I had hoped to finish the fourth draft of my book-in-progress this week. Instead, I wrestle with the next-to-last chapter for days, fleshing out bones I’ve been tossing around like dice for the past year, and I’m still not ready to move on. It’s good and necessary work.
I consider finishing this draft and putting the book away for a while. Maybe forever. I’m risking vulnerability with this one in a way that’s different than what I did with Two Hearts. The way I feel about it changes from day to day. I imagine I’ll persevere with it until it’s ready for an editor, or God calls me home, and then see where it goes next.
I dare to identify with Frederick Buechner who says of his own his work that it’s “too religious for secular readers” and “too secular for religious ones”. But, like Buechner, “I find I need to put things into words before I can believe they are entirely real.” The work changes me. Maybe one day it will speak to some deep place in someone else. I trust that it will accomplish what it’s meant to accomplish.
Meanwhile, I come to the desk in the morning and pray. I offer my work as worship. I press on.