words wrapped around some story. That’s all.
are wonderful. And they are work. Those are the two opposite ends of the
spectrum. Those of the two sides of the field.
the wonder wins. Sometimes the work sucks the fun out of it all.
at the end of the day, and week, and month, and at the end of time, they are
just sentences comprising some tale. That’s all.
faith that pinpoints everything. The fact of being a husband and a father and a
friend. The familiar grounds of falling and picking myself up again. This fine
line that I never quite master—these are the things that mean something. Today
and at judgment day. Not whether a story works and if it lands on a bestseller
list and whether it’s highly-regarded.
was a cynical soul once. But God rooted that out of me.
was a dreamer but the business tends to rip those dreams away day after day.
I try. I try and I keep trying and I keep trying.
is this really what you want ‘cause I’ll chip away at concrete all day?
I’ve really said this.
you know I need more and deserve more and surely I’ve worked hard enough to get
one big fat break right God?
I’ve uttered this with anger and frustration.
I know I’m a sinner and need to shut my mouth and need to know I wasn’t there
at the beginning when you created the Heavens and the earth.
I have to pray this, time and time again.
so easy to be so wrapped up in yourself. Especially when your business and your
brand (ahem) is all about YOU.
see the literary grandeur and long for it. Yet I live the daily tick-tock of
the machine. The life of a writer who pays the bills and supports a family and
tries to make it doing this very thing I’m doing now. Typing. And typing more.
And typing more.
tiring but still it’s amazing. Sometimes I know—I JUST KNOW—it’s the right
thing I’m doing. I get these emails from strangers. I get these feelings from
the words and the scenes. I try ‘cause I’m building some bigger and bolder than
anything I could have ever imagined.
life cuts you down to size. Day after day.
not a good enough writer.
don’t sell enough books.
writing way too much.
name’s not big enough.
that my real name to begin with?
don’t have a platform and my books don’t preach enough.
books are too preachy.
the thought of that concrete, the same kind I worked with right out of college,
seems nice. I remember I could never quite get it off my fingertips and out of
my hair for six months. The grime and the dust and the utter endlessness.
was the job before getting into publishing.
seems like a universe ago.
on seven years of living the dream, sometimes I just want to say leave me alone.
Sometimes I want to just say go away.
these stories that fill my head and my heart and soul—they mean so much to me.
They mean something.
wish I could do them justice. I really do.
wish I could paint the colors in as bold and brilliant a manner as possible.
But I’m slightly color blind and can only show them the way I see them.
running while limping on one leg. That’s how I often feel.
don’t need validation ‘cause I get it every day. But still—I look and feel like
I still haven’t gotten that far. I have so far to go. I don’t want to complain
and often just keep these thoughts to myself.
I think of the faces looking up to me. Looking at me. The bridges built. The
families who have adopted me. The loves and the likes I’ve been given.
are what matter.
are what will sustain me.
stories are a part of me. Like wrinkles and a high forehead. Like a mischievous
smile. Like a comical spirit.
feel like I’m still just learning and feel I have so far—so far—to go.
door opens, whatever the day brings, I will come back to the words and the
stories. Like breathing, they are me.
fail and I falter, but I’m one stubborn soul. So I get back up and I keep
won’t break me but my spirit might.
God knows and He loves me like a father. So He keeps teaching me.
learning. Sometimes on certain days like today, I don’t love the lessons. But I
hear them and try to learn from them.
trying. Lord knows I’m trying.
Labels: journey, on writing, Ramblings, the writing life