:Naiahdot

I wrote this the other day, and as my courage buckles here and there, I find myself coming back to it again and again:

I am such a flawed creature that sometimes I cannot help but feel that I have no right to write. Then again, though, I think that it is exactly because of my flawed nature that I should write. It is a strange calling I imagine for myself—to show my sisters that we are all fallible, flawed, and still so very loved, to see that our human imperfections are not insurmountable (no matter how much they may feel like it) and do not exclude us from the joy and peace available in the gospel. I, myself, have endured and overcome and become so much, and I do not need to have achieved some form of celestial perfection to know that I am moving in the right direction and to be able to motivate my sisters in that same direction.

I am finding it is a rough transition, going from “hoping to write someday” to “writing.” It’s nothing I can’t handle, but it is certainly not without its own buffetings. It seems that every doubt, insecurity, and fear that I have ever laid to rest have all conspired to begin a parade through my mind whenever I sit in front of my computer. I’m under attack from myself, and my only defense is to let it all go, and just do it. So far, I am meeting with only moderate success. I will persevere.

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I seek only to write what the Lord would have me write, but sometimes I wonder if I am a flawed receiver. Well, I guess I do not wonder it, I know it. We are all flawed; it’s part of being human. Sometimes, though, I allow myself to get too caught up in the things of my life and I allow that open channel to become cluttered, or obstructed, and it is in those times that I have trouble hearing what to say. I have trouble thinking about writing even. It is in these times of static that I begin to doubt myself. It’s all been done before, right? So, why bother? Wait! Such an apathetic attitude cannot be for good! Who would lead me to idleness when I have felt to work? Not the Lord. So I do my best to clear the channel, reach out, and to receive—only to find out that there is more to do before I can hear. It’s like some kind of spiritually dependant version of writer’s block. I usually deal with writer’s block by just writing, and so here I am. My mother-in-law calls it letting go of my inner critic, and I suppose that to a great degree that is true. Whether it’s telling a quick story from my life or just stomping off cobwebs like this, I am getting my words moving, getting that critical voice out of the way long enough to really get the pump primed and get the inspiration flowing. I suppose it’s a good way to deal with it, though sometimes, in the interest of time, I do wish I could just sit down and get to work. I find myself working within a structure of greater self-discipline on a day to day basis than I ever have (even including prep school). I find myself working to squeeze every possible extra minute from my day. This time is sacred, and now knowing that, believing and living that, I find it hard, uncomfortable even, to be idle—which makes moments like these, where I have set this time aside not just to write (which I am doing now), but to write that which is before me to write (which, unless in the Lord’s wisdom it is, I just do not see it here), so very difficult. I want to get to work, but the work in a way is not up to me to get to. Inspiration comes, it is not called upon. I was just listening to a talk by Hugh Nibley yesterday that’s about a similar idea, but about prophets. Prophets have nothing to do with the revelations they receive, they do not call them, or learn some art to receive them; there is no skill or will to it. They receive them when the Lord wills it. If a prophet must operate on the Lord’s time, then why not me? I’m certainly not a prophet, or even close to one, but if even they—the chosen of the Lord—have to wait, then so can I.

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I actually received a letter today that began that way. It’s my first official acceptance letter from a publisher, and it’s a special one. I sold an article to the Ensign. It seems so wonderful and strange to type that; I still can’t believe it. It hasn’t been scheduled for a particular issue yet, and it’s hard to be patient. I can’t wait to hold it in my hands on shiny paper all part of a ‘real magazine,’ not even considering that it’s that magazine. On the one hand, I’m proud of myself for finally making it to print, but on the other I’m just overwhelmingly humbled, like I get vaguely sick to my stomach when I think about it too long kind of humbled, like that I can’t believe I did it kind of humbled. Well, come to think of it, I didn’t really do it; at least, I didn’t initially mean to do it.
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