*A note before you read this. After doing an audit of my blog in 2022, I have decided to leave content that speaks to the Christian I was at the time this was written. I no longer identify as Christian (and haven’t for a very long time.) I chose to leave these posts because it is who I was then and it is important to me to be honest and true with every iteration and evolution of self that I experience. I may decide to add comments to the end of posts like this as well
When God starts moving and I start really listening, I wonder what it is he’s trying to say. I have my ideas, these grandiose versions of The Plan, these little dots splattered on the atlas of my life, but they really hardly ever lead where I envision.
I go to a place like Calvin for their Festival of Faith & Writing and know within seconds that I’m somewhere I totally don’t belong. Please don’t get me wrong. It was a great conference, and I met fabulous people. But I’m not all that.
My worst habit is that I find a million things that bug me. I do it all the time. I’m relentless and ruthless in my head. Sometimes out loud. Most of the time in my head though. Things that bug me about conferences like this are (in no particular order):
- People who are fake.
- People who pretend they’re listening but aren’t.
- People who won’t tell the truth.
- People who are pretentious and pompous.
- People who act differently in front of different people.
I guess those things are probably all related. They drive me freaking nuts. And the people who have those attributes probably want to smack me to Ohio. We don’t get along. At least I see it.
Maybe they don’t because they’re too busy putting on a smile and watching that prospective agent from across the room. They can’t read the sarcasm in my remarks because they’ve stopped listening, they’re reading the lips of the editor that’s talking with that prospective agent. They laugh that fake laugh like they’re paying attention to me because I laughed, but I said that my grandfather was my least favorite person because he was fake and they didn’t even catch that I was cutting them down. They push me aside with a tart, “Excuse me,” as the agent makes his way near us. They push out their hands, shake with enthusiasm the agent’s hand while speaking of high brow literary bullshit. And it’s always funny to watch the agent regard them in the same way they just did me while the agent jokes with me about writing horror.
Or something like that.
And then I wonder what God meant by that.