A little over two years ago, after struggling for some time with the loss of my parents, I decided to put the hurt I was feeling to work for me. Specifically, I decided the poetry and some of the short fiction I had been writing in the interim might prove beneficial to anyone else dealing with the same sort of heartache. As time passed, it became clear that the fiction and poetry did not belong in the same book, so I decided to focus on the poetry first to see if it could be crafted into something worthwhile.
During the two years that passed between inception and reality, I thought more than once about giving up. The truth is, I never really have the sort of confidence in myself that others seem to assume I have. I guess it's sort of a given that writers must be egomaniacs or they wouldn't work so hard to get attention for their books, but that's not really true. You, see, your book is your baby. Sometimes ugly parents are blessed with a gorgeous kid and sometimes the beautiful artists in the writing community produce children that would make the Pope consider retroactive birth control. Regardless of how that baby's going to look, though, the parents love it. They lavish it with affection and discipline, coaxing the child to rise to its fullest potential. But not all babies win beauty pageants and you have to understand that as you pay your entrance fee.
I usually like my work as I'm writing it, which makes that first draft a lot of fun. It's also why I've developed the habit of walking away from my work for months (if not years) after that original draft is complete. Usually, when I return to the work, I start getting that knot in the pit of my stomach. "That dialogue is terrible," I'll mumble. Or, "The meter is all over the place in this stanza." And so my nemesis, the Edit Monster, rises from the murky depths of my creativity and devours any precious little darling I am reluctant to part ways with. Some changes are easy and obvious, while others require days or weeks of trial and error to clean up the dialogue, tighten up the pace or just work up the courage to scrap the whole scene. When the edit is finished, I say a silent prayer that it is, in fact, complete and ready for the market. Not true. Almost never true, in fact, so I sit on it a while longer and then come back with fresh eyes.
By the 3rd or 4th draft, I am so sick of my own word usage–the smug sense of humor I used in that one scene or the clumsy way the argument on page 114 comes across–I realize the truth of it. I'm a failure. I'm a wannabe. I start to doubt not just my ability to finish what I started, but everything I've ever put on paper. The very thought that someone else might read it, or worse–pay for it!–makes my lunch from three Saturdays ago want to come up for a return engagement in my throat. If I wasn't so determined to be a professional, I'd quit at that point. But I persevere. I press on. And, eventually, if I'm one of those blessed "parents," I look at the finished product and think, "Sure, he's got his share of flaws, but I believe in that kid."
At that point, the only thing I can do is let go. My "baby" could swim or sink. Or, worse, it could languish in the inbetween–not exactly a waste of paper, but a rather long way away from that great country called Masterpiece.
I AM A BROKEN HOUSE was a labor of love and friendship. It brought me from a place of deep sorrow to a state of overwhelming grace, and I shared that journey with several dear friends who were kind enough to become collaborators. The thought of failing–of not doing justice to that child or the loved ones who helped me give it birth–haunts me. I watch my email daily for orders to come in. I worry that they aren't coming fast enough. Maybe people don't like it. Maybe it was a waste of my time…of their money.
It's not just the book I fear failing, either. My family, as supportive as any man could ask for, has been cheerleading this book for two years. They've told their friends. They've made much of me and I am, in no way, worthy of it. So I worry I'll leave them with egg on their faces,,,that people will ask, "How's that book selling?" and they'll be forced to look for an exit. I don't want that.
So, I'm afraid. I fear I'll let the book down, the reader down, my family down. But I've come to realize something important.
I'm just a character in someone else's story. I don't know what you believe, dear reader, but I believe God to be the author of my story. The highs and lows, the ebbs and flows all come from His pen, written out upon the parchment of time. And the story isn't really about me. It's about Him. I'm just a character in a much greater tale. So, in the end, what I write is nothing but a story within a story…and incidental. And that's okay. It takes the pressure off. It affords me the grace to just write–because it's who I am, because it's a passion that was written into my heart, and because every character in the tale enriches the story just by being in it.
So, I can relax and let the Author write out my life. I can be the writer I am written to be. I can give it my all in service to a greater story. And, then…there's nothing to fear at all.
J.
