Wrangler Dani

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” -J.R.R. Tolkien

Last week I went to a writer’s conference, the first one I’ve attended in years. Before going, I asked God to show up – years ago I felt silenced by the expectations of others, by my own imperfections and my need to be understood, so I wandered away from the professional communities of writers. For several years, I wrote to myself, to paying clients and to no one in particular. I wandered in a creative wilderness, sometimes even finding myself in silence, with nothing to write at all.

But recently I’ve been working hard at this new project, which I submitted to this conference’s contest, and I was a finalist. Just like that, I booked a hotel room and bought a conference ticket, hired the incomparable Mick Silva to help me prepare. Predictably, I dove head-long into this adventure, praying all the while that God would reveal a pillar of cloud or fire to lead me out of my wilderness, or least show me a town in the desert where I could get a decent cup of coffee.

Let me tell you: it turns out the wilderness is called the wilderness for a reason. There are no lattes here, no smiling storekeepers to lighten my load or give me a rest for the night. There is a lot of beauty though – craggy rocks that show God’s handiwork, the bright galaxies taking my breath away each night. I was inspired by the tales of fellow travelers in their own wildernesses, and guides who had finally made it to a homestead somewhere out there. Inspiration was everywhere, taking my breath away. But my larger aspirations were not realized – no agent who wanted to see my book, at least not as written. I did not win the contest. The wilderness stretches on before me and my only choice seems to be to keep writing, keep walking, or quit. No one can tell me how far away my homestead is, or if I’ll ever reach it. The wilderness teaches us only lessons of endurance and persistence, not of safety and home.

I’m disappointed, because I wanted someone to tell me how to do this and where home is, which is of course an impossible expectation. I’m a little tired of walking and I am tempted to feel quite sorry for myself, as if this experience doesn’t make me better at my work, as if all artists don’t struggle with the tensions between honesty and bill-paying and good taste. But here’s what I know about creativity – it blossoms in the wilderness. The most poignant works of art are always made by someone who cares enough about the art itself to weather a little rejection, a little mockery, a little dismissal. I don’t mean to suggest that I am that kind of stalwart, self-propelled artist, but I would sure like to be.

So I’m writing. Today, every day. I am writing. I am writing what I like to read. I am reading the work I aspire to. I am writing what I can be proud of, that feels authentic and unabridged. I am going to remain teachable and humble, but I won’t bow to every suggestion or whim, or be intimidated by every well-intended piece of advice I receive. Yes, I am in the wilderness and home is a long way off, it might be over that ridge or around that bend, or it might be so far I never reach it. But I have sturdy shoes, a God who knows my name and gives me a story of hope and redemption to tell, which is why I’m writing in the first place. I didn’t get a pillar of fire or smoke, but I did get a still, small voice, a quiet encouragement, the hugs and shared experience of new friendship.

Here’s to the wilderness wanderers. May we find beauty as we search for home.