I’ve noticed an interesting dynamic that occurs in my writing life.
When a message begins to form, it often masks as a mild depression, a sense that all is not well in my soul. Sometimes the struggle to figure out the reason for my malaise lasts for days.
And what befuddles me the most is that the very cure for what ails is the very thing I avoid—more alone time to ponder, to process, to pen.
I want to run away from reflection because to think deeply feels like scratching days on a prison cell wall.
Yet if I persist, clarity eventually rises from the mist of confusion—like morning sunshine breaking through coastal fog.
I’ve talked to other writers who’ve expressed similar experiences, so I know…
a writer’s restlessness is a pretty good sign that a message is on its way. A truth tucked in God’s pocket floats down to where you wait…in silence, in stillness, in desperation.