I love to write. Not just type. But actually write. I like the feel of my pen gliding across the paper, the way the thoughts in my head are suddenly tangible, readable, real. I love choosing just the right word to produce just the right effect, to convey just the right emotion, to create just the right mood. I even love using punctuation and spacing to communicate just. theright. point. Writing to me is not simply a therapeutic exercise, it is an extension of my heart. It is not simply a skill, but rather a way of life. I can picture my existence without it the way I see myself not blinking. It won't happen. Writing brings me joy and satisfaction.
But as far as my writing goes, this is about the extent of it. Journal entries. As much as I love writing fiction, I've never actually finished a single thing I have started except for the pieces I created for my Creative Writing class a few quarters ago. It burns inside me though, this fever for writing. Why can't I have at least one good idea? One. Just one. Look at Shannon Hale. Stephenie Meyer. Eion Colfer. Christopher Paolini. And do I even need to mention J.K. Rowling? I am covetous not of their success, but of their
ideas. How I crave just one idea that I can build upon. Just one to ease the driving desire inside me to create a story.
I have to have a goal right? I have to have a dream. What does all of this mean? How does all of this connect? My passion for teaching and my passion for writing and my passion for reading. Can I do all of it? Surely God did not give me these passions and desires and then not weave them into the fabric of my life. A co-worker has been, shall I say,
forcefully encouraging me to write a mission statement for my life. I must say that I have balked at the idea. How can I, at 21, know what I am going to accomplish with my life. I mean, good grief. Look at the unknowns. Look at the variables. Nothing in the world that I plan is likely to happen ten or twenty years from now. Or even five or three. Nothing will go like I expect. Haven't I only recently discovered that? Why try to create an equation when the solution is unforeseen? Why spend so much time and effort flying high on hopes and expectations when I know I am going to crash and burn? I can dream, sure. I've always been a dreamer. But to actually form a mission statement with those dreams is something different entirely. Forming a statement from my dreams means that I might actually have to try to accomplish them. It suddenly involves risk. And risk is a bucket of cold water to the face that banishes the dreams from my head and forces me to wake to reality. Why try to plot the story of my life when I don't even know the end of the chapter?
Ironically (because God likes to work that way), I was given a book by someone else entirely titled
When a Woman Discovers Her Dream by Cindi McMenamin. And what should the first chapter be about but building a mission statement with the bricks of your dreams. Actually, I think Cindi refers to it as a "basic dream concept," but the idea is still the same. After walking through several steps of an exercise which involved reminiscing and soul-searching, I formed my mission statement.
My dream is to brighten, illuminate, and enlighten the imagination, hope and intellect of school children through teaching and writing.
Do you know that I like that? That excites me. That invigorates me. I can do that for the rest of my life and feel happy and fulfilled. It's my dream. Mine. It doesn't revolve around a role or a relationship. If my dream involves my talents and passions, then why do I doubt myself? Maybe it's because I doubt that I have talent. And I
hate that. I hate doubting myself. The Bible says that God has not given us a "spirit of fear," and warns us not to cast off our confidence, which has "great reward." So, as hard as it is to keep my head high and my determination strong, I am going to do it. I can write a book. I can teach a class of students. I can because God has not given me these passions for nothing.
I love to write. Not just type. But actually write. I like the feel of my pen gliding across the paper, the way the thoughts in my head are suddenly tangible, readable, real. I love choosing just the right word to produce just the right effect, to convey just the right emotion, to create just the right mood. I even love using punctuation and spacing to communicate just. theright. point. Writing to me is not simply a therapeutic exercise, it is an extension of my heart. It is not simply a skill, but rather a way of life. I can picture my existence without it the way I see myself not blinking. It won't happen. Writing brings me joy and satisfaction.
But as far as my writing goes, this is about the extent of it. Journal entries. As much as I love writing fiction, I've never actually finished a single thing I have started except for the pieces I created for my Creative Writing class a few quarters ago. It burns inside me though, this fever for writing. Why can't I have at least one good idea? One. Just one. Look at Shannon Hale. Stephenie Meyer. Eion Colfer. Christopher Paolini. And do I even need to mention J.K. Rowling? I am covetous not of their success, but of their ideas. How I crave just one idea that I can build upon. Just one to ease the driving desire inside me to create a story.
I have to have a goal right? I have to have a dream. What does all of this mean? How does all of this connect? My passion for teaching and my passion for writing and my passion for reading. Can I do all of it? Surely God did not give me these passions and desires and then not weave them into the fabric of my life. A co-worker has been, shall I say, forcefully encouraging me to write a mission statement for my life. I must say that I have balked at the idea. How can I, at 21, know what I am going to accomplish with my life. I mean, good grief. Look at the unknowns. Look at the variables. Nothing in the world that I plan is likely to happen ten or twenty years from now. Or even five or three. Nothing will go like I expect. Haven't I only recently discovered that? Why try to create an equation when the solution is unforeseen? Why spend so much time and effort flying high on hopes and expectations when I know I am going to crash and burn? I can dream, sure. I've always been a dreamer. But to actually form a mission statement with those dreams is something different entirely. Forming a statement from my dreams means that I might actually have to try to accomplish them. It suddenly involves risk. And risk is a bucket of cold water to the face that banishes the dreams from my head and forces me to wake to reality. Why try to plot the story of my life when I don't even know the end of the chapter?
Ironically (because God likes to work that way), I was given a book by someone else entirely titled When a Woman Discovers Her Dream by Cindi McMenamin. And what should the first chapter be about but building a mission statement with the bricks of your dreams. Actually, I think Cindi refers to it as a "basic dream concept," but the idea is still the same. After walking through several steps of an exercise which involved reminiscing and soul-searching, I formed my mission statement. 
1 comment:
I'm of the school of thought that stories aren't created so much as they're unearthed. A fun thing to do to stretch your creativity muscle is to flesh out a simple preexisting story. For example, when I'm tired of writing the stuff I normally write, I've been rewriting nursery rhymes as if they were short short stories. It's really easy and fun, and it's a lot like how the real writing process works with "original" ideas.
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