Let me pose a question to you: what type of souls create greater art?The souls of the inquisitive or the souls of the irrevocably certain? The explorers of this vast wilderness of existence or the settlers of one point of this reality’s great plane? True, the latter soul may be the perfect candidate for penning textbooks and technical manuals, but we are not talking about anything akin to Ikea assembly pamphlets or 11th edition college textbooks that have only gotten duller with each printing, we are talking about art. About true literature.
It seems that many of the greatest authors of literature that this world has ever known were explorers of existence, adventurers of the domains of both fantasy and reality and the regions where they bleed into each other. The haunted, the searching, the wondering, the dreaming, the desperate, the longing, the curious… it is these who have moved our hearts with their words. Keats looking for love and a type of earthly immortality, Poe looking for hope in the shadows of his dark dreams… author after author, artist after artist, it is seen that those who still had questions wrote most beautifully.
Then why do I, when I think of my own writing, act as if certainty is a prerequisite before I put pen to page? As if I must know everything and have my every opinion set in regards to what I wish to say, before I even begin to whisper? It is only recently that I have seen this thinking within myself. And even only more recently has it occurred to me that in my seeking this nebulous and undefined perfection within my soul, I was in fact seeking the one thing that would forever kill my creativity. For if I became absolutely certain of every lingering question and wondering that lingered in the outer (and inner) provinces of my heart I would then become nothing more than a literary Pharisee; a know-it all with my heart shut to all the disturbing and breathtaking question marks in this world. A technical manual writer instead of an artist.
This then is my public confession. Because if I ever did one day think I had all the answers, and if I ever did find some place where I thought I knew it all and had everything under control, it is then it would be known by everyone looking in from the outside how ignorant and foolish I truly am. For the fact is this: I will never have all the answers. For even as Christ holds my heart in His hands, trials and growth will always imply change, and change implies a shifting, and shifting implies a certain level of instability.
I choose then to write without all the answers. I choose to speak even though I may feel shivers through my soul. I no longer want what would destroy my creativity. Instead, I want to go on a journey with you. Share my imperfections and question marks with you. For that is true vulnerability. That is true art. That is true literature. That is what I truly want to share with you. Want to join me in this adventure?