There’s a creative soul that’s been locked up inside of me. Today I intend to free her. I don’t know how long the emancipation process will last, but I have a feeling that she will emerge in the same manner that she was suppressed---slowly.
What is it that makes me feel like I can’t really write unless I’m in just the right atmosphere, wearing just the right clothes and using just the right instruments? Does this mean I’m not a “real writer”? Shouldn’t a “real writer” be able to pour out her heart through her pen at any given moment under any circumstances?
Why is it that I’m so excited to pick up my glasses this afternoon? It’s because I think they’ll make me look smarter---like I have something to contribute to this big world so full of knowledge already.
“There’s nothing new under the sun,” the good king once said. “There is no remembrance of earlier things; and also of the later things which will occur.” (Ecc. 1:9, 11) This verse reminds me of the comic strip my mom cut out for me recently. In it, a young mom calls her mother to tell her how she read online that if one were to take all the leftovers from one’s fridge, put them in a pot with water, and let it cook over the stove for a few hours, one could feed a family for several days. The mother responds, “Congratulations! You’ve discovered soup!”
I am not so foolish as to believe that everything that comes around has not already been around; however, I want to be one who discovers something new for my generation. I’m convinced that inside every wall, there’s a note left by it’s builder. Underneath every modern lawn, hides an old metal key or an etched glass button, or the other half of a long-since broken locket. I want to offer ideas that are fresh for my time. I want to be considered brilliant. I want to be taken seriously.
The other day, I refreshed my Facebook page to see the intelligent grin of my friend Amelia and her most recent wall post: “Just sitting here drinking tea and working on my novel.” I wanted to cry. (Later that morning, I did cry). Amelia is all I could be if I’d take opportunities instead of make excuses.
I whined to my mom about this a little later on that morning. She responded by listing all the people she could think of who’d recently come in to her store and told her what an awesome mom I am and how much they admire me.
So why can’t I be content and let these selfish passions be laid to rest? Why do I struggle between thinking they’re selfish passions on one hand and on the other hand, feeling like I’m allowing fear to hold me back from a calling?
In my heart, I believe it’s because God has made me in His image: the image of a creator. He has designed me to create---it’s in my soul.