a chapter of my story (and why nobody's up to the task of writing)
random thoughts on a part of my writing journey
an English paper written for class last semester
Who knew that clicking send could be so difficult? But it was. I can vividly recall staring at that computer. As my fingers hovered over the fateful button, my eyes raked my email for what felt like the millionth time, fears bombarded me like small needles. Was it classy, or too formal? Did I sound like an arrogant kid who was obviously trying to put myself out there? Who would even listen to someone like me anyway? In my professional photo I looked much younger than I actually was, it being over a year and a half old. Anyone could tell that I was nothing but a wimpy middle-schooler, if that. Banishing all those thoughts from my head, I took a shuddering breath and clicked the send button. I quietly closed the computer. This is what storytellers did, and I knew I wanted to be a storyteller.
I was thirteen at the time, and the sum of knowledge I had about the writing craft was that I simply loved doing it. Sure, I’d been writing inconsistently for years, but only in the last few months had I been working at it faithfully, and only in the last few weeks had I presumed to dare sending a piece of work to any website. When my teenage friend got her first poem published on kingdompen.org, I was exhilarated both for her and because it had finally been proven to me that kids could get published. So I wrote an article. A simple, straightforward article, nothing profound or incredible. And I sent it off to Kingdom Pen, along with a piece of my immature young heart.
Storytelling has always been part of me, even when I didn’t desire it to be. Sure, I scribbled stories now and then. But to be an author? I believed it was ridiculous and stupid, unrealistic at best. How did I change my mind? I sometimes wonder if it wasn’t me who changed it, but Someone who changed it for me.
Days passed. I checked my email constantly.
The funny thing about writing is that in the end, nobody is up to the task. It’s a deep art, one that has too many layers to fathom. The bulk of the story doesn’t take place on the pages or in the narrative, but in the reader’s heart. And hearts, as most people know, aren’t easy to work with. Sitting down at the computer to write makes you realize how small and insignificant you really are, how hopeless every word is unless the Great Writer condescends to use them. Writing takes guts, guts that I’m always in need of. The tide of confidence and inspiration is an ever-changing one, but you have to push on even when it’s not there.
But we do it anyway. Even though our writing is terrible, our characters mediocre, our points often predictable, we do it. Even though most people will never read it, nobody will hear about us, and we probably won’t be winning any awards, we do it. Writing is a humble job, a simple job if at the same time a very complicated one, and that’s who I am. In the words of Andrew Peterson, I’m “a Christian who also happens to be a storyteller”. Because, really. It’s almost impossible to have one without the other. Christians find the stories. They make the stories. They always have and they always will.
What do I hope to do with my words? I really don’t know. I hope to try everything. I’ll try to write books, I’ll try to scribble screenplays for movies, I’ll try to dictate ballads, I’ll try to tell the world every form of story that I can. Yes, you can’t do it all (probably). But I intend to do all I can. And when I get to Heaven? Well, that’s where you do it all.
They accepted my article.