I haven’t been writing much. Not this summer. And it’s not for lack of trying. It’s just that my mind has been otherwise occupied, I guess. I’ve been reading. A lot. I’m currently reading, concurrently, a systematic theology, a book on composition pedagogy, and a cheap fantasy novel. I’m also reading The New York Times and The Atlantic, plus a few dozen blogs, most days. My life has been extraordinarily ordinary these past two months. It’s been relaxing and satisfying.

And I wonder, sometimes, about the value of writing. Of pouring out more ink onto paper. Of watching meanings and constructions scurry across the page. Perhaps I have held true wonder at bay with a sea of words, buoyed on a pen in the sea of ink. But now someone has pulled out the stopper, and no amount of ink is going to make up for the gallons flowing into the sewer. Stranded, then, on the craggy outcropping of emotions and life experiences, I sit waiting. And wondering.

And I have ideas about how all of this works, or should work. I have theories and theologies and words upon words upon words. I have words blanketing the mountains of doubt and self-hate and isolation and meaninglessness, words piled so thick that I generally ski down their slopes with ease. But I’m not going to mention them now. Because, well, buckets of words poured infinitely into the sewer does nothing for anyone, least of all me.

So, yet again, I am going to wait. I’m going to be quiet, read, and pray. I’m going to have real conversations. I’m going to listen to music and watch Netflix. And, if the words return, so much the better. And, if not, I will otherwise focus my thoughts.

See you around,

Greg

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