Novel Faith

My faith sometimes feels like a large empty tank that I drop pennies into, trying to listen for the echoes. I don’t know the size or shape of it, or what it’s there for or what I’m supposed to put in it or find in it; and I suppose that’s probably the point. But there are a handful of things in my life that consistently ring true, and my current Work In Progress, my novel, is one of them. Somehow, I have a bulletproof faith that this story is meant to exist in the world, and I just happen to be the unlucky soul who was standing at the crossroads when lightning struck.

This sounds like it should make life easy: that the inevitability of my success is assured and all I have to do is kick back and wait for the words to roll out and the money and accolades to roll in, but it turns out that faith doesn’t know how to use a word processor, or a pen for that matter, so I’m still stuck doing all the work myself. I still have to piece together the story and grind out page after page of text and, often, stare blankly into space unsure of what to do next. In fact, the only real advantage that this mighty faith affords me is the sense that all the effort will be worth it, that all the struggle will have meaning, and that I’m justified in calling myself “a writer who works for a payroll company” instead of “a payroll clerk who writes a bit on the side.”

So I’m not exactly in a position to prosthetylize to the masses. This isn’t a faith meant to move nations: rather, it’s a cozy, domestic kind of faith that I can return to now and again when the howling tempest of my doubts and frustrations get the better of me. And that’s really all I need.

~ by Gwydhar Gebien on May 15, 2019.

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