Writing for the Joy - by Liz Carter

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I find my writing gets bogged down. Whether I’m knee deep in edits, waiting on publishers’ decisions or working to deadlines, it can all feel a bit like wading through treacle at times. I open my Scrivener document and feel a great weariness at the task ahead; instead of luxuriating in the joy of my call to writing, I’m sitting tense and upright. Words do not flow. My well is dry.

It can be even worse when we set ourselves a target. When I went into shielding, I told myself I would write my book in 12 weeks. 12 weeks later, some of it is written, I have a proposal together, it looks a little more like a book than it did. But I didn’t take into account the sheer exhaustion of lockdown – the physical and mental strain of being shielded away from even my closest family, the emotional strain of being away from physical touch for three months. I hadn’t realised how these things would take their toll. At the beginning the words were coming thick and fast; I was on a roll. Not so much, now. 

Things happen in life that can rob our joy, and sometimes we forget that writing can bring us joy even in the middle of the pain. My dear friend Dawn James (an ACW member and author of the wonderful Song of The Overworld, which you should read) reminded me of this the other day when I was in the doldrums. I didn’t even want to look at my book, let alone write more of it after a rejection that stung. But Dawn encouraged me to write for joy again, to allow my words to breathe and flow and fly in a way they simply weren’t when I allowed them to be chained up by my own emotion. As she spoke to me I felt a sigh of relief echo through me: I could just write. I could write stories and poems and work on my neglected fiction stuff. I could write the book I’ve been writing, but allow it to become a place of joy and refuge rather than fear, duty and necessity. I needed to change my perspective round a little. And I realised that I wanted to. I wanted to allow my fingers to fly across my keyboard once again, unfettered from the bonds of having to achieve.

Attending the Scargill Writer’s Zoom meet up on Saturday also concreted this sense of liberation in me: what an encouragement, to meet up with other authors and allow our joy of writing to join us together. We were offered a variety of tasks, all of which had no real aim but to challenge and to enjoy. I was particularly captured by Amy Robinson’s task: Would you rather see God – as Isaiah did in his vision in Isaiah 6 – or hear God audibly, as Samuel did when God whispered to him as a boy? Write a letter to God telling him which you’d choose, and why, and what your hope would be for that experience – in 300 words.

As I thought about this challenge, I was flooded again by a sense of relief: I can write freely, expressing my faith and my hope and my joy in God. I don’t have to hold back; I don’t have to stay in one place of writing which is draining for any reason. I have a choice, today.

So, in case you’d like to see my answer to this challenge, I’ll leave it here, with an encouragement to you today to look to the joy in your writing. What is it that you love so much about the act of writing? Where is the joy in it for you? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

A Letter to God

Dear God,

I want to see you. To see you more than in a dream or a painting or a picture in my head. 

But I don’t want to, as well, because it might shake me too much out of my comfort. It might wake me up and change me and challenge me. It might mean I can never go back.

Isaiah saw you. He was there, right in the throne room, the Holy of Holies, with the six-winged seraphs who cried Holy, Holy, Holy, and the doorposts that trembled and the smoke that filled the room. He saw the train that filled the temple and the altar and he was ruined. He couldn’t stand in the weight of your holiness. If he couldn’t – that great prophet who left all his comfort and followed you into a life of harsh persecution, then there’s no way I could stand. No way I could even look. Would I see you, if I were there, or would your light be too bright, your throne too dazzling, your holiness too glorious?

I don’t really get the seraphs thing. It’s too beyond me and my 21^st century eyes to even imagine, beyond blurry images from renaissance paintings, naked cherubs flying around the room. I don’t get it, but I want to see them. I want to understand. 

I want to see that train that fills the temple. When I was small it was a real train, chuffing round and round a track winding around the throne, angels in the seats, lights piercing any shadows remaining in corners, though no place could be untouched by the dazzle from your throne. In my mind it was the Angel Train and I wanted to write stories about it. But now I long to see the real thing, the train of your robe, the glimmering, shimmering, glittering, sparkling material everywhere, all through the room, flowing through the air and kissing my face. I hardly dare look up; my eyes are already too full, my heart too bursting. 

One day I will see you and all my cultural assumptions will be blown up, scattered amidst the glorious reality of you, your throne, your holy place. I can only imagine what that will be like, and my heart yearns, and soars, as I catch the tiniest glimpses; a spark of gold in darkness, a sense of cool rain on my upturned face, a rush of wind through my soul.

Liz Carter is an author and blogger from Shropshire, who likes to write about the messy and painful times of life. Her first book, Catching Contentment, explores how we can find peace when it hurts. She blogs at greatadventure.carterclan.me.uk.