The Audacity!

I've read two of Yann Martel's books now, and each time he had me hooked in the introduction. It's probably because he has, in both cases, started by going back in time to his expectations and mindset as a college student studying philosophy. From there he talks about his journey as a writer and how he came to write the book I held in my hand. In both cases, I felt that there was something about him that was just like me, except that we come from different cultural backgrounds, genders, countries of birth and life experience and have almost nothing, really, in common. Just philosophy and writing. Of course, the writing link is tenuous at best: his writing has been critically acclaimed and translated into several languages, while mine wasn't skillful enough to save me the indignity of a lay-off from a publication that can hardly claim literary distinction among its merits. Basically, I read his introductory words and become convinced immediately that we have everything (and nothing) in common. Former philosophy majors that we are, I'm fairly certain that if Mr. Martel and I ever actually discussed the matter, we'd both be rather comfortable with paradox. It's just about all the major leaves one with... so why not embrace it?

Daniel and I were talking last night about my writing while waiting for sleep to overtake us. I had made it about 3/4 of the way through the newest Martel intro and again had that distinct feeling that I must write, even if it is for an audience of none. I told my sleepy husband that it was a pity, really: I have all the time in the world to be creative, and not much energy to do anything else, and yet I have no idea what to write. I have no shortage of life experiences to begin from. I've traveled some, talked to hundreds of people, I have known loves and losses and if anything I feel like I am already bursting with inspiration. How, though, to pull from 1000 ideas just one to make my focus? I have no idea. Well... I know what will happen well enough. It could be scripted. I'll eventually, Lord willing, have my hands full with children, and then I will know exactly what to write... I just won't have the time to commit it to screen or paper.

I know part of what holds me back, and I told Daniel so. Until I battle that demon, I will continue to think about writing and limit my words to the mostly polite boundaries of my blog space. I know that if I do write someday, I wouldn't know how to do it without exploring parts of human experience that are impolite, if not insidious. I would probably shock and dismay people who would prefer to think of me as a nice Christian girl who couldn't or wouldn't think up such things, because "nice" Christians seem to behave as if the sinful nature we all share does not bear uttering, because uttering is akin to glorifying. I don't mean that my deepest desire as a writer is to create salacious texts that have no value beyond the prurient, rather I am uncomfortable with the idea that to write about human failings with honesty is to first find those failings in my own heart and life - if not in full bloom, in seeds of thought. They are there, without question, but I sometimes feel that I must keep up the facade. I'm not a "nice" Christian girl; I am a highly imperfect person who struggles, and I could be nothing less as an author. I wouldn't know how to create characters without making them deeply flawed. No devotionals, inspirational works or simple moral tales for me. But what else is a Christian to write? I want to write fiction, and to write powerful fiction is first to write truth. The truth is that humanity is imperfect... not beyond the reach of redemption, but in desperate need of that redemption.

Minutes ticked by. Daniel eventually succumbed to the wiles of sleep. I, however, lay awake, tying to find some way to be comfortable on my left side and contemplating my myriad different muses. It occurred to me at some point that the this whole desire to write is rather audacious. It assumes that I have something of inherent importance to say. Of course, nobody is obligated to read anything I may pull together, but by bothering to make it public, I am saying that my thoughts, my creations must be shared. Surely our Creator gave us the creative instinct, and, in one sense, at least, man was create to share His creation. What, however, can I possibly say that hasn't been said? What can I knit in words that won't have the must and texture of recycled fragments? Why bother?

Honestly, I don't know. I think, thought, that I'm just audacious enough try anyway. Only time will tell.