It's no good at all when you see yourself
And don't recognize your face
Out on my own it's such a scary place
The answers are all inside of me
All I have to do is believe
I'm not gonna stop
Not gonna stop til I get my shot
That's who I am
That is my plan
I'll end up on top
Where do such words of wisdom come from?
A business tycoon who has failed
and has come to a turning point in his career?
A musician who has lost herself in the music industry
and is returning to her passion?
No, these poignant words of self-discovery,
of realizing you have become someone you don't know
and the oath that you will return to your former likeable self,
pour from the mouth of a somewhat orangey, self-tanned Zac Efron,
in the "bet on it" golf course scene of High School Musical 2.
For the life of me, I can not get this song out of my head.
I even identify with it a little in that I am now writing for cash
and deadlines and expectations of others,
instead of just writing for the sheer joy of it.
I need to figure who I am as a writer.
As you would say in the writing realm, I need to find my voice.
The style that defines my writing.
The rhythm of words and play of thoughts
that makes me as a writer uniquely....me.
Now I think there are certain things
that I have to offer the world in the way of words,
like thoughts on scones and sleep depravity.
And then are things I should never put down on paper,
like how to re-build an engine or stock market day trading.
That would just hurt people and the economy.
Because let's face it, tsgs, I'm no Maya Angelou.
I don't often wax equolent about the state of the world,
about things like taxes or race relations.
And I have nothing to say in the way of hard theology, science fiction,
crime fighting, murder mystery or self-help.
So many topics...so little viewpoint on my part.
But ask me my take on every day occurences or issues of the heart
like babies in Africa, fashion disasters, tea with girlfriends,
grace, broken friendships, humiliation, hair implants,
the importance of family, church planting, insecurity,
raising little boys, cherry lip gloss or messy closets,
and I could write for days. And days.
So there it is.
From the murky depths of within
and with a little help from a cheesy song
sung by an angst ridden teenager,
with the treasured insight from family members and friends,
the truth of who I am as a writer begins to bubble to the surface.
Oh and all those prayers to Jesus.
I tell him I have nothing to say
and ask if he can give me something good to pass along?
In his graciousness he answers.
Because when I really think of it and the heart of what I'm after,
I would really like my voice to echo His.
That would be the best thing of all.