I had a writing crisis this summer. I was asked to write an article for a ministry blog on a certain topic. I had three whole months to write it. And I had two solid (I thought) ideas. I was sure that if I dedicated just a few hours over a few days, the first draft would basically write itself. After that, all that remained was editing and a few proofreads to tighten the prose—piece of cake.
Yet when the deadline inched closer and I sat down to write, the words refused to flow. I had a general sense of what I wanted to write, but what came out was a stilted, roundabout theological explanation that was oversimplified, broad, and impersonal. My mom could tell: “This is a rough draft, right?”
So I tried again. I went back to the drawing board and chose a different topic. I brainstormed with my parents, outlined a new article, and began anew. I tried several times, switching out a few subtopics on the way. After a series of starts and half-starts, I finally drafted an article that met my word count. I knew I could do it, I thought. But something was still missing. “Are you going to edit this?” my dad said. I knew what he meant: the article was personal but unfocused and shallow.
By now, the deadline was approaching within a week. How was I to write something worth publishing in just a few days―then edit―then proofread? I didn’t know if I could do it. Maybe I just didn’t have the right experience or skill to write for the prompt. Should I try to salvage what I had written, or start all over again? Should I ask for an extension? Should I stick with the same topic, or choose something different? What was I to do?
“Pray,” my mom advised.
So I did. I had prayed over my writing in the past, but my prayers then often sounded like, “Thank you, God, for giving me this gift. Help me steward it well.” Now, as I struggled to find words, the posture of my prayers shifted: “Thank you, God, for using me before. Would you give me the thoughts, the ideas, the words to do it just one more time?”
At this point, I knew that whatever I could write would not come from my own ability because that simply hadn’t worked. Either God would help me to write, or it would not get written. And thankfully―praise God!―he did.
I wrote my third attempt with the flow of thought that I had missed so much. I learned to recognize this spark as not an indication that I am some kind of writing genius but that God has graciously given me something worth communicating in words. This draft felt far more honest and driven. Both of my parents told me they would not change a thing.
What Every Writer Needs
When the article is published, my name will be the only one in the byline. Yet that is far from the whole story, for I have learned I am dependent—I need others when I write.
I need people like my parents to give me feedback. They are not writers, but they do not need to be. They read enough to have an ear for what sounds off and what feels complete. I need them to tell me what works and what doesn’t.
I need readers. What are writers without readers? Writing is innately communicative, and our words are always written for an audience.
I need editors. One occasion, I noticed typos and awkward phrasing in an article after sending it in. I cringed and wondered if I should email the editors to point out the typos. I decided against it―it felt too much like micromanaging―and when the article was posted, everything was fixed. Thank God for editors!
But above all, I need God.
It is true that the gifts God gives us require our effort and diligence to cultivate. But it is still God who empowers us each and every time we use them. It is God who gives preachers insight and conviction with each and every verse, week by week. It is God who gives praise leaders a voice, a melody, and a heart to worship with every song. And it is God who gives writers words―every single time we sit down to write.
Anne Lamott, in Bird by Bird, advises writers to imagine a child in a cellar in our unconscious, “arranging and stitching things together,” handing over bits of writing when they’re ready (169). I’m not saying God’s role in the writing process is exactly like that. Perhaps I am at risk of making this all too mystical, but I am saying that his role is more like handing over individual words and sentences than merely bestowing a hypothetical ability and then leaving.
Don’t get me wrong. The mundane, everyday effort still matters. Writing will never be the ideal we hope it is: sitting down at a sunny desk with a cup of tea, opening a blank document, miraculously laying down a thousand perfect words in an hour without much hard labor or existential crisis. In the same way, praying and being dependent on God in writing does not mean everything gets magically easier.
But depending on God does mean humbling ourselves before his great power and mercy. It means giving thanks for the articles, sentences, and words that do any good or sound beautiful. It means laboring at this delightfully difficult craft because we are not left on our own. It means praying before and while and after we write. And it means knowing that writing, even for the writer, is a gift: undeserved, freely given, joyfully received.