Into the Fire

Here we go again. Can’t help it. Just can’t.

Look, Truth is . . . well, truth. Just about everything else is nothing more than someone’s opinion.

The problem lies in when someone’s opinion decides what is good, acceptable, logical, brilliant, or the opposites of those, and that person or persons’ opinions delete yours.

I do not have human idols. It doesn’t matter how wonderful a person is, how much they’ve accomplished, who they are influentially in the world be it mine or the world in general, I do not idolize human beings. Because as soon as you put your adoration or faith in a human being, they will fail you. We as human beings are unworthy to be idolized in any way.

That is not to say I don’t have respect for the character of some people, what they have accomplished, or even how they’ve accomplished it. I have enormous respect for a few people as a matter of fact, my Dad (now deceased) and my husband for two. Because of who they are inside their precious hearts . . .

Now, to the point. I have some favorite authors–don’t we all? Being writers, we admire writing. Right? But because I don’t admire who you admire, does that make who I admire less? Man! I just want to scream sometimes. Seriously. I’ve had it with people expounding on who the best, the greatest, the most profound, the deepest, most effiicient, astounding, how about stunning, exceptional, influential, near perfect, word perfect, literary (one of my all time detestable), secular, Christian, (couldn’t you just go on and on?) writers are. Dang! Yes, I really do say dang, not damn. Criticize that. Tell me it’s not “realistic” or edgy or profane enough?

I tell you what. If you write to please people, to fit in to their ideas of what the perfect novel is, should be, should look like, sound like, be like: Good Luck. And, for those of you who have yet to figure it out: there’s no such thing as luck.

This is my ongoing rant, and in essence it is about idolatry and opinions. Since few give a rip about mine, I’m supposed to take theirs as the gospel. I can’t. I just can’t. As I’ve said before, oh well. It’s only me who suffers the consequences of my actions.

For the record, here are the writers I couldn’t read without having to be forced to: Faulkner, Steinbeck, Dickens, just to name a few. All highly acclaimed. By those whose opinions apparently matter.

Father, just help me to hear your voice, the calming, reasonable voice to assuage my fears, my distate for what I sometimes see, to breathe encouragement into these writing bones, and to know that you have it all under control. May I walk by the Spirit and continue to put to death this flesh. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.