Into the Fire

I get these flashes of surrealism in my life. Like whatever I’m doing isn’t quite real. I know—it sounds crazy. But it has more to do with big picture perspective and feeling like a dot on a massive canvas, undetectable to the human eye but there just the same. Insignificance. Yet a piece of this enormous landscape of life.

There are different circumstances which contribute to these “flashes”. Standing back from the tumultuous rigors of seeking publication, infiltrating the ranks of writers, establishing the connections desired to bring the reality of acceptable publication to a piece of writing, it hits me. What am I doing here? What is this all about?

Like walking into a bookstore—any bookstore. The walls of books, of novels. How can one novel stand out in the crowd? Really even matter amid all the others? Perspective.

Like seeing the anguish on the face of someone who’s just lost a loved one. Like observing the overturning of a country I love. Like hearing the word cancer pronounced upon anyone close. Perspective.

Can’t help slipping into the big picture focus. Sometimes it’s all about writing, but when it isn’t? What then?

Returning to the writing surrealism . . .

After these questions subject me to self-examination, I find myself lacking. Everything. Well, not the work. Seven novels under my belt. I know how to write a book. As most of us do who continue to write, I’ve improved considerably since that huge first endeavor. I wonder sometimes if it matters. These stories I’ve written showcase many characters, some desirable, some definitely not. I love some of them, am disgusted by others, and probably detest a few of them. Most of them are fairly ordinary—no spies, no presidents of countries, one film star, no hotshot professional athlete. And the film star began his life in a very ordinary way. So the conflict in the stories is more minimal than adventurous and stems from relationships more than anything else.

Honestly, sometimes I love parts of my writing. I would even argue that there are parts I think the Holy Spirit dictated to me because I’m so fascinated by what’s on the page. Then I stop to think what if somebody would hate this? Here I am professing to myself that the Lord has just written this section of the novel because it’s profound and beautiful and I couldn’t possibly take any credit for it, but what if someone else crinkles their eyebrows and frowns when they read it? This is definitely one of the times the surrealism rushes through my soul in waves of wind-blown doubt—like a tumbleweed gaining momentum at each additional question.

Is this all real? God, you’ve given me stories to write. And I know this—whether or not any CBA agent or editor or publishing professional rolls their eyes in mockery or disdain—that you have given them to me for one reason and one reason alone: I know I couldn’t have come up with them without you. Just not that creative. At all. They must have a purpose, no matter how large or small. If you ordained their existence the purpose is still important regardless what happens to them.

So. What? Some of you writers who’ve yet to be published are focused and pursuing, ready for the next step whatever it is and anxious to meet the requirements whatever they might be. I can’t say that I am. Not really. What is it about the skewed parts of the process that bothers me so much—that make me question why I’m involved at all, no matter how peripherally? Maybe my picture is surreal, and I don’t get it. Maybe I refuse to get it.

Just sometimes seems surreal. That’s all.

Father, you’re the anchor for my thought-tossed ship. You make earthly things seem irrelevant and I’m very grateful for those moments when I’m not clinging to the “success” of the hour, day, month, or year. I appreciate when the good and perfect gifts come because it feels so good to acknowledge your benevolence and generosity. I deserve none of it, but you’ve been so gracious to me. I love you, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.