WORDS OF LOVE –

Aug. 11, 2023 – “Just try it and see.” I was not at all sure that God would want to write through me. And wasn’t it only normal to want to be a great writer?

“In order to write sober, you have to let God take care of the quality,” my mentors sternly told me. “Your job is to take care of the quantity.”

It was suggested that I post a sign in my writing area, “Okay, God, you take care of the quality. I will take care of the quantity.” Then it was suggested that I set a manageable quota of daily work: three pages.

If it took all day to write three pages, I was to remain at my desk working until my quota was complete. More likely, the three pages would get accomplished quickly. When they were finished, I was done for the day. I was not to write more than three pages. The idea that writing could be something that didn’t require my whole day was a revelation to me—and a threat. My identity was bound up with being a writer. If writing was just one of the things I did, who was I, then? I was used to the self-importance of being a writer. I had bought into the notion that artists were tormented and that their every waking thought needed to be given to their art. My new friends were suggesting that such a stance was really just an ego trip. God was the Great Creator, they pointed out. I was, after all, one of God’s creations myself.

I posted the little sign. I settled Domenica in her playpen and I started to write. My head started in: “This isn’t any good. This is terrible. You can do better. Start again.” I was used to such self-loathing diatribes while I wrote. I was used to writing and rewriting, striving for perfection. Then I remembered, “I am not supposed to be judging. I am just supposed to be writing.” Quality was up to God. I was in charge only of quantity.

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