There. I said it. I want to write: books and essays and yes, even blog posts.
I know how to write–I know all about good sentence structure, grammar and punctuation, literary devices and ways to engage the reader.
But when I actually write something that will be read, my self-respect automatically deflates a little. And since writing is like jumping off the edge of a cliff, my newly-deflated self respect is not going to protect me much from what awaits at the bottom. Sure, the fall is exhilarating. But at the bottom are sharp rocks just waiting to tear me to pieces–criticism, condemnation, even praise. I want approval, sure. Who doesn’t? But imagining it scares me, because then I actually have to live up to it.
Thankfully, there’s more than a thin, easily broken shell of self-respect keeping me aloft. There’s grace beyond judgment and hope beyond failure. My writing won’t save me–but since I’m a sinner already saved by grace, I write to give thanks for the grace bestowed on me.
Starting this blog is a way to make myself write, to get out there and say what I can say. It doesn’t have to be amazing (and probably won’t be). It doesn’t have to be original, witty, or profound. But it does have to be said. Even a small drop of water in a large bucket can add new life. I’m just another person, another woman, another wife: but at the same time, no one has ever been me before or will be again. So will I hide my light under a bushel, too scared to say anything from my own perspective? Will I run because I think there’s no way I could be used to say anything? Or will I accept my gift, even if it never blesses anyone, even if I am never heard?
I choose the latter.