Mmmmm. I'm sipping a cappuccino and I've discovered that I love/hate that bitter richness in the back of your throat after you've taken a sip of espresso.
Good morning, it's Monday.
On Mondays I try to organize everything for the week. I clean my house top to bottom so that it is spotless and fresh, I try to plan meals for the week and make a grocery list, I do laundry, bake bread (haha), and spend a lot of time reprimanding myself (for not writing my book). The last point is the one that perplexes me as I'm sitting here with my coffee, at 8:19am. The day is so new, and I know that my potential for progress on my book is almost 100% greater than my actual progress will be and that stirs so much anxiety in my that I feel frozen.
Allow me to explain.
I grew up wanting to be a writer, I believe from the time I was old enough to say "I want to be ____ when I grow up." Of course I tried to write my life story, a fictional account of best friends, the tragedy of a girl who moved from place to place...all before I was 9. And shortly after my 11th birthday gave up this dream, scoffing at my inability to realize that hardly anyone is a published writer.
In high school I regained my enthusiasm for writing as a coping mechanism that came out in the form of letters to God, commentary on the social pressures that young women face, and I would go only so far as to say, "someone SHOULD write a book about these things," but at 14 I had acquired too much insecurity to think I could or would ever be that someone. I continued to look for books at the Christian bookstore to help me through difficult times, confusing circumstances, and provide pure romantic ideals. However, I always left the teen section with a sigh and meandered over to theology where I would pick up a new Tozer devotional, or the accounts of a martyred missionary, the love lorn sacrifices of Elizabeth Elliot, and others. These became my Christian mentors, and let me tell you they did nothing but point to God and consequently I spent evenings after work, before my 4 hours worth of AP homework, reading about the faith of such strong men and women, then journaling letters and prayers to God that were relevant to me and my life as a teenager. In those moments I did not realize that I was collecting notes and commentary for a calling that was stirred 3 years later.
At 19 I was nearly finished with college, home for the summer, and a part of the junior high school youth group at my parent's church. Let's settle one thing (and I will explain my strong conviction)...I HATE youth groups! I found youth groups to be the most effective breeding ground for closed-minded, routine, exclusive, and spiritually dead teens. God is a correct answer to a study question, he's something that we sing about in dimly lit, emotional worship times, he's the reason that we close out the people who raise questions against him, and he is the reason that we completely tackle those who do not believe with a message of salvation and hope. I was asked to resign from the leadership team in high school because I asked if we could discontinue all of the hype and spend time focusing on God, his power, majesty, might, and our submission to Him. They said I was disrupting the unity of the vision for our group. So...at 19 I went along with what they wanted. I followed the questions outlined for our group study times, I ignored the girls lolluping about on the floor, I ignored them doodling hearts and initials in the margins, and I ignored their sighs and whines and whispers about completely unrelated topics. I ignored it until my spirit rebelled and that evening I turned the lights off and told the girls to listen. I told them that during the week they would need to focus on God being there with them, inside of them, loving them, encouraging them, empowering them, asking things of them, and the next week...
I cannot believe how alive these girls were, spilling with stories of a personal, powerful, relevant, holy, God. I think I knew then that I needed to write.
I saw that I would create a young woman whose life would progress ordinarily, and that she would be a model of a young woman, who is attentive to God, who struggles and backslides, and surrenders, and lives whole heartedly to honor God. She would be the girls who read about her, she would be their best friend, she would be their spiritual mentor and the girl that they want to reach out to. I named her Savannah. She's 14 years old, petite, with thick hair the color of pale sunshine, light blue eyes, a sprinkle of freckles, and excessive amounts of joy and introspection that create a most unique dry humor that sends the people around her into bouts of laughter or she perplexes them to fascination. Her father's business and both parent's international background have made her a muli-lingual, international boarding school girl who begins the book as the new kid in Newport Mesa California. It's her first experience with public school, youth group, and...sumer camp. With an accent that turns heads, a sweetness that earns best friends, a sarcasm that keeps the boys guessing, and a mind and heart that seek God fervently, she's one of the most special people you could ever hope to meet. The problem is...I'm currently the only one who knows her, and Patrick, and my mom. I've kept them on the edge of their seats, but as for the rest of the girls out there...she's unknown.
NOW, why does this bother me? Because I KNOW that I need to write this story. I know that it is what I am called to do for the time being. I know that God has gifted me, inspired me, equipped me, and told me to write this book, and the problem is that I don't want to be a published writer. I love to write my stories, but I don't want to HAVE to write them. I want to laugh, create, discover, and do all of this for a hobby, but I have this nagging guilt that that isn't enough. BUT then my head thinks it's extremely proud to think that I could write a book and impose myself on others, and then my spirit counters that it isn't myself, but God who is reflected and inspiring these stories. I tell myself to sit and write but a thousand darts fly at me telling me it isn't good, or it's a waste of time, or it's pride, or ... I've heard it all.
So, it's Monday. I'm blessed to have a part time job. I'm blessed with 2 days a week at home (dare I say to write?). But I cannot bring myself to sit down and write. I try, but I cannot shut off the opposing thoughts inside of me. So, should I really not be doing this, or should I be trying even harder. I cannot discern what it true.
I'll try again today, but I feel defeated before I have even given it a chance.
Anyway, I didn't have a desk for writing. I of course had seen my dream desk at Pottery Barn and told myself that if I could have that desk then surely I would write. Um, this isn't funny.
I saw the exact $3,000 desk and $200 chair on craigslist for $150.00 total. Here it is.





I said that I would need a place that is bright and comfortable to write, here's my livingroom:




I'm out of excuses.
Happy Monday.