It’s not you, it’s me.
That’s what I keep telling my blog. I don’t want it to feel bad.
But the truth is, we need to break up. It’s time for me to move out.
Writing here has felt complicated to me the last couple of years. I don’t have good words to explain that, and maybe you don’t need me to.
I started blogging here in 2008 after 20 years of not writing. I had walked away from pen and paper in order to pursue a big ministry thing I thought was my destiny, and I wanted to be my destiny, which turned out not to be my destiny at all. It’s taken me a good while to sort it, but it seems that when I started again, I put this spiritual cape over my writing shoulders, believing the only way I could be allowed to do so was under the auspices of a “call” of sorts. That the only way to legitimize a writing habit was to dress it in obedient clothes.
The truth is that writing my spiritual process has been good for me, has pushed me to areas I’d not otherwise explored, brought me to new depths in my faith that I’d been unable yet to fathom. It gave me a place to have conversations I wasn’t finding elsewhere, and I needed that. I’m exceedingly grateful for the way many of you have walked that way with me.
But it has also been bad for me, and some of you will understand that without me explaining it. It has kept me in a shallow place, has fooled me into believing something existed within me that may not have, simply because I could write about a difficult biblical text with depth and intensity or see something powerful in a passage others may have missed. It is too easy to measure a writer by the depth of a blog post, thrive on the most raw, trade in the currency of vulnerability without the protections of intimacy.
I set up an internal conflict every time I wrote in any way off the path of explicit spiritual edification. Sometimes, particular external feedback reinforced that. And I’ve found myself in the midst of a dynamic in which the end of spiritual practice was not greater joy in the presence of God, but what might make a compelling piece of writing.
And so it is my writing here has waned. I’ve taken it off-site, which has revitalized me in many, many ways, but has made it difficult to come home at night to A Different Story and its expectations, real or imagined.
I’d love it if you crossed the street with me to my new place, www.LylaWillinghamLindquist.com. I can’t tell you what my writing is going to look like there, or even if I’ll write any more often. I only know that I need a new space to try. One where I can write about God if I feel like it, or about anything else if I feel like it, and in any way that seems to work at the time. Maybe I’ll even use a bad word if it’s called for.
If you’re wondering, I still love Jesus. But in my non-writing life, I talk about other things. I’d like to write about them, too.
Some of you will prefer me the way I am right here. I’m good with that. I have some work in the archives that I’m pretty proud of (and some that, honestly, really sucks). Maybe one day I’ll delete it altogether, but for now I’ll leave it sit and we can grow old here together like Miss Havisham and her wedding cake.
Thanks for your love and encouragement while, like a petulant teenager, I’ve tried to find myself. Join me?
(Note: I am not moving my RSS and email subscriptions, so you will need to resubscribe at the new place if you wish to receive updates. While that might sound like an inconvenience, it’s really for your own good.)
Twenty-twenty hindsight is a wondrous thing.
I’m happy today to announce the launch of Letters to Me: Conversations with a Younger Self, a collaborative project in which nearly twenty authors (yes, including me) from a wide range of backgrounds explore a significant event from young adulthood, then talk to a younger version of ourselves with compassion and wisdom about what happened next, and how it mattered. I think most of the contributors would agree: being able to have a candid conversation with our older selves at what felt like such a critical moment would have been priceless.
This book is perfect for new graduates, college students, young adults making their way into the tenuous world of independence. But even at around two-times-ish the age of the intended audience, I have to tell you I was encouraged by these stories and reminded again that even with all its crazy ups and downs and twists and turns, life has a way of working itself out, albeit unexpectedly. God still knows how to make the most difficult of our stories redemptive.
Letters to Me is available on Amazon in paperback and for your Kindle.
What some folks are saying about this book:
There is something maddeningly compelling about this book. You want to leap into its pages and shake some sense into the characters just like you’re reading a page-turning novel, except that it’s real life and if you could somehow grab them by their shoulders, you would realize you were staring yourself in the face. The talent of these storytellers is revealed in how universal their personal stories are. In their stories you will experience agony and joy, pain and healing, fall and redemption. –Adam S. McHugh, author Introverts in the Church: Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture
This is so needed. I’ve often wished I could go back and have a strong talking to with my younger, more idiotic self. These stories are funny, heartfelt, and important. Reading them will make you think and imagine a better life — maybe even give you the courage to live one. —Jeff Goins, author, Wrecked: When a Broken World Slams into Your Comfortable Life
One of the most unnerving, unsettling things one can do in life is stare at themselves in the mirror – eye to eye. Letters To Me is the sacred chance to witness person after person pause their present as they stand naked in the mirror, facing everything they’ve been and everything they’ve done. To listen to what they hear in their souls, to see their past as they truly do. Oh, how I wish I’d been given this collection of stories earlier in my life. The entrance into adulthood would have been painted with so much more grace. –Lauren Lankford Dubinsky, founder of Good Women Project
Even if you’re cutting back on sweets, here’s a little midweek treat for you. (Or any other day of the week.)
Delicious images, exquisite quotes.
Too good not to share on Facebook, Twitter, your blog or via email.
(You can even link up at Seedlings in Stone and pop this sweet button on your post.)
If you’ve ever wondered why I love my work with Tweetspeak so much, this is one big reason why. I work with amazing, creative, fearless folks who conceive brilliant ideas, then coax them all the way through the birth canal to the world.
T. S. Poetry launched a new app today that lets you play with words and gorgeous images that you can share with a friend, or the whole universe (well, at least the universe on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest).
Go to WordCandy and sample a little something sweet.
You might even find it sweetly addictive, with zero calories. A little like Turkish Delight, only you won’t have to betray all of Narnia to snitch another piece.
(Note: The app is currently in Beta, so if you find a bug here and there, please report it so we can get it fixed right away. Like, for instance, the intermittent disappearance of the image, which is being feverishly worked on as we speak.)
I moved upstairs to the kitchen to work. I don’t like the kitchen much. It reminds me of all the times I have to cook, and cooking is not something I enjoy. Sometimes when I cook, there’s a fire, and I’m not sure the fire extinguisher was recharged after the last one. It wasn’t my fault, that time. Someone left a pizza box in the oven and I preheated. I didn’t expect it since the cat is dead and we only put pizza in the oven to hide it from the cat. (Read the rest…)
We started our new book club over at Tweetspeak Poetry this morning with this fun, light read from Nicholson Baker, The Anthologist. Follow along Paul Chowder’s rambling stream of consciousness as he struggles with writer’s block, love (and loss) and opens up poetry in an amusing way.
And maybe, just maybe, my post this morning includes a little stab at fiction.