This week a friend invited me to go with her to an "Evening with Women Writers" at her church, featuring Shauna Niequist, author of Cold Tangerines and Bittersweet. I agreed to go, mainly because I suffer from that dreaded disease, FOMO, or fear of missing out, and because I love my friend and look for any excuse to spend more time with her.
And as I listened to these women speak, I was struck by a thought. They seemed normal. I tend to picture authors as some sort of mythic creative beings whose brilliant ideas are constantly bubbling at the surface, struggling to be put to paper. I don't often think of writing as a discipline, to be cultivated like any other.
It's easy to think that our opinions only matter to the people closest to us. My husband, my friends, my family, they are obligated to listen to me, but does anyone else really care? So here's my resolution. This year I am going to write not because I care whether people out there are interested in what I have to say, but rather because I want to be better. I want to be informed. I want to learn to finish what I start.
If you want to learn along with me, you are always welcome in my virtual home.
And as I listened to these women speak, I was struck by a thought. They seemed normal. I tend to picture authors as some sort of mythic creative beings whose brilliant ideas are constantly bubbling at the surface, struggling to be put to paper. I don't often think of writing as a discipline, to be cultivated like any other.
It's easy to think that our opinions only matter to the people closest to us. My husband, my friends, my family, they are obligated to listen to me, but does anyone else really care? So here's my resolution. This year I am going to write not because I care whether people out there are interested in what I have to say, but rather because I want to be better. I want to be informed. I want to learn to finish what I start.
If you want to learn along with me, you are always welcome in my virtual home.
