Monday, October 26, 2009

Writing Again

            This past week, I was offered a job. It wasn’t the perfect job, but it fit the criteria for what I need at the moment. It was flexible, not high-stress, and paid well enough. It was a good atmosphere, and I wouldn’t have to work nights or weekends.

            I was crazy not to take it.

            However, the three days between accepting the offer and when I was actually to begin work, a series of miscommunications led to the job being given to someone else.

             I was a slightly shocked.

            The would-be employer called me and apologized, offering me first-dibs on a different job. This time I turned it down.

            I didn’t turn it down because I was bitter or angry or anything. I turned it down because I realized something. I’m not sure if I’m seeing things clearly. I’m not sure if I’m just using it as an excuse to be lazy. But sometimes, you have the opportunity to do what you really want to do.

            I believe God has called me to writing. And I have to walk on in that belief, trusting Him to lead me as He chooses. Because a job isn’t just a job when you’re working for God.

            I have the luxury of not having to choose a job that is financially stable. I can live with my parents for forever. When they get sick of me, I’m sure by then a few of my siblings will have their own homes and I can move in with them and be the super-cool aunt who watches the dog when they go on vacation and gives the kids candy before bed time.

            If anything I will be like Donald Miller who says this about writing in his book Blue Like Jazz:

             Writers don’t make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again, we don’t work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make some coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the shmuck’s book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealously, or worse, our laziness. Then we lie facedown across the couch and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man’s stupid words. And for this, as I said before, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more.

            So I guess I’m just scared to have faith that God can really provide for me through writing. But why am I afraid? What is there to be afraid of? I have no idea. I guess I’m just floundering, hoping a miracle will happen.

            But sometimes the miracle is just digging in and doing it. Get my hands dirty and see what kind of mess I can make. Maybe it’s time to be driven just a little bit. Maybe it’s time to stoke the fire.

            I have no idea what this looks like.

            I can’t do this by myself.

            It’s a good thing I don’t have to.

            I think it’s time for bed. 

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