Do the Write Thing

You guys.  In just a little over a year, I have met my holy trinity of female authors.  Anne Lamott (Operating Instructions), Jen Hatmaker (Seven), Glennon Doyle Melton (Carry On, Warrior).  They are so who I want to be when I grow up (or even right now)!  If you haven't read their books, please do yourself a favor and go to a local library immediately.  You won’t be disappointed.  These women have paved the way for people like me who are desperate to tell our truth with blunt honesty, but also in a way that (hopefully) helps and encourages others.  They have convicted and inspired me, made me laugh hysterically and sob into my pillow. When I read their books, I think, "Yes, this is what I aspire to do."

      

The only problem is 17,000 other people (a rough estimate) feel the same way as me.  Especially as a graduating English major, one simply assumes they’ll produce the newest American classic.  This ambition is very compelling in a university setting, but tends to fade over time (after life gets busy with real THINGS and not just cute collegiate ideology).  However, those thoughts started to creep back up on me after beginning this adventure in blogging.  But I consistently shoot them down with a variation of this sentence: I’m not famous or smart or unique enough for this to work.  Do you do this too?  Maybe it isn’t with writing, but I wonder how often we try to talk ourselves out of expressing our talents.  For my own benefit (perhaps for you as well), I wanted to address each of these statements individually.

I’m not famous enough.

No, I’m not.  You probably aren’t either.  Regardless of the number of friends you have on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.  Stuff doesn’t come as easily to us non-celebrity types.  As a former X-files fan I say this in love, but recently David Duchovny released a book, CD, and new television series.  All. In. One. Month.  Not even joking.  SOME people have the advantage of already being “in.”  It’s like when our local Target got a STARBUCKS built inside of it too.  Poor K-mart doesn’t stand a chance now.  That’s how I feel, the odds stacked against me.  If writing is a popularity contest, I will always lose.  But if I choose to view writing as a tool for connecting to people, it changes things.  The pressure is off when the numbers game is cast aside.  Honestly though, I still harbor a wish to be the next big thing.  We’ll blame it on the sleeping English major inside me.  But when that wish morphs to jealousy and regret, it’s time for a perspective check.  This blog has opened relationship doors with dear friends who have similar life experiences.  It takes a little sting out of suffering when you aren’t in it alone.  And if these precious associations fail to make this whole writing venture worthwhile, I cannot imagine what else would.  Because, for me, THAT’S what it is (and should be) all about.  When I forget that, I’m done.

I’m not smart enough.

Well, you’ve got me there.  One of my oft-repeated stories from college (besides car stealing with Jessica) is how I managed to get out of taking “Advanced Grammar.”  A favorite professor taught this required class and I saw our established rapport as the course’s only redeeming quality.  Seriously.  Advanced grammar gives me the heebie-jeebies.  And grammar mavens scare me even more.  I remember sitting in that first class with anxious, quivering insides.  Of course, I answered a few non-grammary questions just to show off because that is what you do in college.  But when we separated into groups to diagram sentences and discuss syntax, I was sweating bullets.  The other girls were happy to take control and diagram the heck out of the sentence, talking language shop like pros.  I was happy to let them.  At the end of class though, my professor called me to the front.  I instinctively knew the jig was up; he could sense I didn’t belong.  When his mouth started moving, I steeled myself for the worst.  “Laura, you’ve taken harder classes than this.  Let’s not waste our time.  Get a slip and I’ll sign off on this course for you.”  Um, what?  I stood there in stunned silence with my mouth open like a fish.  Quickly recovering, I nodded my head and agreed about not wanting to waste his time (All the while thinking, “Buddy, you have NO idea how much I would have wasted your time.  Advanced grammar would’ve curled up bawling in a corner after I manhandled it.”).  Later in the week, he signed my slip and that was that.  Poor grammar was given its reprieve.  So in many ways, there’s legitimacy to this “not quite smart enough” argument.  Still, what I do recognize in myself is passion.  It brings to mind this verse from Acts 4:13, “Now as they observed the confidence of Peter and John and understood that they were uneducated and untrained men, they were amazed, and began to recognize them as having been with Jesus.”  Passion trumps a lot of things.  It gives you energy, vision.  Motivation to be better, especially when a deeper purpose is involved.  Education is highly significant; you can’t overestimate the value of certain knowledge and skills.  But passion can drive you forward as well, hopefully towards improving yourself (not unlike education) and then sharing this exciting growth with others.  Or, at least, that’s how it has worked for me.  And Peter and John.

I’m not unique enough.

If you are a young-ish, funny-ish woman of faith, you’ve been raised in the Anne Lamott era (Praise Jesus!).  It’s a movement really.  We are open about our quirks.  Sarcasm is allowed (and encouraged).  Spiritual talk is stripped down, honest.  The qualities that initially drew me to Anne like a moth to flame are present in a multitude of religious authors today.  This seems to be the trend (and I work at a library, so I’m speaking with semi-authority): Millennials appreciate their Jesus stories to be served candidly and with a side of snark.  You can see the rub here...as I’ve just described my whole approach to writing.  How does one stand out in a well published sea of sameness?  Is it even necessary to contribute to an already flourishing field of literature?  I don’t really have those answers.  But I DO know, regardless of this genre’s popularity, my voice remains mine.  My story is singular.  However, the broad events that shaped my narrative are collective.  That’s the human experience for you.  We can probably find at least one small correlation, one tiny link between each of our lives.  And, in many cases, a whole heck of a lot more than one.  I’d like to believe that’s why WE are crucial to our individual communities.  Without our unique voice/talent/ability, there’d be a missing link (haha), a component absent from local life.  Because just by virtue of being ourselves, we provide connections that no one else can.  Which makes each of us pretty gosh darn special.  

So, to summarize: Our THING is important.  It opens relational doors, drives us to be better, makes us WHO we are as a person.  Don’t be shy about owning this fact, about using your potential to its fullest.  But don’t be a proud jerk either.  Focus on your deeper motivation, whether it be personal fulfillment, catharsis, or spiritual growth.  Keep that ego in check, to prevent you from tripping over yourself on the path towards reaching those goals.  Remember, depending on your perspective, the journey itself can trump the final destination.  Perhaps I’ll never author the next great adoption memoir (Emphasis on *perhaps*), but that doesn’t invalidate my writing now (especially to David, as blogging keeps me from going completely cuckoo).  That goes for you too, whatever your talent.  Ignore the lame excuses whispering that you are unworthy or incapable of correctly exhibiting YOUR particular gift.  Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds?  It is simply not true.  It’s YOUR gift for heaven's sake; you were literally made to do this.  Or in the confident (and frequent) words of my son, “I was BORN ready.”  Yes Elijah, in different ways, we all were.  And let’s not forget it.