Silent Story

Walking away from a blog, taking a break always makes the returning that much harder. 

18 days, an almost
blog suicide.

Every day life steals away my heart, a piece of soul. And my writing becomes sporadic; I wonder if I should simply quit this whole blogging endeavor. But some sort of siren song compels me to write. I return the blog updates, pushing back the dusty cobwebs of my small bit of internet real estate. Sitting down at my cluttered desk, I punch the keys for words and phrases and sentences hoping somehow to write what I am feeling, how the burdens placed upon me grow heavier. But I can’t.

Somehow, my story has become a sealed document. The words fester inside, longing for me to give them life on the page. Again, I censor what I want to say. Some days, I write about incounous things of puppies, of sunshine, of books, and of Jane Austen. Deep inside, my heart hardens just bit because I long to share the real life, the dirty, the unperfect. But I am trapped in the “life’s perfect” mask, and I can’t get out.

Maybe, this is why I have been away from my blog for so long.

I have a story to write out, and my blog should be a somewhat safe(albeit public place) to share my story. But it isn’t. I envy blogger who can write about their non-perfect lives, who write beautiful stories of mothering or my case step-mothering, who bleed beauty and brokeness. I feel like I yelling from behind a glass prison cell. Desperate for someone to stop and listen, to tell my story beyond the perfect. But I don’t think anyone hears.

Sometimes, I wonder how a writer survives under such circumstances. Can a writer exist and not write the her story that’s in desperate need of telling? I don’t know. I’m still deeply entrenched in this burdensome silence, and for awhile longer, I remain silent and strong and brave. Well, I put on a mask of bravery. I’ve learned to cry, to hurt, to exist in this oppressive silence. Then, I replace the real with my mask, my battle armor, and head out to stand firm against this unfair thing called life.

This is the only way that I know to be strong, to write out my story for now. 


Pissing on Stories

iRiver Story eBook Reader Reviewphoto © 2010 Andrew Mason | more info (via: Wylio)
We all have a story.

Written not always with words but daily breathes—a story alive is simply a work in progress. Until our final breathe, our story is in a constant editing and revision stage. We have some control over the ebb and flow of our stories. True, we cannot see the end product, or the grand interweaving of stories as God can. But we can see how the colorful, mismatched threads of individual stories loop around, intersect our story. While we may not be able to guide our story exactly where we want, we can choose to write our life story into the stories of others. This is our we truly learn to write a better story for ourselves. But the dark underside of interweaving stories is this:we cannot control is the reactions to the framework of our stories.

At some point, someone insensitive will piss all over your and my story.

Our story narrative will not invite others to interweave their stories with ours. In fact, our story may even chase some away. But then there are the few who stand their ground, gang up, and piss all over our story. What may even be worse is that story pisser will invite others to join in, to revel in the glory of our shame. Each new insult piss on the common thread of shared experiences, thoughts so that the story pisser will have edited out the offending details of your story. Before you know it, threads hang tattered and soaked—our story marred by others.

Too often, we have seen this played out.

We see Mark Driscoll’s Facebook post incite outrage over the nature of effeminate worship leaders. An invitation to piss on other people’s stories. We see the blogosphere squabbles and insults and troll-like comments. An invitation to piss on other people’s stories. We see the condemning debate over working mothers and stay at home mothers. An invitation to piss on other people’s stories. We see the ongoing claims to have a more accurate, more perfect interpretation of the Bible. An invitation to piss on other people’s stories.

What does that leave us?

A bunch of sopping wet stories, lives embittered and shamed. Worse still, many of these pissing parties are held under the auspices of the church, in the name of Christ. This should not be. We don’t have the authority to piss on others stories, but we do have the authority to practice grace.

For the Days I Don’t Want to Write

The write thing Project 365(2) Day 12photo © 2010 Keith Williamson | more info (via: Wylio)

I don’t want to write. I have nothing to say. My sentences are short and choppy. The words are stuck together forcefully. Each small click of the keys echoes in the emptiness. Swift fingers choose each letter with precision and muddy up the blank screen. Words fill the empty space—hollow words, shallow words, soul-less words. Do you hear the echoing whispers of the keys chanting:

I don’t want to write. I don’t WANT to write! I. Don’t. Want. To. Write!

But here I am writing.

I wish I could let you inside my thought processes as I sit down to write for this blog. Maybe, you would understand if you could see the ideologies warring against each other. Or even better, read the half written pages and pages of stories, posts, essays that I have yet to put into words. The things I don’t know how to write, how to choose the right words, and I guess I keep hoping if I wait long enough the perfect set of words will magically appear.

Magic is not in the writing process. Writing should peel away the layers of the writer’s psyche and reveal an authentic soul. She shouldn’t be hiding behind flowery rhetorical devices or keeping silent as not to offend anyone. There are days when I would rather not write anything than be authentic or transparent or honest. Because I really like the online mask that I can easily hide behind; I like painting on a smiling happy-face blog post even though its a lie; but most of all, I like easy writing. I had a professor in college warn us about writing that comes easily that writing is a heart-breaking, painful process in which our deepest parts are exposed. Certainly not easy.

Writing requires the willful removal of excessive words, distractions—editing down to the most important of words. Perhaps, I see more of a correlation between writing or more like editing and life. I do not want to say anything I have is unnecessary or could be deleted. For the past couple of days, I have been thinking about what needs to be edited from my life, what things are weighing my spirit down. Maybe, I want to write, but editing is the real issue. I need to focus on editing out the non-essentials—both in my writing and in life.