The Infamous First Post

The time is currently 10:02 am.  My wife recently mentioned some favorite author of hers that said if you want to get good at writing, try writing for at least 30 minutes every day.  It doesn't matter what you write about, just write something.  Thirty minutes seems like a long time to me--which is weird because I'm totally unemployed and have all the time in the world.  So I'm going to write for at least 15 minutes.  That should be a good start.

Why am I doing this, though?  Good question.  I like to write.  I just don't do it.  And I find myself writing in my head all the time, those thoughts just never seem to make it to paper.  And when I read a good author (I recently finished a book by Tim Keller who qualifies), I find myself thinking, "I could do this--and actually kind of want to."  But I don't.  So now that I'm employed and find myself on the other side of the phrase "If I had more time I would...", I think I'm going to give it a go.

Yesterday I actually wrote something for real.  Meaning that people were actually going to read it and it has my signature on it.  It's a devo that my wife was asked to write for her home church in Torrance, CA.  She was asked to write it, but since we're married now and we want to be a part of that church as a couple, we figured maybe I should write it.  And, though it was difficult to admit to even her when she mentioned it, I really wanted to!  So I wrote it yesterday.  Its good, I think.  I like it anyway, and that's all anyone can really hope for.  But when I finished and let her sit down to read it, it was the most frightening thing I've experienced in a long time.  She's read stuff I'd written before, but this wasn't just anything...this was a devotional on a Bible passage.  It (supposedly) communicates Truth about God.  What it has to say could be the difference between Heaven and Hell for someone.  Well, maybe its not that dramatic, but it felt like it.  As she sat down to read it, I went to the couch, crawled under a blanket and peeked out with one eye to watch her.  She, like most readers, was quiet, occassionally smiling or even half-laughing (a good sign, there were some half-jokes in there).  Meanwhile, I was a nervous wreck.  Seriously, it was the longest five minutes I can remember from recent history.  It was like I was on the line being picked last for elementary school football or about to ask out a girl for the first time or standing at the edge of a zip line platform about to put my full weight into a very very skinny cable. 

And when it was done, she turned around and smiled.  Then she laughed as she saw me cowering on the couch and ran over to me.  Pulling the blanket away from my face, she looked me in the eyes and said she loved it.  That she always loves it when I write.  That she knows how frightened I feel (she's been writing for years).  And that she's so happy I did it.  And then some more stuff happened ;)

So that's why I'm doing this.  Because I've always wanted to and because someone I love loves me.

The time is currently 10:22 am.  That's twenty minutes.  And easier than I thought.