Weeks. Months. Maybe Years. A long stretch of time since I have written anything of significance.
At least, not anything beyond the sermons I churned out weekly for five and one-half years. I hope that a few of those offered scraps of meaning to congregants in pews or to readers online. But my other writing dreams have gone unrealized.
I have been an on-again, off-again writer all of my life. I have probably withdrawn from the fray too many times, and failed to hone gifts and skills buried under the rubble of setbacks. A little girl longing for a typewriter which failed to materialize under the Christmas tree. An adolescent incapable of wresting a year-long sought A+ from that English teacher who occupied the unapproachable pedestal. The adult whose published essays were occasionally edited so that sentimentality was substituted for edginess. The rejections from publishers and writing workshops.
None of this marks me as unique in the universe of would-be writers. I imagine that we have all been bowed down by the sense that our lives are not worth the telling, our views neither intriguing nor embraceable, our command of the language neither original nor incisive.
But I have permitted discouragement to still my voice. I am not preaching these days, and I am not writing much of anything beyond the occasional Facebook post ~ and Facebook is a medium in which I make no effort to communicate in any way beyond the most rudimentary.
I am out of shape.
And so . . . I am making a promise to myself. Three-to-five hundred words a day, more or less, for the month of May. I’m going to wander around my house and neighborhood, searching for one-word prompts, and I’m going to write. No promises after that. But at least thirty-one days.