I Do Not Write to Inspire
Some people have asked me how to write. You get a piece of paper, hold a pen like so, and start scribbling.
Keep a journal, I say. Write about things that happen, write about characters you meet. Write your prayers like they were letters to God. Honest and raw. Just write without thinking someone will read it and grade it.
Someone asked if I sit and break my head thinking,
“What can I write to inspire?”
Me? No, farthest from my mind. All the articles I’ve ever written were lifted from my prayer journals, if you must know. And so, no — I do not write to inspire.
I know myself too well to even attempt it.
I have many loose ends and so many inconsistencies in my Christian walk. The words “my life” and “inspire” are incongruous.
If I inspire you in the least bit, it’s because:
a) You aren’t married to me;
b) You didn’t grow up with me (you’re not my brother, not my sister, not my mom, and not my dad);
c) You’re not my maid; or
d) You. Are. My. Dog.
You haven’t seen my obstinate side. You haven’t seen me KIA (Know-It-All). You haven’t seen me roll my eyes or put out my snout. You haven’t seen me argue with the security guard that insists, “No ID, No Entry.” You have never watched a Senate hearing with me. Ask my daughters.
One of my daughters said that if I hadn’t gotten involved in prayer meetings as early as high school, I would have become a criminal.
So I really can’t claim that I write to inspire.
It would be pretentious. Or delusional.
So what do I write? I write my thoughts. I write my prayers. I write what I hear from God, or more succinctly, what I feel He impresses on me. And no, I don’t get earthshaking revelations about how people should lead their lives or stay out of trouble. He scolds me or chides me — that I write about.
And sometimes I write to give Him my two-cents’ worth. Like He needs my advice.
Why do I write? I write because my mouth is always too quick on the draw. Writing keeps me “out of people’s hair,” so to speak.
I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m sad. I write when I don’t know if I’m happy or sad. I write because it keeps me on even keel. I write because it tempers me.
I don’t write Elizabethan. And I don’t write Jejemon. I don’t write Watchman Nee. And I don’t write Henri Nouwen. I write me. (READ MORE)