Safety in writing

Testing, testing, one, two, three.

You told me last night you think of my writing as my second job. It was one of many times I've wondered at how you sometimes seem to accord more respect and confidence to my dream than I do.

This book on writer's block you picked up for me at the library continually drives home a need to feel "safe" in writing - obviously not from physical harm, though I'm fairly sure that's a requirement, but safe from judgment, either by others or one's self.

Writing this blog to you feels safe, in part because it's only for me at the moment - I won't tell you about it yet, not until your birthday I'm thinking, and then you'll hopefully have a sizable backlog of posts to read and I'll have insured I can keep it up - and in part because it's electronic. When writing on paper I dicker over how I will phrase this or over that word choice. I think you can tell as much by reading the journals I've physically penned. To me, at least, they betray a certain self-consciousness, a hindering awareness that someone else will eventually read this (and it's interesting I assumed that, looking ahead to a future a few years out or even after my death and concerning myself with the question). But maybe I just think so because I know that's how I was feeling when I wrote them.

The time when I felt the least safe writing came during what we grinningly refer to as our "pre-courtship courtship". I wanted to write a short note to you and leave it in your mailbox, so I whipped out my pen and paper as I sat down to breakfast. The note was really a piddling little thing, only a few lines long; just a bit of wittiness to go with whatever object I was meant to be returning to you.

Three hours later I'd dumped what seemed like half my notebook's pages into a nearby garbage bin, all with a few line written upon them and all crumpled up, and I'd missed all of my morning classes. Lunch was being served.

I realized that something was very wrong with me then, but I didn't know whether to blame it on a psychological compulsion or, because at the time I was at the apex of my commitment to Jesus, on demonic attack. I got up from the table without finishing your note and in succession visited George Thomason, Mitch [whatever his name was], and without quite meaning to Melanie Sumner. George was saddened and sympathetic, Mitch prayed for me but basically seemed concerned with other matters, and Melanie told me writers are often crazy - which actually helped a little.

Hm. This whole room just started vibrating. Kinda strange. I think I'll hit PUBLISH POST now before the whole building collapses, so you have a final message from beyond the grave to read.

I need to get back to writing the story anyway. I am, after all, at work.

I love you!