With my room so secluded from the rest of the house, the one wing without it’s own wood burning stove, there’s a perceptible difference in temperature. As soon as I walk down the hallway into my room, I sense the shivers coming on. The one source of heat I can claim is from the dryer in the laundry room. And a very cozy, little hole it is, when there’s laundry to be done.
In other news, I woke up this morning with the creative urge, and for lack of beds to refinish, bathrooms to paint or futons to rebuild, I dug out my sewing machine, secluded myself in the sewing room and dove in. I conceived, developed and executed a pretty cute dress in a couple of hours and then felt nearly as listless as before.
I need another project to stress over.
My writing has dwindled and all but died over the last few months—besides this pathetic excuse for a journal, of course. Perhaps I should dust off my inkwell, trim my pen and drive myself to finally finish one of the many projects I’ve begun.
I’m waffling again, about my writing. Every so often when I dive into my Bible and read so much my head spins I open my hands and let go of everything—including my dream of publishing children’s books. I’m pretty irritated with the industry which has foolishly told us that we should write what children want to read, instead of writing things that will help them grow and serve the Lord and then disciplining them to read. It’s no wonder our literacy rates have plummeted. Kids don’t read because they aren’t made to. And so we write what they want to hear—about kids who solve problems without the help of adults, and who have extra powers through witchcraft, and who have immoral drives and frequently about kids with active sex lives. And we wonder at our unwed pregnancy rate? We write about kids in split homes, to reach those kids, but the message we’re sending is that split homes are “normal” and “okay”. Now we’re supposed to write about kids with sodomites for parents so that those kids don’t feel left out. It’s insane. Once upon a time writing for children was telling a gripping tale. Now it’s politics.
And I mistrust myself. I can’t bear sappy, fake Christian literature, so I don’t want to write preachy-peachy stuff. But I realized, with a sickened heart, that a project I’d started with much passion and enthusiasm, would end the end promote humanism—the strong child who overcame and escaped the evil that swallowed the rest of her family. I wanted it to open eyes to different addictions a father can have that can destroy his family. But I can’t credit a miraculous escape to the heroine herself, since it’s only by God’s grace that we can overcome. But I also want to market it in the secular world. How can I honor God and give Him the glory in such a way as the set people thinking about Him without being preachy?
Eternity stares at me, too, hungry, empty and waiting to be filled by my actions. Can my writing really have any effect on eternity? What am I accomplishing? Suppose I tell a gripping story that sells to a big publisher, wins a Newberry and leaves kids in tears, longing for another book. It’s pointless unless I’ve pointed them to the author of the only book of any account.
The desire to write surges up just when I was once more ready to swear off fiction as pointless fantasy.
Truly, I am a divided mind.
Lord, confusion only seems
To come when I pursue my dreams—
The dreams I thought had come from Thee.
Lord, tell me what Thou want from me!
This dream I’ve sacrificed before
Yet still it knocks on my heart’s door
Demanding entrance in Thy name.
I must know if Thou’d have the same.