Why I stopped writing

I withdrew from writing because it had become an idol. And I mean it when I say, “become”. Early on in my writing career, I had accepted an invitation to use my writing for good. And I am certain that by the grace of God, my published stories contained goodness.

It is the author struggling behind the pages that soured in the end.

I don’t think any faith writer believes that idolatry could happen to them…I specifically remember a keynote speaker at a writer’s conference speaking of his own self-centered downfall—and I politely nodded and noted, but thought, Never me.

How easy it was to call a wolf a sheep…for years and years. Finally, my self-focus dulled my creativity.

I don’t think any artist is ever satisfied if their art becomes a pursuit of looks and likes, at least, I am not strong enough to endure the lacking nature of such a focus.

No matter my original intent or a like-minded industry—it’s too easy to settle in the culture of mirrors and adopt its strategies as ministry. My faith was not rooted enough to withstand the temptation. My heart was too delighted in the elation of success. And I stood on the doorstep, primping.

One day, my spiritual walk led me to a Church that didn’t allow me to focus on myself so much. Every Sunday, I literally looked into the eyes of Christ and the men and women who did amazing things for Him. I sang words about His sacrifice, said prayers venerating His glory. Soon, I discarded my need to go to Church so I could ask for things, and began to run to Church purely for worship and healing.

And something beautiful happened— the sentiments in the hymns and prayers and icons etched upon my heart and filled me up. In a taste of Heaven on Earth each Sunday, there really is no life in empty prayers about my selfie-marketing tactics or in the daydreams that weren’t as satiating as the present reality.

Finally, by the witness of art all around me at Church, and my senses fully engaged in worship, I had to let go of my own art to free myself…of myself.

So…a year later, I am more careful. I don’t write for the market. I don’t even really write at all. But I did try something. I reckoned with things that touched my heart in real life—or actually, things that may have not touched it and should have—and I dissected my flawed perspectives, to engage new ones. So, I wrote another story. For the truth of it. Beyond me.

I sense an invitation to continue my art again. To tell stories of messy life and truth and humanity that are not for looks or likes; stories that are seeded by Someone bigger than me.

Maybe this is just a last spurt before retiring my art for good? If so, may His will be done. Or maybe, it’s the beginning of a more full way to create. If so, may His will be done.

I love how the Orthodox spiritual teachers often say, it’s not always “either/ or”, but it can be “this and that” for those pesky temptations to try and squeeze God into a worldview.

Well, let’s just say, my art is shrouded in mystery most of the time—and now, I’ll move out of the way so He can reveal it to me—if it’s His will to do so.