Why write?

Somewhere along the way, I lost confidence. I forgot how to write. I was scared to write. “Of making many books there is no end…” What did I really have to contribute that had not already been said? Did the world really need the musings of yet another white, middle-aged man?

Words are provocative, powerful, playful; words in the hands of a master author can change worlds. If not, the world itself. The best writing ought to raise more questions than answers, provoking more possibilities than certainties. I thought I could write like that, but somewhere along the way, I lost my faith.

Yet people kept telling me I should write. I did not believe them. Write. They are just being polite. Write. Perhaps I did not want to believe them. Write. They just feel sorry for me. Write!

Write!

Right?

For too long, I listened to all the wrong voices. Voices that told me what I should do. Who I should be. What I should think. Voices that grew soft in the presence of doubt. And that fell silent in the midst of struggle. Voices disembodied and distant in the loneliness.

Yet there were other voices… ever-present, embodied, voices. Voices that “bear all things, believe all things, hope all things, endure all things.” Trusted voices.

“Write!”

Do I dare to trust them?  Write!  “I believe; help my unbelief!”

Welcome to my cynical, terrified, self-doubting writing space.

Maybe that is good enough for now…

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Photo by Min An from Pexels