Good morning…
If I were a neat freak, I wouldn’t be a writer. If I needed eight hours of sleep every night, I wouldn’t be a writer. If I loved to read, filling my time and my head with words written by others, I wouldn’t be a writer.
God made me a messy insomniac, with dyslexic tendencies, so that I would be a writer. I see it clear as day. Now I see it clear as day.
If I couldn’t write until after the house was in order, then I’d never get around to writing. If I slept soundly when my head hit the pillow, then most of my scribbled upon pages would be blank. If I filled my time with books and thought, “Boy, this author says just what I am thinking,” then I wouldn’t have to write what’s on my mind.
I used to wish I was neat. I used to wish reading was a personal passion. I used to wish I could crawl into bed at 11 o’clock and sleep until 7:00. Now I’m glad my wishes never came true.
It dawned on me, just recently, why pictures of Einstein show him wearing “wild” hair. Unkempt. Disheveled. A mad-scientist personified.
You see, when I can’t sleep, when I can’t put down my pen to pick up a rag, when I can’t stop to take a shower because I fear leaving buried words from God, my house and my head also wear “wild” hair.
If God ever taps me on the shoulder and says, “Let’s publish this stuff,” I’ll hire a cleaning lady when I hire an agent.
He guides the humble in what is right and teaches them His way (Psalm 25:9, NIV).
…Sue…
