Talking to a friend on the way home from a women’s conference in St Louis this past weekend, I was discussing my lifelong reticence to write personally from the heart.
I had never wanted to be anything but a writer and certainly wrote my way around this kind of writing. Working in newspaper advertising, doing PR for non-profits, and then finally being a small town journalist eased the itch but not the nagging voice that kept telling me this was not what I was supposed to be doing.
In the late 1990’s and early 2000, I took on more personal writing…sort of. My first born was very ill, the result of drug addiction. With his early recovery, he had wanted to try to help others by sharing his story. I was certainly ready to step up, sharpen my pencil and write his. Problem was, I quickly discovered that it would be almost impossible to truthfully share his without having to give out a little of mine. To do that gave me the shivers and some near nausea.
As I hit 65, the nagging voice got louder and more persistent. “Hey, girl. You have plenty of time to help others by doing this thing. You just don’t have a lot of time to waste waltzing around it anymore.”
You know that still small voice we Christians often refer to? Well, mine was getting loud and demanding so I started talking back. “Do you remember how old I am?” “I’m supposed to be retired. Isn’t that something about little cocktails with tiny umbrellas and beaches with big ones?” “What if someone actually reads it!?!”
Arguing doesn’t work. If God has something he wants you to do, just do it. Eventually, you run out of excuses and it is just too hard to run.
So, at 67 I am starting. I have gone in circles long enough. I teach journaling for heaven’s sake! I’m going to write for me. Maybe you might like to listen in.