"We [write/_____] to know we are not alone."

If you are passionate about a subject, you will understand what I am about to say.

There is longing in me that craves the challenge of perfecting my art alongside my peers, for working towards the common goal of giving something our best, having it reviewed by others, and then breaking it down to rebuild again. It may be experimental science for you, it could be the challenge of creating a new piece of technology, it may be wood-working, sewing, or cooking.

For me, it is writing.

I am not a poet, I am not an author. I can't be put in those categories. I am not that good.

But I like to try and I like to get better and that is my point. Writing is my first love because it was the first thing that gave me a feeling of potential.

When I was a Junior in college, I "found" myself as a writer. People use this phrase in reference to their inability to understand themselves previously. I mean it as the awakened knowledge of what I lacked, what I wanted, and how I could get there. I knew writing was in me the way athletes respond to the question of "how do you do it?"

How do I not?

I wasn't a typical college girl. A wild night to me was spent writing, peer editing, coffee-drinking, and infusing wit into bored papers. I am exaggerating, of course. But, this persona is funnier than the simple truth that I went to a Christian University and so of course I spent my evening hours working on homework while watching Signs with friends. I preferred to go to bed early and wake up early-ish. I couldn't do all-nighters. So, I would sleep early and wake early. This was the only way I could crank out an essay. And, if you're a writer, don't believe the lie that waiting until the last minute is detrimental. If you love to write, then moments of inspiration are more important than timing. Sometimes those don't come until the morning of. If you wake at 4:00 am with an idea, then go. write. and keep going until it's either gone, dumb, or finished.

I had an English class Junior year that hung me out to dry in terms of making me feel inferior as a writer. Oh, there was talent in that class. I think the reason I learned so much is because she broke down our egotistical walls, showed us we sucked at writing, then showed us examples of those who didn't. She didn't really do a whole lot of "teaching," but more collaboration, modeling, and discussion. "You're not concise enough. You don't flesh out your ideas. You write in detail which is good, but what about the other information?" It was a bee I couldn't swat and so I was left with a sting on my ego and a mission to get it write.

And it was hard. And it was annoying that I cared so much. And it was embarrassing when I failed. But, it was beautiful because it was with a few strangers and allofthesudden they knew who I was and what I lacked, and I couldn't hide a single thing. We were all known for something. She was awesome at details. He was a beast at research. She had perfect clinchers. He had a talent for humor. That class was my little hide-away where I could nerd-it-up with my fellow writers and pretend we really were on to something life-changing.

And then it was over. And I became a Senior and I became an adult and I got a job and now here I am, trying to prevail over my hectic schedule by keeping a blog that I update only semi-regularly. And I have no writers to bounce my work off of and I have no teacher critiquing and telling me I stink. And I miss it.

I still try, But, there is a kind of fear that takes over a person when they approach their art. They know what they want to do. They know the process they should take. But, sometimes the product is too beautiful that they get scared and intimidated, and it's easier to step away for a while than to try and fail.

But then.

There is this passion that comes back and a stubbornness that controls and makes this person sit down and just do it and try and try until it comes out wrong, and then break it down and try again. The whole process is the point. The climax isn't the finished product. The climax is when it clicks and you keep going, knowing you've done a good thing, but not a perfect thing. The climax is knowing there is farther to go but what you've got is pretty darn good.

And you have to protect this sort of thing in you. Because it's you, really you, and sometimes it's the only thing that's yours.

But then you let it seep out, line by line, and hope, hope, that someone half-way gets it.

And Sometimes...

You lie awake at night and think "is this how it goes?" So you lie in bed (and lay your head down) and wish you could lay your thoughts aside while wondering if you're believing in a lie.

You get stuck writing and so you start playing with words "that are easily confused" (Chicken Little lies down to lay eggs).

Days go by quickly and weeks go slowly by and you wonder if you're doing it right.

You think that maybe you're the exception and everyoneelsehasgotittogetherexceptforyou.

You get distracted because the word "titto" screams at you from the words you just strung together and you hope that that doesn't mean that you're weird.

You decide that it doesn't. You just pay attention to strange things (all those T's...)

You think "tomorrow will be better. I will..." and you create this shamtastic list and get really excited.

Tomorrow comes and you don't know why you had such high expectations of yourself.

People tell you "you're doing a great job" but you feel empty from all the rush and wonder why you started.

You get home and you take off your shoes and you let down your hair and you look in the mirror. And you see what you want and not what you ought and you wonder if maybe God has invested too much in the person staring back.

You forget.

You remember what lies behind but forget what is promised. That He is there and He is willing and He cares. That He goes before and He paves the way and He leads and He loves and He knows.

You forget that there is beauty in the mess and so maybe you can rest in the hope that He is working.

You wish you could fall asleep with a sigh because what else can you do when you realize you're loved better than you will ever know.

You just can't live out the rosy ending you envision and so you lie awake at night and succumb to the normalcy of a tough night's sleep while you sort through the lies you are believing.