Hours into writing with nothing to show for it, frustrated.
That evil inner dictator whispers you’re no writer, no comparison to my
skilled writing friend, you should just pitch it. Scrap. It’s nothing.
What will you have me do next, Lord? Write. Ugg. I’ve tried with no luck. Do it
again.
Knowing others read what bubbles up often guards my words, filters
my Christ-speak, tapping out what I think others will want to hear. The
deeper truth is that when the heart speaks, the real connection happens. Soul
echoes, now free, always seem to land where needed the most. For that reason alone, I write. Sharing fears, thoughts, experiences, for the
sheer action of it, letting it free to find that soul in need. Positive motion in the best possible and most
authentic way I know, with true confidence that it finds where it should
ultimately land.
No longer comparing, no longer filtered, obediently tapping,
the inner dictator succumbed, now silent. I spill it out, now set free, ready
to be filled again.
