Magnum Opus

I don't remember when I didn't write.

I have scrapbooks that I made in second grade where I documented in detail each and every item that went into that book. I have journals from nearly my entire life packed now in boxes under my bed.

They saw daylight just a few weeks ago and I was thoroughly embarrassed to read them now.  I think I'll give them to my daughter to show her how not spend her teenage years.

Gosh.

Anyway.

I have journals documenting my pregnancies. I have journals documenting my walk with God.

I hoisted my current journal, which has been relegated to a giant binder, onto the kitchen counter recently and asked my friend if I could take it to the beach with me. She shook her head "no" and I panicked, asking her what would happen if the house burned down while we were gone?

She wondered aloud if I might have a small issue with that journal, but I have no idea what she could mean by that. 

I do know that I am addicted to the written word. 

I can't remember a time when I wasn't.

I wonder if it's genetic. My girl kid has the same issue. She has numerous journals. Notebook after notebook is filled with stories, illustrated drawings, doodles and notes.  She has written stories since she could form letters. Her bedroom is a sanctuary of papers, most of which are written on. This drives me nuts, and I will sweep through and fill a trash bag frequently when I think she's not looking. There is no shortage of pages written on. She writes  something every single day. 

It has to be genetic.

When blogging came into being, I was hesitant. To think of people reading what I wrote was absolutely appalling. I had given up on the scrapbooking hobby when my main (fine, my only) goals became to feed and bathe the three kids I had that were four years old and younger, but I still wanted to document our lives for my old age in some way. Blogging looked like a great, and easy, way to do that.

Occasionally I would outwardly process something I was thinking about, but the main objective was to have fun and have a place to put things.

As the Lord started doing more and more of a work in me, I found myself really needing a place to process it all. Since my blog was there, that's where it all went. I still largely ignored the fact that people could read what I wrote. I just wrote. 

If on the (very extremely) off chance someone did comment on something I wrote, it always jarred me. I never responded well, but in my weird awkward way would attempt some sort of response and usually ended up just fleeing the scene quickly.

It was all really just for me. 

The first time someone asked me if I had considered writing a book, I literally laughed out loud.

No.

Why in the world would I write a book?

I'm a horrible speller. I don't think much about grammar or structure or anything that would make writing proper or easier to read when I pour out my heart onto a keyboard. I overuse the word "so" and use way too many adjectives and abhor long paragraphs and abuse the comma to the point of absurdity and center things strangely and pretty much make most every mistake the The Harbrace Handbook preaches against. 

(I still love that book, whether or not I abide by its rules.)

My husband asked me that question one day though: 

Why don't you write a book?

"Why would I?" I meant it. "Is there a book that hasn't been written?"

Yes. 

He only said that one word, but he meant it. 

Huh.

I still thought the idea was so completely ridiculous. 

The idea haunted me though. Not the idea of me writing a book, but the idea I had conjured up that every book has already been written. What if a musician thought every song had already been written? Or if an artist thought every painting had been painted?  Or every sculpture formed? What if my favorite authors had decided that no other books needed to be written before they wrote my current most favorite book ever?

It was an interesting thing to ponder. 

A friend and I talked about it. 

"I have nothing to say," I said to her. I didn't mean it in a a self-deprecating way, but in an honest way.

"Yes, you do," she responded. 

You have your story to tell.

Oh. That. Well. Ugh.

I'm not sure I want to write my story. And I'm not sure anyone would benefit from reading it. 

So writing stayed what it had always been for me; A processing outlet largely ignored by all but my mom and maybe two of my close friends who would faithfully read the dribble I had written and say kind things about it. I mean that's true friendship right there. I cannot image getting to the bottom of one of my posts.

The sort of posts like 10 Rules of Blogging only prove to me that I know nothing about blogging. I break nearly every rule.  

And that's okay.

It was all just for me and I was very happy about that.

Then...

That notion got a tiny bit upset.

One of my friend's father died. 

I wrote a post about it. I had been back in town for only twelve hours when I woke up from a fitful night of sleep, sat down with coffee and annoyed my entire family by stuffing earphones into my ears and clicking away until it was done. I barely edited it because I couldn't bear to read it more than once. It was too painful. I posted it and was much relieved of the burden of carrying it any longer.

She texted me and asked me what I was doing and I told her I had just gotten finished with a blog post about her dad. She asked for it, and I sent it to her. 

She quickly responded with the information that her mother loved it and was posting it on her dad's Caring Bridge site.

I nearly had an anxiety attack. 

I stuffed the earphones back into my ears, much to my family's chagrin, and started editing, all the while sweating profusely. 

I just wrote it for you. It was all just for you. I knew you'd be overwhelmed that day and I just wanted to be your memory... I told her this emphatically.

 But that's not exactly how it worked out.

I cannot tell you how many people texted and emailed and called and commented on that post. 

I was overwhelmed.

A friend sat across from me. Her eyes were bright and she leaned forward, clasping her hands between her knees. 

Amy. It was your magnum opus. You'll never be able to top it...

I shrugged.

"I didn't mean to write it. It wasn't me. It was him. It's because of who he was. That's all."

She shook her head. 

"No. Own it. It was good. Really good. It was your best ever."

"I can't top it, so why even try?"

 I wasn't sad. It was just a fact. It was an accident. I just pounded out something and it looked like God decided to use it. 

Which was fine with me.

My friend texted me from Dallas. 

"I am so tired of hearing about your blog post... Everywhere I go, people comment on it."

Um. What? Oh, sorry about that...

I went to check the blog. I clicked "stats" and good gravy. Over one thousand hits on that one post.

I felt sick.

Now I know that's not a lot. I guess it was just a lot for me. And a lot for something you think you and three other people might read.

And it gets more hits every day.

Oh well. It's done now. And besides, Brian, you deserve it. I'm glad it's about you...

There was another memorial service for Brian in Birmingham. Her uncle that I had spent the most time with in Dallas came up and put his hand on my shoulder. He said, "About your blog post..." She was standing next to me, and I grabbed her hand and held it tightly, trembling all over. He told a sweet story about his family and the post. He hugged me and walked away and my friend, after disentangling herself from me said, "I told you so..."

I still didn't know what to say or how to respond. 

The irony of it all is that I wanted the obscurity and the quietness of my little world back. I am quiet happy when largely ignored by the rest of the world. 

I don't know what the Lord had for me in the way of writing. I'd be perfectly happy sitting right where I am, listening to my music and punching my thoughts into this wonderfully clicky set of black keys. I nail them down here and walk away a bit lighter, freed of the burden of thought. 

{And it's quite embarrassing to read older posts. I wonder how far removed from this one I'll have to be until I'm embarrassed of it.}

I supposed if the Lord calls me to write a book, I would, but the thought of all that the "book world" would entail makes me want to burrow deeply into a hole and hide.

A book review? I'm not sure I could live through someone critiquing my book. It's my heart, soul, blood, sweat and tears for goodness sake. How do you critique that?

I guess we will all know if something like that happens, it really was the work of the Lord.

And besides, I can barely think of this, this writing thing, as anything other than hugely comforting. Give me a deadline? Make me write? I'm not sure that would work. I'm trying to imagine thinking of writing as a discipline, and that makes me want to twirl away from the computer and sink deeply in my chair and read a book someone else already wrote.

 I'd be quite happy to let my Magnum Opus stay where it is, uncontested.