Writer's Block
Writing is difficult. The task is not easy. Coming upon day 6, I recognize this challenge. Ideas come and go; some are worth keeping, others should be left aside, cast away as distracting temptations. However this "Writer's Block" may not necessarily be a bad thing. What is there to learn, to realize, if there is no struggle? Is there truly any advance, any development, any victory, if there is no challenge? A commitment is a commitment regardless of how I'm feeling five days, five minutes, after making a commitment. Although I have not (and don't intend to...anytime soon at least) committed or vowed to commit to be a "serious" writer, I recognize the value in persevering in these goals despite any aridity or dry spells.
The same is true of a relationship or our spiritual life. We grow, we learn, we adapt, we adjust, throughout moments that are not particularly easy, warm and fuzzy, or peachy. Imagine a circumstance where a newly married couple gets into their first disagreement. If they cannot agree on what to name their child or on which family needs to be visited during Thanksgiving, does that mean their marriage is moribund? Of course not! The tension creates space for conversation. The dryness represents a outcry for inspiration. To be "unmotivated" doesn't mean that we don't care or that we aren't skilled or passionate. To feel this "dryness" might represent our need to be reminded why we love what we do, who we do.
One of my favorite lines from Pope Francis is from his encyclical, "Evangelii Gaudium." In it, he writes beautifully about the "joy of the Gospel" and our need to encounter and re-encounter Christ through within the Word. Yet the line is this: "The believer is essentially one who remembers."
This is evidentially true for religious faith. If I do not remember the content of my faith, if I do not know the Person from whom and for whom I live, in what do I believe? And without anything (perhaps worse, anyone) to believe in, why have faith? We must constantly bring to mind the cause for our joy, our hope; we must live aware of our first encounters, first contacts with Jesus, our partners, our friends. In this, we draw hope in times of despair or destitution. From this, we are strengthened to persevere even in the face of difficulties or trials.
I want to take Francis's words and repurpose them for the writer, or for one who longs to express. The writer, the expressionist, even the evangelist (one who seeks to share the Good News) is essentially one who believes. A writer must believe in what they are saying. Without this self-confidence, this intellectual firmness, why say anything? Writers must first be believers in something. Writers must believe and in order to believe they must remember. It may not always "feel" good or easy, the ideas may not always flow naturally. But they arise, and at times, we can even surprise ourselves at the results.
The empty page is a forge for the finished product. Words must begin somewhere. (In the beginning was the Word...all life, all light, all good things come from the Word.) Words must populate our dryness, our difficulties; they must bridge our silences, but they must do so without replacing the silence. The silence, the "dryness," the apparent emptiness seems foreboding, yet it is the very soil of the soul. The soul speaks in silence, it alights and delights in the whisper of nothingness since the soul itself (invisibly visible!) always is. Expressionless expression, our words put to page what our minds can barely grasp. At times, the silence is good even though the difficulty of bearing it is real. The silence reminds us that the deep-thought, the truest conversations, from head to heart, from Maker to made, happen underneath our very eyes, our very hearts.
St. Mother Teresa was assured, God speaks into the silence of our hearts, and from the fullness of our hearts, we speak. On the surface, this silence may seem like emptiness, but don't be mistaken: it is full of life, full of silent adoration. Writing is difficult until we remind ourselves that the very Word is implanted upon our hearts. To be a writer requires the Pentecostal trust: Speak, write, and the fire will fall. It requires us to love, to do our duty, without seeing or needing to know of the fruit.
Love and do what you will.
Write and even the dry heart will speak as it can, as it must.
The same is true of a relationship or our spiritual life. We grow, we learn, we adapt, we adjust, throughout moments that are not particularly easy, warm and fuzzy, or peachy. Imagine a circumstance where a newly married couple gets into their first disagreement. If they cannot agree on what to name their child or on which family needs to be visited during Thanksgiving, does that mean their marriage is moribund? Of course not! The tension creates space for conversation. The dryness represents a outcry for inspiration. To be "unmotivated" doesn't mean that we don't care or that we aren't skilled or passionate. To feel this "dryness" might represent our need to be reminded why we love what we do, who we do.
One of my favorite lines from Pope Francis is from his encyclical, "Evangelii Gaudium." In it, he writes beautifully about the "joy of the Gospel" and our need to encounter and re-encounter Christ through within the Word. Yet the line is this: "The believer is essentially one who remembers."
This is evidentially true for religious faith. If I do not remember the content of my faith, if I do not know the Person from whom and for whom I live, in what do I believe? And without anything (perhaps worse, anyone) to believe in, why have faith? We must constantly bring to mind the cause for our joy, our hope; we must live aware of our first encounters, first contacts with Jesus, our partners, our friends. In this, we draw hope in times of despair or destitution. From this, we are strengthened to persevere even in the face of difficulties or trials.
I want to take Francis's words and repurpose them for the writer, or for one who longs to express. The writer, the expressionist, even the evangelist (one who seeks to share the Good News) is essentially one who believes. A writer must believe in what they are saying. Without this self-confidence, this intellectual firmness, why say anything? Writers must first be believers in something. Writers must believe and in order to believe they must remember. It may not always "feel" good or easy, the ideas may not always flow naturally. But they arise, and at times, we can even surprise ourselves at the results.
The empty page is a forge for the finished product. Words must begin somewhere. (In the beginning was the Word...all life, all light, all good things come from the Word.) Words must populate our dryness, our difficulties; they must bridge our silences, but they must do so without replacing the silence. The silence, the "dryness," the apparent emptiness seems foreboding, yet it is the very soil of the soul. The soul speaks in silence, it alights and delights in the whisper of nothingness since the soul itself (invisibly visible!) always is. Expressionless expression, our words put to page what our minds can barely grasp. At times, the silence is good even though the difficulty of bearing it is real. The silence reminds us that the deep-thought, the truest conversations, from head to heart, from Maker to made, happen underneath our very eyes, our very hearts.
St. Mother Teresa was assured, God speaks into the silence of our hearts, and from the fullness of our hearts, we speak. On the surface, this silence may seem like emptiness, but don't be mistaken: it is full of life, full of silent adoration. Writing is difficult until we remind ourselves that the very Word is implanted upon our hearts. To be a writer requires the Pentecostal trust: Speak, write, and the fire will fall. It requires us to love, to do our duty, without seeing or needing to know of the fruit.
Love and do what you will.
Write and even the dry heart will speak as it can, as it must.
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