Secrecy of the Writer's Life

I have a secret. I write and think about writing more than anyone knows. I don't like that this is true. I don't like that I answer the unmistakable urge to click on the Pinterest tab I intentionally left open to cover up the Word document I've really been working on when I hear someone walk in the room.

I don't like that 90% of what goes on in my brain can not be shared with anyone I know in real life.

It's lonely.

It makes me feel like I'm hiding a part of who I am. It hinders my creativity by limiting the amount of time I can tap into it, and the amount of feedback I can get, and the potential encouragement I might receive from people who would believe in me and pray for me--if only they knew.

I've talked to God about this, lamented all these things, asked him for boldness to share what I do in my quiet hours. I worry this intense need for secrecy is a pride issue, that it's simply fear of people thinking my writing is bad, my knowledge of history is wrong, my ideas silly, my ambition vain, my dream stupid.

I have a picture of myself in my mind, holding up a book cover, beaming, announcing to my little world that it finally happened. Then, I imagine I won't feel the urge to keep my labor a secret anymore. What a relief this will be! A burden lifted. Payoff after years of hiding this enormous part of myself. This vision is more enticing to me than the thought of my first royalty check, or the thought of my first positive review.

I don't crave a publishing contract, or professional accolades. Only enough success to crawl forth out of this dark place of isolation I'm in and be honest, open, and transparent.

I don't know if this is right or wrong or spiritually in line with a person who is mature in her faith, loves God, and seeks to honor him with her work. It's what my heart dictates.

But I wonder if, maybe, there is something God-honoring in the secrecy. If it's okay to avoid proclaiming to my world, "Yes! God did surely call me to do this even though I have no evidence. Here, look. No, wait. Now, look. No, let me work on it some more. Forget that first thing I showed you. This one is better."

Truthfully, when I look back on my first drafts, I want to gag at the triteness, silliness, and blandness of it. It's boring and awful and I think God is not honored by that, he is honored by the process. The faithfulness of returning to the same document, day after day, improving it, sharpening it, like the blade Solomon speaks of in Ecclesiastes 10:10. "Using a dull ax requires great strength," he says. "So sharpen the blade. That's the value of wisdom. It helps you succeed."

When I think of using a dull ax, I think of the wasted effort, the witnesses who snicker and shake their heads at the fool who began his work before his tool was ready. It's not wrong to go into the shed and sharpen the blade in secrecy, in anticipation of the work to come. This does not indicate a lack of confidence in the work, or in the hand of God to bring the work to fruition.

Some people don't want an audience to watch while they drag the blade back and forth against the pumice, hold it up to their eyes, and return it to the stone for a little more refinement. They may not enjoy the darkness and secrecy of the shed, but they endure it, knowing it's not forever. They stay as long as necessary, knowing they are sparing themselves and the God they seek to honor the indignity of coming out too soon, before they are ready.

I pray, O God, this secretive time is not wasted time. That there will be a time for transparency, a time when you can look at what I've made and say, "The blade is sharp enough. Step out into the sunlight and put it to use. It's not a sin for you to be confident in this."