Right now, I'm writing here to get some of that off my chest. That's part of the reason. Mostly it's 10:30 and I don't want to get caught up in a story if I do happen to hit "flow" because I know I have to get up early tomorrow morning. Why, when I decided to write tonight, did I go to the kitchen, toast Ezekiel cinnamon raisin bread, spread Nutella on it, and sprinkle peanuts and marshmallows on as a second supper? Why, when I sat down at my desk did I choose to let Molly's getting her claws stuck in the chair convince me I should trim all the cats' claws, right now? Why, when I finished with that, did I remember the birthday cards I still had to make from yesterday's to-do list? Is this some kind of spiritual warfare? Or is this divine guidance pushing me toward my journal instead of my notebooks?
Why, when I want to write the most, do I have such difficulty doing it? Perhaps a quote from John Leax that caught my spirit, did so for a reason tonight. He was talking about prose, but it fits my fiction as well:
This uncertainty has nothing to do with any lack of faith or conviction. It has rather to do with three shifts in my thinking. First, I have an increasing respect for the wondrous mystery of my life. Second, I am more aware of the limitations of language. And third, I am dumbfounded by my finiteness before the infiniteness of truth.It's not so much that I'm already there, or had already realized I am there. But I sense it is where I am going. He put it into the words I feel so constrained to understand.
My life is a wondrous mystery. Born by divine intervention, raised with a promise over my life, I am now struggling to find the fulfillment, or the path to fulfillment, of the promise. I am on my own, but I have people around me. Totally new people who do not know personally the Sarah who was cradled in Illinois. A few know the Sarah who carried her life into college in Indiana, and most know the Sarah that carried all that to Georgia as a new self--Sarah and Andrew. I am the same, but I have evolved into new identities. And I feel I am never constant.
Words. My life revolves around words. I love language as a tool and language as an art. Yet I find it so difficult to harness language around my thoughts, my experiences, my imagination, and create something new and true to the thought, experience, or imagination. I always feel my words come up short, like a line thrown just out of reach of a drowning person. Like setting up the longest ladder I could find and realizing I still can't grasp the lowest branch of the tree. Oh, words!
And that reaching and grasping at, it is all for conveying truth. Even in fiction. There is truth in fiction, otherwise it would be alien and undesirable to read. But sometimes I feel like Pilate. "Jesus, what is truth?" And like John Leax pointed out, Jesus answered him without words. How can my finite grasp of my own experience lead me to express in finite words what in reality is infinite?
This is why I struggle. This is why I love it so. Because in my own stretching and straining, I hope I can be worship to the Author of truth and creativity, the ultimate All who is in all, the infinite.
I am undone.