On Writing

And why I write

Words I

I write.
I write, not because it’s pleasant.
Far from it.
I write, because the words hound me, chasing me in my sleep, my dreams, my inner most.
I write, because I’m tired of fighting this urge to just spit the dang words out.
I write, because to not write envelops me in this guilt, this shame of denying myself.
I write, because sometimes it’s the only thing I know how to do.
I write, as an exegesis of all these swirlings and heart thumpings inside of me.
I write, because the alternative — not writing at all — is far worse.

Words II

It’s not lost on me that my gift, my strength, is also my downfall.

With words I construct metaphors and meaning. I make my living off of words. I piece together nouns and verbs, adjectives and adverbs, to capture the world around me.

I take in what I see, what I feel. I take in the people I meet and know, and out from it all comes words. Journal entries and letters of encouragement; texts and phone calls; Instagram posts and the random, once-a-year blog post.

Words are what I feel chained to. It’s like someone is over my shoulder saying,

You can try to deny it, try to run away from it, try to just let it lie.
But you know that won’t work.
The words will never leave you.
They’ll haunt you and hunt you down.
You were made to make words —
The only question is, will you say yes?
Because you can keep putting it off, but it won’t change the calling I’ve placed on your life.

But words. Often I’m not very good with them.

No. That belittles it.

My sinful nature — to be quite blunt — turns my words to rot.
They’re absolutely no good.
Instead of uplifting, they tear down.
Instead of being thoughtful, they fly straight out of my mouth with little concern for anyone but their maker (also known as me).

They are full of themselves. Me-centered and me-constructing and me-lifting up.
They cut and pierce and wound and spar.
They — and by they I mean me — are quick to critique. To state opinion as fact. To gossip and blurt and do it all absent of grace.

Sometimes, it feels like my words lie in two different spheres. This magical, miracle gift. And then this sin-filled state.

I know they — all of them — must come under. That I have to bring all my words — spoken, unspoken, and written — under his authority. He wants all of them, or none at all.

Christ — the all in all —
He has laid claim on my life,
My words,
My all.