There is something about “not writing” that kills something inside of me.  And I am not being melodramatic- it really does feel as if the neural pathways that are essential to my writing, start to fuzz and fizzle and die.  I convince myself that I can just pick it up whenever I want to, but in the truest part of myself, I know it is a lie.  When I write often, stories find me, but when I don’t I struggle to word a note to the class teacher.

I have been taking a break from writing every week for a few months now. It wasn’t a decision. I’ve just let life seep into the borders I’d created for writing. At night in bed when it bugged me most, I convinced myself that perhaps I’d heard God wrong after all. That I am not a writer after all.  That I am too busy to write.

The tricky thing about writing in a “Seth Godin/Jeff Goins/Jon Acuff-world” is that it seems like an easy road from blogger to blog-mogul.  They tell you often exactly how hard it is, but every now and then they throw in an e-book or a course that makes you think- “Hey, perhaps that could be me.”  All writers are narcissists at their core. We want people to read our words and we want them to like them. I imagine it is the same with all artists.

In an age of blog stats and Facebook and Twitter, we are able to see how much they like our words and it becomes addictive.  Instead of asking: “What is God prompting me to write today?”, we start to ask: “What would people like me to write about today? What got the most “Likes” the last time I wrote?”.  We start to watch blog stats and as hard as we try to pretend they don’t matter, there is a burst of endorphins when we see a comment or a “like” appear.

Well. I say “we” but I mean “I”.  I got way too busy waiting for the reaction to my words. Because my worth is not there. It SO isn’t. I find my worth in a clear picture I have after a recent Sozo session, of myself as a little girl with silky hair and a skew haircut, sitting on my Father God’s lap, with my head leaning on his chest. And hearing His voice reverberate through His chest as He talks to me.

So, if you will bear with me, I will be writing lots more on here. Some of it, you may agree with. Some of it, you won’t.  Some of it will be good. Most of it will be bad. But I will be writing anyway.

Thank you for reading.

God bless you.

Alleta

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