Overcoming Fear

Here is a parable for writers:

Writers are like a man whose wife has compelled him to diet. One night he wakes with a craving for chocolate. He turns softly in bed to see if his wife is deeply asleep, then slowly slides out of bed and down the hall to the kitchen. He wrestles gently with the wrapper, slides the chocolate down his throat, regrets the sweetness. Somewhat brazenly he returns to bed, only to find that all is still very quiet.

In a nutshell, writers, and specifically writers trying to create for God's glory often write hesitantly because of fears from many directions. These fears create a lack of confidence that stifles our energy and we give up, only to make another run at it some time later, with similar results.

When we think about writing, the greatest obstacle that we face is not one of flat characters, uninspired language, or any other technical element. It is not practical considerations such as how to make a living. Rather the greatest obstacle between us and God-honoring art is fear. We fear that that we would spend hours on a piece that is our soul, only to have those outpourings flutter through the world like a plastic grocery bag flung through autumn and eventually blown up against a chain link fence to trap leaves and garbage, totally unnoticed.

Even before that terror, we fear that when we sit to write, nothing will bubble up from the dark unknowns of creativity—that we will sit like a barren woman longing for a child. What would it say about us if the well of creativity has run dry? What if there is nothing left this time? Is it not better to rest on the successes of the past?

Then there is the fear that even if writing happens 'successfully' the writing itself will have no real value, that it won't matter for anything in the long run. For the Christian, there is always that question lurking in the shadows, "Is what I am doing worthwhile in an eternal sense?" And this question, while valid and important in an age wholly given over to trivialities and the desperate search for novelty, keeps us in doubt as we approach our craft. Doubt of this kind will slow our thoughts and inspiration to a trickle, and knowing this, we fear even more.

Let us engage the enemy, then. Let us find the perfect love that casts out these fears.

Often we think of this first fear, the fear of going unnoticed, as a short step from egotism. We say, "Surely it is wrong to commend myself and my writing to the world. Surely the desire to have someone respond to my art is the height of pride and of self-centeredness." So while we long to send our art out in hopes that it will resonate with someone, we fear the seemingly implicit trap of puffing ourselves up. This should not be the case. Writing of the human need to feel significant, Dallas Willard says,

"Unlike egotism, the drive to significance is a simple expression of the creative impulse of God that gave us being. It is not filtered through self-consciousness any more than is our lunge to catch a package falling from someone's hand. It is outwardly directed to the good to be done. We were built to count, as water is made to run downhill. We are placed in a specific context to  count in ways no one else does. That is our destiny." (The Divine Conspiracy, pg. 15)

How freeing! The need to be noticed and have significance is as natural and important as the need to speak. How fitting for us. Inside everyone, and particularly inside the artist, is a yearning to matter, to have our voice and our vision affect the people around us, to have what we write mean something to someone else. It could not be otherwise, since God showed great care and particularity in creating us. He spent longer on us and put his signature on our souls when He made us. We long to matter because He has already said we matter. He made us in His image, that is, like Him in certain profound ways. It is sin that whispers to us that we are not valuable to Him, or that our value is only earned through our ability to excel at writing. Our value has nothing to do with our art or our conception of self worth. It has to do with God's stamp of uniqueness and importance on us. It is through God's eyes that we measure our worth, not our own cloudy, nearsighted vision.

Thus when we fear that our writing will go unnoticed, what we really fear is that some validation of ourselves will not happen, that no one will bolster our self image. We fear that this will leave us alone, unaffirmed, and lacking something essential.  To these lies we must hear two things. First, our writing will never make us more or less valuable. The highest value we have is that we bear God's image and that His love for us that cost the life of His son. This does not make much of us, it makes much of God. Second, since our writing is not attached to our worth, whether it gets noticed or not is less important. I do not say that it is not important at all, for there is still the desire for community and acceptance that having another person read and appreciate our writing brings. This desire is good, but not ultimately good. For the Christian, writing is always, first, and ultimately to be done for God's pleasure. When this is our goal, then the fear of going unnoticed, lessens. We write for one commendation: "Well done, good and faithful slave. You were faithful with a few things, I will put you in charge of many things; enter into the joy of your master."

I think Keats felt this. His haunting sonnet, "When I Have Fears" strikes at the core of fear and regret. Sadly, he was not able to resolve the longing to find significance in love or in art with his pending death. The couplet at the end is so sad because it falls so far from God's intention.

                               --then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

If I can take a liberty here, I would change the last two lines to something like this:

                             --then on the shore
of the wide world I stand alone, and know
God's face is all I seek and 'fore Him bow. 

So we find hope to press on to the second fear, that of having nothing important to say. We fear creative impotence. We wonder as we sit to write, 'What if nothing beautiful spills out onto the page?' Who can understand creativity, that process inherited from God Himself, whereby our minds conceive of something that was not previously there, then communicate that vision to our hands to chisel a physical form. And even if we muster some well arranged words, what if they do not capture the imagination of our readers? To start with, we remember that writing is like any other activity and that practice, attention to detail, and discipline are the only means to improve. It may be true that when we sit down to write we will not produce anything worthwhile—for a time. Yet the subconscious is like a muscle and the more we tap into it and allow it to send up impulses, the more it will continue to spark. The four hours of writing in circles or staring out the window can be the most productive and effective since they can lead to twenty minutes of coherence.

Yet 'practice makes perfect' is not the only answer, nor does it strike at the heart of this fear of impotence. We need to ask ourselves if God is pleased with our art and if we believe it is His will that we produce it. Surely it is, and having this conviction we trust that what He calls us to do, He will enable us to do. The fear that we will not produce anything worthwhile must be met with a plunging into the fountain of beauty and creativity. That is not the self; it is not nature; it is not some favorite book of poems. Rather, it is God Himself. Michael Card, in his book Scribbling in the Sand says that when we find difficulty in producing beauty and depth in our art, we must ask ourselves if we have neglected our communion with God. This is essential, for we do not produce anything on our own, nor do we wrestle excellence out of confusion by our own power. Jesus said, "Apart from me you can do nothing." Surely, this applies to our art.

So this fear that we will have nothing to say must be met honestly with these two questions: 'Do I believe God is with me in this?', and 'Have I drunk of His beauty and holiness first?' These are difficult questions and we must face them. The first strikes at our conception of our relationship to God—can he possibly stand behind me in my writing? The second strikes at our arrogance. What business do we have thinking we can find beauty on our own, apart from Christ. On the other hand, how could we possibly think that in Christ we will not find motivation for our imagination? He is more complex, more beautiful, more profound, more joyful, more tragic, more...everything, than any other source. We will not lack for material when we spend much time with Him.

Last, then, is the fear that when we sit to write, we may miss out on something better than writing. We wonder, 'Is this really worthwhile? Does it even matter if I write this poem or story?' There are many, many things we can do with our time, with our energies, with our concentration. Why should writing be that one thing to which we give ourselves. On the one hand, there is a fear of losing some other pleasure. We put writing off and watch television, or spend time with friends. Writing is arduous, it is painful, it is tedious. Can it satisfy? Is it worth our time? On the other hand, we wonder if writing can matter in an eternal sense. Surely, there are other worthy causes, other tangible needs to fill? People starve to death. Souls enter eternity apart from Christ. Is not true religion this: to visit orphans and widows and to keep ourselves unstained by the world? How can writing matter now and into eternity?

To these questions we say simply, yes. Yes, there are some things which may be more fun, more immediately helpful, more financially profitable. Yes, there are other great causes. Ultimately, though, we remember the parable of the master who gave his servants talents. Both the servant with many talents and the servant with the second most talents worked hard with what they had been given. Why? First, they knew from whom they had received their talents—the master. Second, they knew something of the master's habit of rewarding hard work. So they both labored in his absence. We don't know what they did, whether they invested, or bought and sold goods, or what. We know only that they each worked in their own way to be faithful. The unfaithful servant was actually entrusted with the least, but that did not matter. The master was pleased with faithfulness to his command, not with a numerical output.

The gift of writing, of bearing the pain and joy and complexity of being human, of daring to feel, to express, to empathize, and then fasten these emotions to words, is not only a privilege. It is a responsibility. We do not say that it is more valuable or less valuable than Gods other gifts and callings. But we recognize that few of us have been called to write and as such we must take up our task with zeal. We recognize that God does not give gifts and responsibilities that are unnecessary. And we know that God not only aids His children in their efforts, but is also pleased by them. We trust that He clothes the fields with lilies and that he cares for us with equal delicacy. Writing is 'worth it' because it is what he made us to do in the same way that parents raising their kids is worth it because it is a gift and responsibility of God. There will be times when we feel immensely gratified upon completing story, discovering an image, writing something that moves someone else. But there are times when we think it is not worth the effort, the writer's block, the labor that others look at with barely hidden disapproval. We find our worth in serving God with the gifts He gives us. We trust Him for the joy and the provision in the process.

How then, do we confront our fears? We flee to God for glimpses of Himself and know in those moments that He is worth great risk, great effort, great trust. We allow the sight of Him to grow our love for Him, and from that love, we venture forward. We take up the pen, brace for the impact of doubt, of labor, of mucking through the creative process. We step forward. Like everything worth doing, we write as a desperate act of faith.