I remembered something this week.
And I’m not talking about the dangers of tangling with less-than-competent toasters. Though, yes, the smoke did get that reminder across, too.
Nope, the memory I’m savoring now floated in earlier in the week when I played Edward Scissorhands with the opening scenes of my book. Thanks to advice from one of my favorite authors ever, I did the gulp and swallow thing and then braved up and cut into my first scene.
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| Photo an exaggeration of actual event |
And in the process, the remembrance settled over me: I love this story.
Hopefully non-writers won’t think that sounds narcissistic or arrogant. Anyone who’s ever poured her heart into the writing of a book knows if you don’t have passion for the story, there’s little chance anyone else ever will.
Not that passion doesn’t go into hiding now and then. Say, when you’ve written yourself into a corner plot-wise or battled characters who go all maverick on you. But somewhere, buried under the frustrations and foibles, that first-love feeling lingers.
And mine resurfaced this week. Most of all, I remembered my passion for the spiritual thread in From the Ground Up (working title). A thread I’m attempting to weave in with craft and subtlety—heavy-handed preaching does not a good story make!
Both of my POV characters struggle with their identity. Who are they really? How do they define themselves? Where do they find their worth?
Truth be told, this theme emerged without my necessarily intending it. But its natural development tells me something: it rose unbidden because it was ready and waiting. It’s my own struggle, see. The thing my own heart grapples.
Who am I? How do I define myself? Where do I find my worth?
I know the right answers, but in everyday life it’s so easy to whittle my definition down to the here and now and tangible. I define myself by my achievements. By my writing dream. By how good of a daughter, sister, friend, employee, even Christian, I am at the moment. In other words, how well I perform.
All of which, at best, only ever adds up to a fluid, inconstant identity. At worst, a stressful, under pressure definition.
But Truth—the kind I hope to point to in From the Ground Up, the kind I—we all—have the choice to cling to, defies all the temporal trappings I often assign to my identity. It reminds me where my real worth comes from.
In God’s dictionary, my identity, the definition that matters most of all is summed up in one word:
His.
Anything more is just subplot.
His.
And come to think of it, more than my story-love, that’s this week’s best remembrance.
How about you? Do you ever look for your identity or worth in the wrong place? What brings you back to God’s definition?
Comments 4
Oh yeah. I’ve been there. I don’t think I ever really felt secure in my identity until my mid-twenties.
There are still days I struggle, but for the most part, I know who I am. I know who loves me, cares for me, cherishes me. I know where I belong and when I slip and wonder…I read Song of Songs and I fall in love all over again.
🙂
Ooh, Song of Songs…now there’s a book to prompt a grin…and a reminder God’s awesome love! 🙂
Well, I’m glad Jessica got it down in her twenties.
I’m still working on it, and the twenties are in my rear view mirror.
Like you losing track of why you love your WIP, I can lose track of my identity–my worth–if I let my circumstances dictate the meaning of w-o-r-t-h to me.
Exactly, Beth – it is soooo easy to let circumstances have more influence over my thought life than they should ever be allowed! Probably something I’ll always be working on…