The only thing I’ve ever wanted–ever, with any real consistency wanted–was to be a writer.
I envisioned myself in a cafe along the Champs Elysees sipping cappuccino. Or, maybe wearing a bulletproof vest in a trench, hair in a wispy, cascading braid, and frantically scribbling words onto a notepad as bombs exploded just out of reach. Or in front of a great bay window, in a room of my own, before a typewriter.
I would be brazen but brilliant, a charming cannon of spitfire prose.
I realized–in theory–that to be a writer, one has to actually, you know, write.
But somewhere in the last few months of writing other people’s stories, I’ve forgotten to love the practice of writing. I’ve forgotten how to love the discipline.
In fact, to be honest, I’ve forgotten how to love anything associated with writing, including reading, books, and other blogs. I’ve become quite the Netflix watcher, something I normally only do on rainy evenings with the Boyfriend. I’ve gotten absorbed in the storylines that put me to sleep at night and create my background noise while cleaning.
Yesterday, I sat in a meeting with the CFO of my organization and listened as two of my colleagues–a brilliant couple, both writers in their own right–explained something we’d all worked on for quite some time. It’s a project meant to bring a culture of story more fully into our organization.
As they spoke, I found that I couldn’t help but smile and nod my head along, as if I was hearing it for the first time. My heart leapt as one talked about deeply rooted in our identities this is, how central to our DNA, how, created in the image of God who is the preemptive and primary Storyteller, we are now entrusted with the greatest story ever told–His.
Even greater now, then, is the knowledge of ourselves as part of that story and our responsibility to carry story into our world like a torch to light a new campfire around which others can gather.
This presentation, full of words and graphics and power points, relit a fire in me. It reminded me that even in all my hours sitting at my desk, telling stories that seem greater than the one I’m living, I am living a story. And it’s a good one. And it’s mine to tell.
So I’m back. Let’s try this again.