me, people: do any of you get so overwhelmed that you become paralyzed? Have you fallen in love with a vocation that gnaws on your heart? Have you figured out any ways to be still and yet productive?
All I know is Jesus, Jesus, Jesus— thankfully, he’s more than enough.