I write, therefore, I am a writer
Here I am starting the process of blogging again. I’ve considered and reconsidered this decision for months. Why blog when there are, at this point, millions of every-type-of-blog in existence already filling up the Internet? I’ve blogged in the past, in my younger, more ignorant years when I believed the point of the pen was to win every argument. I blogged about things as if I was an authority, when in reality, I knew so little.
Today, I approach blogging (AKA writing) with reverence and temperance. To fill a space with more words may contribute to more clanging gongs, more useless dribble. But my hope is to refrain (always) from hot takes and vicious debate. My desire in writing (at 32 instead of 21) is from an inherent need within me to cultivate, to create beauty through the written word, to ask questions, to explore areas of life and faith. To be making is action, verb. Writing is practice, made stronger, and better, and more poignant with daily attention to the work. It’s something I haven’t been attentive to in recent years. It’s a passion I forgot I possessed.
One day, within the chaos and uncertainty of this past year, I realized again the importance of writing in dealing with hard things. This past year was a hard year, many of us experienced countless little griefs (some experienced many big griefs). We’ve lost so much we’ve forgotten some of the things we’ve lost. To write is to bear witness, to record a physical reminder of where we’ve been, what we’ve come through, where we now are. It is not a linear journey. Life is far more nuanced, ebbing and flowing, than we often give it credit for.
Just a few months ago I considered whether I was ready to actually call myself a “writer.” Imposter syndrome hit hard. Afterall, the only things I’ve written in a while are Instagram posts. Yesterday I visited a new coffee shop, attended to by an incredibly friendly barista. “Are you a writer?” He asked (noticing I was sitting with a writer who is also a published author). I fumbled. “ummmm...I write...sometimes.” At that moment I didn’t know how to answer. Last year, we enjoyed our second summer in Colorado, a season full of many, many hikes of all levels of difficulty. I am not naturally athletic; learning to hike at Colorado altitudes has been challenging. But I’ve recently realized: regardless of how many breaks I take or how slow my pace is, I hike, therefore, I am a hiker.
In the same vein, I write, therefore, I am a writer.
Writing is a craft I wish to better practice, not for the sake of notoriety or even for the paycheck, but because there is much to be said. Much has been said, much is left to say. We wrestle through life, and faith, and hardship, and uncertainty, and joy, and failure and success with our words. I want to surround myself with good writing, immerse myself in the words of others. I want to sit at coffee shops, pounding away on my keyboard, next to a fellow writer who is also pounding away on her own keyboard (something I was doing just yesterday). I am inspired and motivated by Madeleine L’Engle’s poignant reminder that the writer has to get out of her own way and be faithful to the work. How can I be faithful to the work? By practicing it.
So here I go, blogging, writing, wrestling with words on the internet all over again. I hope you will find comfort and solace here. May we grow together.