I’m not like most Christian writers. From what I have observed they write strictly to glorify God and while I admire that, I don’t do as they do. I love God and intend to serve Him for all of my days on earth and in heaven, but when I put pen to paper (or finger tips to keyboard) my mind is full of dialog, characters, description and plots. I think of Him off and on, but when I am scribbling or typing away, my thoughts are more focused on how attractive I can make this particular scene.
While I intend to craft a novel in such a way that points to Jesus as the Answer for all mankind, when I write it is to satisfy myself. It is the workings of an imaginative mind, the musings of a lonely heart, and the outpourings of an uncommunicative soul. You know, I can’t even recall ever asking God if it was His will for me to be a novelist. I just always assumed that since I have that kind of gift that I was destined to write. I fanaticize about the day when I can walk into any bookstore and find my works on the shelves next to other literary greats.
I rarely pray before I create a new story, character or anything of the sort. Usually I just put it all down and at some later date I talk to the Almighty about it. Sometimes the ideas come so fast that I want to flesh them out before I forget them. Sometimes I feel that words alone can’t describe how I feel about still being unpublished and I ask the Holy Spirit to relate my pain to the Lord.
Writing is really the only thing I know how to do. And do well. I have a few other gifts but the passion for them isn’t there. Whether I ever see my works in print, I have to write. It is an obsession; it is like breathing to me.