On Writing as an Offering

Dear Friends,

I like beginning a post this way–“Dear Friends,”–as though I’m just writing a letter. You know, casual and genuine, a “Here’s what’s going on in my piece of the world” kind of thing. The way people used to do.

I know I’ve been quiet for a while, and part of me has missed this space, but part of me hasn’t. I’ve spent the past few years taking in all the advice out there for writers about platform and numbers and building a “tribe.” I’ve read all the books, listened to all the podcasts. I tried this spring to put that advice into practice and blog twice a week like they say you ought to. And while I was able to stick with it for a good while, and I found I had plenty of things to say, it left me tired on some deeper level that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. Two posts a week wasn’t so much. What was going on?

I began thinking about the tension between writing for the sheer love of it and writing on a blog, which has an inherent publicity to it, an implied desire for someone to read it, someone to respond to it–a need for, and even a bid for, attention. I have been asking myself for several weeks now why I feel compelled to blog. Is it out of love for my craft? A need to be seen, heard, understood? A desire to serve? The pressure to conform? Is it out of a sense of “have-to” because it’s what writers do–they have to get on the blogging treadmill, the platform-building treadmill–if they are to have any hope of publishing a book in the traditional sense?

As I pondered these questions, I realized that I was, indeed, feeling trapped. That even though I love my craft and want to serve with my words, the “have-to” was still there, and it was stealing my joy. It was always there, always whispering to me, What are you going to write next? Why don’t you have an idea yet? Will that resonate with anyone? Why are you reading that book when you have a post to write? Didn’t you see that so-and-so already wrote about that same topic this week? My commitment–which nobody forced me into–to blog twice a week was making me feel things I didn’t like. Stress. Impatience with my children (who never wanted to go to bed or take a nap when I “needed” to get a post written). Insecurity. Pride.

Producing twice a week for an audience I *hoped* to grow was draining me. My spiritual director, Mary, suggested that I take a break and just pour into myself instead of pouring out–silence, stillness, good books, uplifting messages (there are a handful of podcasts that are like my happy pills). So I did. And eventually, the words wanted to flow again. But I didn’t want to sit in front of the computer for some reason I couldn’t quite identify, so I began writing in a journal. Not every day, but some. Mostly whenever my nine-month-old slept through the night and I was able to get up early, when the house was still dark and silent and the day had yet to really begin.At first, I simply emptied my pent-up brain onto the blank pages, but over time I began to see patterns emerging. Themes. Stories. Given the space to write freely, organically, without a publish button and without the imminence of an audience, new things began to take shape. Seeds that had lain dormant began to sprout. Tender seeds, the kind that need gentle care and coaxing in order to come forth and bloom.

I have discovered, I think, that for me, blogging alone is simply not enough. If I only have limited time to write (which I do), I have to make room first for this slower, less immediate, not-yet-for-public-consumption writing. It’s what my soul craves. What it needs.

I do want to return to blogging here in this space, but I recognize that it needs to feel different. Unpressured. I don’t want the stress to creep back in. I don’t want to analyze headlines or track likes on Facebook or even look at the number of page visits or think of it as an investment that ought to have a return. I want it to be simply an offering.

While I realize the importance of blogging in the publishing world today–that’s exactly why I started The Glorious Table, after all; to give women who want to write in community a platform to do so–I don’t ever want to feel again that blogging could, or even might want to, own me.

At my core, I don’t want to be a business or a brand. I just want to write because it’s in me, because it’s what I was made to do, because the minutes I spend writing are some of the best minutes of my days. No striving. No comparing. No counting clicks or likes or Tweets. Just a simple offering that I place at the altar and then walk away from, praying its aroma is pleasing to my Father.

Whatever you’re doing today, I hope some of it is simply because it’s “in you,” because it’s how the Father made you to be.

Love,

Harmony