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The Writer Finds Joy in the Work

There be many that say, Who will show us any good? LORD, lift thou up the light of thy countenance upon us. Thou has put gladness in my heart, more than in the time that their corn and their wine increased.

PSALM 4.6-7

When Gustav Flaubert, the writer of perhaps the greatest psychological novel ever written, once considered the nature of the writer’s life, he was direct and clear: Writing, he wrote, “is a dog’s life.”

Gather together a group of writers and you will soon hear of the ways and means of procrastination, of the modes of postponement, of the tyranny of the blank page, troubles with character, setting, plot, diction, tone, the beads of frustration that are the writer’s constant companions. More viscerally, writers compare writing to opening a vein and letting blood flow over the keys. They use words like “terror,” “hard work,” “writer’s block.” They confess to wondering if they can ever finish a project — or if they ever will have another project.

So.

The obvious question here is, Why put yourself through this agony?

And here, writers use other words. Maurice Sendak speaks of the release of the creative urge. Theodore Roosevelt, surprisingly America’s most published president, speaks of the pleasure of seeing a stack of pages piling up on his desk. Writers use words like “relief,” “fulfillment,” “sense of completion,” insight,” “illumination,” and even “delight.”

J. R. R. Tolkien referred to humanity as “sub-creators,” those who are created to create. Perhaps much of the delight of writing comes from accomplishing what we are meant to accomplish: to create. Perhaps much of the delight of writing comes from the reaching through the hard work and terror and bloody keyboard. Perhaps much of the delight of writing comes from a recognition that skills, used well, are pleasing in the use and in the culmination — and in the sharing.

There are times in the writer’s life when the writing seems like a gift. An idea, a pattern, a structure, a sentence, a phrase, a word that comes to us unexpectedly, mysteriously, seemingly unearned, perhaps providential. This may happen at the typewriter, or at the laundry, or driving hungry hordes back from school toward chocolate chip cookies and milk, or standing on the sidelines at a Saturday morning soccer game. We had not expected it; we had not even been working at it. And yet there the thing is, and the pleasure of its sudden appearance is the pleasure of true hope.

There are times in the reader’s life that the writing seems inevitable. Of course this must be the next word. Of course this must be the next sentence. Of course this image must blossom into this set of ideas. Of course, of course. But writing is never inevitable. The writer chooses from a small infinity of words each time she sets one down. It is the craft of the writer that has prompted the illusion of inevitability for the reader.

In these, the writer, the sub-creator, shows delight — creating what, it seems, he or she must create, in just the way it must be created. What else could there be but delight, when craft, gift, skill, learning, intent, beauty, and meaning buckle?

How easy for me to live with you, Lord!

How easy to believe in you!

When my mind casts about

Or flags in bewilderment,

when the cleverest among us

cannot see past the present evening,

not knowing what to do tomorrow —

you send me the clarity to know

that you exist

and will take care

that not all paths of goodness shall be barred.

At the crest of earthly fame

I look back in wonderment

at the journey beyond hope — to this place,

from which I was able to send mankind

a reflection of your rays.

And however long the time

that I must yet reflect them

you will give it me.

And whatever I fail to accomplish

you surely have allotted unto others.

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

God, who wrestled with chaos to create matter, and overcame death to bring us to eternal life, give to writers, musicians and artists a share in the work and joy of creation, that, like you, they may draw forth beauty out of nothingness, and reveal to us some glimpses of your eternity, where you are enthroned, Life-giver, Pain-bearer, Love-maker, alive for ever and ever.

Michael John Radford Counsell

Thank you, O God, for all the help you have given me today.

Thank you for

Keeping me safe all through today;

Helping me to do my work through today;

Giving me strength to conquer my temptations all through today.

Thank you for

My home and all that it has been to me;

My loved ones and all the circle of those most dear;

My friends and comrades with whom I have worked and talked.

Thank you for

Any kindness I have received;

Any help that was given to me;

Any sympathy that was shown to me.

Help me to lay myself down to sleep tonight, with a glad and grateful heart.

This I ask through Jesus Christ my Lord. Amen.

William Barclay

How could anything rightly be said about love if Thou wert forgotten, Thou God of love, from whom all love comes in heaven and on earth; Thou who didst hold nothing back but didst give everything in love; Thou who art love, so the lover is only what he is through being in Thee! How could anything rightly be said about love if Thou wert forgotten, Thou who didst make manifest what love is, Thou, our Savior and Redeemer, who gave Himself to save us all! How could anything rightly be said about love if Thou wert forgotten, Thou spirit of love, Thou who dost abate nothing of Thine own, but dost call to mind the sacrifice of love, dost remind the believer to love as he is loved, and his neighbor as himself! O eternal love! Thou who art everywhere present, and never without testimony in what may here be said about love, or about works of love. For it is certainly true that there are some acts which the human language particularly and narrow-mindedly calls acts of charity; but in heaven it is certainly true that no act can be pleasing unless it is an act of love: sincere in its self-abnegation, a necessity for love, and just because of this, without claim or merit.

Søren Kierkegaard

Dear Artist of the Universe, Beloved Sculptor, Singer, and Author of my life, born of your image I have made a home in the open fields of your heart. The magnetic tug of your invitation to grow is slowly transforming me into a gift for the world. Mentor me into healthy ways of living.

Macrina Wiederkehr

Beauty

Christ, keep me from the self-survey

Of beauties all Thine own;

If there is beauty, let me pray,

And praise the Lord alone.

Pray — that I may the fiend withstand,

Where’er his serpents be;

Praise — that the Lord’s almighty hand

Is manifest in me.

It is not so — my features are

Much meaner than the rest;

A glow-worm cannot be a star,

And I am plain at best.

Then come, my Love, Thy grace impart,

Great Savior of mankind;

O come and purify my heart

And beautify my mind.

Then will I Thy carnations nurse

And cherish every rose,

And empty to the poor my Purse

Till grace to glory grows.

Christopher Smart

O Christ who holds

the open gate,

O Christ who drives the furrow straight,

O Christ, the plow, O Christ, the laughter

Of holy white birds flying after,

Lo, all my heart’s field red and torn,

And thou wilt bring the young green corn,

The young green corn for ever singing;

And when the field is fresh and fair

Thy blessed feet shall glitter there.

And we will walk the weeded field,

And tell the golden harvest’s yield,

The corn that makes the holy bread

By which the soul of man is fed,

The holy bread, the food unpriced,

Thy everlasting mercy, Christ.

John Masefield

Shine forth, O Lord . . . let Thy glory blossom forth as bloom and foliage on the trees; change with Thy mighty power this visible world into that diviner world, which as yet we see not; destroy what we see, that it may pass and be transformed into what we believe. Bright as is the sun, and the sky, and the clouds; green as are the leaves and the fields; sweet as is the singing of the birds; we know that they are not all, and we will not take up with a part for the whole. They proceed from a centre of love and goodness, which is God Himself; but they are not His fullness; they speak of heaven, but they are not heaven; they are but as stray beams and dim reflections of His Image; they are but crumbs from the table. We are looking for the coming of the day of God. . . .

John Henry Newman

You see, I want a lot.

Maybe I want it all:

The darkness of each endless fall,

The shimmering light of each ascent.

So many are alive who don’t seem to care.

Casual, easy, they move in the world

As though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces

Of those who know they thirst.

You cherish those

Who grip you for survival.

You are not dead yet, it’s not too late

To open your depths by plunging into them

And drink in the life

That reveals itself quietly there.

Rainer Maria Rilke

To Jesus on Easter

You see the universe, as I see daylight

opening to Your heart

like fingers of a little child uncurling.

It lies to You no more than wood to blade,

nor will You tell me lies.

Only fools or cowards lie. And You are neither.

Not that I comprehend You, who are simpler

than all our words about You,

and deeper. They drop around You like dead leaves.

Yet I can trust You. You resembling me —

two eyes, two hands, two feet,

five senses and no more — will cup my being,

spilling toward nothingness, within Your palm.

And when the last bridge breaks,

I shall walk on the bright span of Your breath.

Vassar Miller

Make of me a twilight: wake of color, trail of glory. In the evening of life transform me into a song of gratitude. I want to be an evening star for those who have lost their way. I want to be beauty at the end of each day. On my pilgrimage through the day, write mystery stories with my life.

Macrina Wiederkehr

Creator God,

because you make all that draws forth our praise

and the forms in which to express it,

we praise you.

Because you make artists of us all,

awakening courage to look again at what is taken for granted,

grace to share these insights with others,

vision to reveal the future already in being,

we praise you.

Because you form your Word among us,

and in your great work embrace all human experience,

even death itself, inspiring our resurrection song,

we praise you.

Yours is the glory.

Douglas Galbraith

I’ll praise my Maker while I’ve breath;

And when my voice is lost in death,

Praise shall employ my nobler powers:

My days of praise shall ne’er be past

While life, and thought, and being last

Or immortality endures.

Isaac Watts

You, Creator God, called all things into being.

And you named the great spaces:

light

darkness

heavens

earth

sea

You gave to humans the delight and the duty of naming

All those things that crowd into our days:

cats and spiders

lovers and friends

daffodils and muskrats

slimy ponds and dead leaves

sorrow and joy.

We thank you for writers who wake us up,

Who call us to attention;

We thank you for authors who craft words

That reverberate in our ears and in our hearts.

We thank you for the Word made flesh

for the Spirit who moves in and among us

for the lovingkindness of our heavenly Father.

All this we pray through the power of the Holy Spirit,

And in the name of Christ Jesus our Lord.

Susan Felch

For this fine-tipped pen my fingers cradle,

For newly-sharpened yellow pencils,

For the home-made notebook,

The reams of computer paper —

praise.

For pink erasers,

For the rainbow of sticky notes,

The printer ink,

The typewriter ribbon (hoarded and cherished) —

praise.

For library stacks,

For the bookstore café

The study carrel,

The ample desk —

praise.

For the cloud of witnesses ranged on the bookshelves,

For the challenge of an empty page,

For the dream that awakens me,

The faith that persists after the rejection letter,

The hope I slide into a new manila envelope

The joy you give me through this work —

praise.

For the grand symphony of language,

For the hardware of grammar,

For the infinite palette of words,

The game of it all,

This bounteous feast —

praise, all praise.

Elizabeth Stickney

The Prayer of the Author

Grant, I beseech Thee,

that all who read this book may be conscious of the deep spiritual insight of the writer;

that the sale of this book may result in a nice little nest-egg, even after income tax has been deducted;

that copies of this book, nicely bound, may make an impressive sight in the study, on the bookshelf which is level with the eye;

that amid all the congratulatory applause, the writer may remain conspicuously humble.

David Head

Here, O Lord, is my poor heart,

an empty vessel ready to be filled with your grace.

Here, O Lord, is my sinful soul,

waiting to be refreshed by your love.

Here, O Lord, is my mouth

created for your praise and ready to proclaim

the glory of your name,

now and for ever.

Dwight Lyman Moody

And now, I beseech thee, good Jesus, that to whom thou hast graciously granted sweetly to partake of the words of thy wisdom and knowledge, thou wilt also vouchsafe that he may some time or other come to thee, the fountain of all wisdom, and always appear before thy face, who livest and reignest world without end.

The Venerable Bede

Jesus, the very thought of Thee

With sweetness fills my breast;

But sweeter far Thy face to see,

And in Thy presence rest.

No voice can sing, no heart can frame,

Or can the memory find

A sweeter sound than Jesus’ name,

O Savior of mankind.

O Hope of every contrite heart!

O Joy of all the meek!

To those who fall, how kind thou art!

How good to those who seek!

But what to those who find? Ah! This,

No tongue or pen can show

The love of Jesus, what it is

None but His loved ones know.

Bernard of Clairvaux

“You are drunk, but not with wine”

ISAIAH 51.21

O God of too much giving, whence is this

inebriation that possesses me,

that the staid road now wanders all amiss

and that the wind walks much too giddily,

clutching a bush for balance, or a tree?

How then can dignity and pride endure

with such inordinate mirth upon the land,

when steps and speech are somewhat insecure

and the light heart is wholly out of hand?

If there be indecorum in my songs,

fasten the blame where rightly it belongs:

on him who offered me too many cups

of his most potent goodness — not on me,

a peasant who, because a King was host,

drank out of courtesy.

Jessica Powers