I go back and read my own writing sometimes. They are like bed time stories… I either pull up old blog posts or randomly pick up an old notebook. I get to time travel, and when I read the things that I have written, I am always surprised.
Over the past week or so, I have learned that people actually read the random things that I transcribe from my notebook to websites. The analytics surprise me.
Well, it is all just so strange… the random stories, the times I talk about when I cry, or anything about the Dominican Republic. For years, I have emptied my heart onto pages, and I guess that people want to read it for themselves. The act of writing helps me to pause and see.
The plot twists of my life are far from anything that I would have written. When I was younger, I wrote stories about teenage spies, kite runners in Kabul, and Southern belles. My writing usually was output of my reading choices: Alex Rider, Kite Runner, and Gone with the Wind. I used to read tons of fiction, but I think that I stopped in college.
The last piece of fiction I read was Harper Lee’s most recent, and the rest of my choices are about entrepreneurship, orphanages, and writings by Mother Teresa. My last book was about prayer and prison ministries, so I am just waiting for God to take me to a maximum security prison soon. Goodness, I still have to tell the story about Statesville Prison. I shall add that to the list.
I realize that sometimes my writings are all about “writing” and all the stories that I should probably tell at some point, but I am still praying about the order. This is how I think: everything at once, just start it, and figure out the order as it happens.
I commented to my dad earlier this evening before we watched a classic gangster movie that began with:
“Ever since I can remember, I always knew I wanted to be a gangster.”
It is difficult to keep up... I find stories every single day. Note, there is no purpose for the Goodfellas reference; I just wanted to seem cultured.
Lindy and I decided that it was due time that we took all of our adventure sporting aspirations seriously, so we walked around the park. In a matter of 1.8 miles and a series of random exercises, she and I were high school teachers, producers, United marketing consultants, and explorers. We ran into my mom and Max while we were plotting out the high school student government.
Pausing, I worry if the words that I choose are too dramatic, do I say too much, should I keep things to myself? Well, it is far too late for that. My life is pretty much an open book, and if you want to know anything specific just ask. I will probably get around to telling it in the next days or so, but I am impatient, too, so I get it.
In the meantime, it is already too late, and I have been decent at going to bed on time for the past few days, which is quite the accomplishment in my book. I have not been dreaming about sleeping since I have been catching up on the deficit from the past year and a half or so. Welcome to entrepreneurship.
Recently, I have not understood at all what God has been doing. The past few weeks have thrown me for a loop, and I never did like Fruit Loops very much. I have written a couple strongly worded letters to the month of November because I do not like him very much. I have written random pieces about everything and nothing and random memories that pop into my mind, I have shown up in the city with a group of random high schoolers, and Lindy and I are headed to a random country soon, probably Thailand.
I will probably stop writing when things makes sense again, but maybe that is exactly why things are so ridiculous right now… God wants me to write, and so here I am… with many words… in need of an editor… in need of a publisher… in need of some direction… in need of God. Most people are looking for the same, they just do not write as often.
On occasion, I read She Reads Truth for Bible studies, and when I was thinking about this Advent, I attempted to make my writing like theirs. I wanted the light florals and the pretty graphic design. I can take that type of photograph, but my words have a darker hue... I found quickly though that my voice is completely different. I meditate on what God is doing in my life through stories and always look for Him. Sometimes He gives me glimpses, and other times He does not.
For me, this is a season of winter: the cold, the open wounds, the raw, and the beauty amidst it all.
I should have seen this all coming, but here is the introduction for something that has not yet been created: writing a series of stories throughout Advent, preparing hearts for the greatest joy, and seeking to know God just a little bit more everyday. All I know that it is the book of Luke, a mountain, and open hands.
I am just as curious as to what it will be... to be continued.
Greetings from my usual place to lurk in Wheaton: River City Roasters. Come say hey.