I have been nurturing a little daydream. “What if I could write something truly meaningful.” Most mornings, the dog and I sit alone with my coffee, Bible, and random thoughts. I write down whatever inspires from these solitary times with a sense that I have touched on something utterly profound. I have been doing this for most of the year and the end of my journal is getting near.
I have had a nagging feeling that something should be done with all the wit and wisdom that resides in this little journal of a book. I thought of my children when I die; that they will appreciate the depth of my thoughts when they discover this little non-descript journal amongst all my clutter. Then I was reminded about how life works. This journal might get saved for another drawer. Maybe, handed down to another generation until at last a destiny as a recycled paper cup.
I love the book, “Markings” by Dag Hammarskjold. It is a collection of his diary reflections. It was assembled and published after his death. It is a wonderful collection of thoughts about God, the practicalities of life, and those intersections. “Maybe, I could assemble something like that”, became my thought. So, I have continued to put pen to paper in the morning hours, trying to think of something serious. My plan became to write a book, a collection of prose and maybe some poetry, just like Dag Hammarskjold.
I have daydreamed about this little book, throughout the year. I have written consistently and most of the time I have been satisfied it was good. “What would a publisher think?”’; “Am I brave enough to try?”; “What about the criticism, could I handle it?”; “Maybe, an ebook on Amazon for $2.99”; “A little extra income would be nice.”; “What if it got popular?”; “Would I be viewed as a sage?” “Maybe, I will be ask to conferences and invited on stage?”
It is embarrassing to admit that I was concerned about pride from literary acclaim, before I prepared something for someone else to even entertain.
We are nearing the end of the year and my journal is three-quarters full. I thought it was time to assemble a few of my profundities. I had a plan of how I would organize them for ease of assembly, editing, and publishing. I was ready to begin this historic pilgrimage.
I read a musing from earlier in the year. I read one from a few days later. I jumped around; months ahead and a few behind. I was shocked in my conclusion, “they were mostly crap”. “How can this be?” “I must be languishing in a morning fantasy.”
The confidence in my ability to write with quality evaporated in that little perusal. Mortified in my belief that I was creating something to sit alongside Dag Hammarskjold’s Markings. Clearly, I do not have to worry about pride in accomplishment. My issue is more pride in delusional grandeur.
I have lost my little daydream. It is okay. Obviously, it is for the best. It was only a matter of time until reality killed it off.
It has made me reflect upon the reasons for striving to create. I don’t do this for the money. My ability to convey a thought in prose and poetry would be more important if it was associated with a paycheck. I do it because I enjoy trying to write something in a way that is interesting (at least for me). I do it because it helps me organize my thoughts. I do it because, in many ways, it is how I pray.
If we like to create, whatever that might be, why do we care what other people think? It is irrelevant to the reasons that we do what we do. I have created a lot of delusional crap. I enjoyed every minute of it; absent any accolades. It has been freeing to remember the joy of creating for merely me.
Maybe, the greatest, purest, joy possible is the secret reward for those who create something that is never destined to be special. The joy is in the creating not the creation. That is what I need to remember.
A DEVOTED LIFE 