It could be 10:18 pm on an October night is not the best time to ponder whether one’s life was, truly, less complicated before one had taken the mantle of Writer. It’s easy to look at the work of telling stories real and fabled, of building platforms and developing one’s voice and honing one’s craft, and think, “Life was simpler Before.” For there definitely was an ease to writing because a particularly sparkly and/or interesting idea had bubbled up. To getting lost in a good story for the simple pleasure of it. I wasn’t piling worry on top of worry that I had missed my calling or messed it up or let one opportunity too many slip away. I simply read and wrote and that was, well, that.
Yet there I found myself at 10:18 pm on that October night, in my PJs and in bed, typing away on my iPad and thinking, “Yet—no, still—still I keep coming back to this, to writing, to stories, to process and learn and calm and soothe.” (Okay, those were not my exact thoughts. It was late and I was eager to get another chapter read in my current bedtime reading. But more or less, it’s where my soul was at.)
So maybe some things were simpler. But some things were also a bit duller. My world was smaller. And there were, often, the reminders I could be A Writer as even then thoughts abounded as to if this was the “right” thing, the best thing, the God-designed thing to be doing. Because I believe it is all those things. It’s worth the work. It’s easy to forget that, though, when I’m tired or leaning toward the overwhelmed side of life, when there are good things needing to be told “no” so a “yes” can be given to something better. Even what that better rests on a distant horizon.
The work is worth it. I need to stop making it complicated.
Simply: Writer, write.