The Writer Within

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You know, I really don’t want to write a paper about how American English closely resembles English as it was in Britain during Shakespeare’s day.

I don’t want to write a paper about a modern literary theorist, or even several literary theorists.

I don’t even particularly want to write a paper about how sympathetic Isabella is compared to Helena and Viola, admirable as they are.

I want to write essays about a Christian woman’s response to feminism–and whether or not we should fully disregard it.

I want to write essays about why we should check our motivations for choosing the churches that we do.

I want to write essays about the damaging effects of labels.

I want to write essays about the people I see in line at the grocery store and how moving humanity is in its simple, wearisome walk.

I want to write essays about why we eat what we eat.

I want to write essays about why we should stop regarding men with sexist preconceived notions in our heads and start treating them as we women wish to be treated.

I want to write about the call to singleness.

I want to write about the importance of visiting other nations.

I want to write about looking past appearances and straight towards the heart.

I want to write about so much more than academic concepts in tidy three point outlines and I want to talk about the things we ponder quietly as we drive home from work or on our lonely lunch breaks on as we wait in line at the grocery store.

There is so much in my head to which no one wants to assign a grade. For which no one will ever pay me.

That I have no time to write.

But my head will not be silent.

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2 responses »

  1. The Dadster Ripostes:

    And that, O World, is my little one writing.

    Proud daddy? Uh-huh!

    Love you, Little One!

    Daddy

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