The Writer's Provision
The Writer’s Provision
By Kendra Benner
“…After many years, to start a story still scares me to death.”
— John Steinbeck
When I was 12 years old, I had my first encounters with the mysterious and often scary process of writing. I’d sit at my parents’ old oak desk and try to pull the introduction to my seventh grade essay out of thin air—but there was only blankness. I’d attempt to shape the body into paragraphs, but no revelations would come.
I longed to write something as inspired as the storied books and plays I was reading for class: 1984 and The Great Gatsby and Twelfth Night. Their prose vibrated with beauty and intentionality, and I longed to write something great, too. Perfectionism took over, and I wanted every word to be flawless as soon as my fingertips hit the keys. So I would stare at the screen and wait for inspiration. And wait.
It’s said that Ernest Hemingway called the challenge of the blank page “the white bull.” That beast was—and still is—a fierce one to face.
In retrospect, I would’ve benefitted from the advice of writers who came before me. When Anne Lamott’s writing students had difficult days, she encouraged them to write one page of anything—“three hundred words of memories or dreams or stream of consciousness on how much they hate writing.” Whenever Maya Angelou was faced with the deadlock of the blank page, she would write children’s rhymes for days on end: “The cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.” And when Madeleine L’Engle was stuck with nothing to write, she would play Bach on the piano to help guide her subconscious into the melody of new ideas.
But at this point in my life, I didn’t know about any of that. It would be over a decade before I’d crack open Bird by Bird or Walking on Water (and a yet-to-be-determined number of years before I finish them). I was clueless to the fact that there were any ways to inspire writing.
Struck with the irritation and discouragement that only a 12-year-old can muster, I’d slump in my seat and wonder how it was all supposed to work. As my mind throbbed with worry, I would agitate—hadn’t I written something to completion before?
After long stretches of silence, out of nowhere, I’d have an idea for the introduction. I’d frantically type it out before the words vanished. A few moments later, another thought would pass fleetingly through. One by one, the ideas would materialize in my mind, until I’d finish with a huge exhale.
It felt like forgetting how to write, then suddenly remembering again. As Angelou described the experience of breaking through her writer’s block: “…It’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’”
Fifteen years later, I’ve learned that this peculiar process will happen every time I put pen to paper. I start with nothing and wait nervously for something, anything, to come.
Like many things in adulthood, this knowledge comes with fear. I know I’m starting with nothing, and I’m afraid it will stay that way. I fear no words will come.
On many days, the fear stops me from writing at all. I imagine myself staring at an empty screen for hours and feeling inadequacy seep through my still fingers. I fear the vacant space without words, and it keeps me from entering the process.
I now realize we have all been there. When someone once asked Hemingway what was the most frightening thing he had ever encountered, he’s quoted as saying, “A blank sheet of paper.” Steinbeck even remarked, “I will go so far as to say that the writer who is not scared is happily unaware of the remote and tantalizing majesty of the medium.” Although I don’t think a writer has to be afraid or else she’s naive, Steinbeck’s comments do point to the intense fear most writers face when we approach the blank page.
So how do we find the courage to keep trying to create? I recently discovered the thread of an answer in a new book by Christian singer-songwriter Andrew Peterson, called Adorning the Dark.
In the book, Peterson reveals that whenever he starts a new album, he fears that “whatever that thing is that makes the songs work, the mystical gas in the engine, will be cut off.” He’s afraid his creative source will be sapped and God will remove his very Spirit from him. But Peterson knows what to tell himself in these moments:
“Remember. Remember, Hebrew children, who you once were in Egypt. Remember the altars set up along the way to remind yourselves that you made the journey and God rescued you from sword and famine, from chariots and pestilence, that once you were there, but now you are here… Every song is an Ebenezer stone, evidence of God’s faithfulness. I just need to remember.”
When we’re afraid, we remember. Just as we use our minds to write, we can use our minds to recall. When we run out of words, we remind ourselves that the Lord is our provider.
We remember the birds of the air, who do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet our heavenly Father feeds them—and how much more valuable are we than they? We remember the lilies of the field, who do not labor or spin, yet not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of them—and will he not much more clothe us?
God’s promise of provision gives us the courage to keep entering the creative process, even when our minds and pages are blank—because we don’t create the words all on our own. “Since you cannot do this very little thing, why do you worry about the rest?”
And if there is a moment when we are rendered without ideas—when the words just don’t come—we know that the Word himself is with us. He promises to be with us always, to the very end of the age.
When we’re frustrated because our creative well has run dry, he stands at the ready to comfort us in the shelter of his presence. We can trust him.
And on the hardest days, how do we rely on the Lord to provide inspiration? We ask for his insight; we quiet ourselves so that he can speak through us. As Lamott writes in Bird by Bird, “I sit for a moment and then say a small prayer—please help me get out of the way so I can write what wants to be written.”
The Lord gives us models of how to follow Him courageously when we write—one of whom is Mary of Nazareth, the one who held the Creator in her womb.
In her book Walking on Water, L’Engle presents Mary as an example of how artists can trust the Lord even when we tremble with fear. Indeed, Mary desired to magnify the Lord even when she was afraid. L’Engle writes:
“I believe that each work of art, whether it is a work of great genius or something very small, comes to the artist and says, ‘Here I am. Enflesh me. Give birth to me.’ And the artist either says, ‘My soul doth magnify the Lord,’ and willingly becomes the bearer of the work, or refuses… and not everyone has the humble, courageous obedience of Mary.” May we all long to magnify the Lord when we create, even when fear strikes our souls.
By Kendra Benner
Writer & Artist
Photography by Joshua & Eastlyn Tolle