Through the window across the room from my recliner I can see the first few hints of dawn coming over the eastern horizon. Now the light is sea-blue, but quickly some color begins to appear to outline the clouds. Days are often filled with frantic activity, but mornings are still and slow. Only the dregs are left in the bottom of my coffee cup, so I walk across the cool kitchen floor for a refill. I gaze outside as I take the first sip. A sheen of frost clothes the dying grass and I can just make out the last few leaves clinging to the branches of a sugar maple I planted seven years ago.

I do my writing in the mornings. I tried to write in the evenings, but the weight and distraction of the day tends to make it hard, if not impossible, to produce anything. And now that I have three young boys, I want to spend evenings with them and my wife instead of being holed up in my study. So, mornings it is then. Just me, a cup of tepid coffee, my laptop, and whatever words I can get out of my head and onto the page.

I didn’t always enjoy writing. I remember writing assignments from high school where I performed masterful feats of condensing to cram as much content as possible into as few words as possible. But then I also remembered writing poems in my free time, just as something to fill my spare time and rid myself of a bit of creative energy. These poems weren’t Shakespearean sonnets, instead, they were mediocre limericks that ChatGPT could probably spit out in 0.53 seconds. But this writing revealed a latent desire, one that I wasn’t even fully aware of at the time.

I enjoyed reading almost ever since I could remember being able to read. One summer in particular, between the 2nd and 3rd grade, I somehow procured a reading textbook from my neighbor who happened to be a grade or so ahead of me in school. During those few months in the mid-90s, I read and reread every story in that book multiple times. Somehow that practice stoked the desire within me, and I was hardly able to stop reading after that. My parents recount stories of me being forced to stop reading so I could walk through my dad’s chicken house. I walked, never ran, but I somehow managed to finish more quickly than my dad could. I was found shortly after, reading the book in which I had carefully saved my spot.

Some avid readers begin writing their own stories, but I never remember wanting to write a book. I certainly never thought it was something I could ever do. I enjoyed consuming the written word, and that was enough for me. Part of my lack of writing could have simply been that I never thought I had anything worth writing about. That changed when I rode my bike from Canada to Mexico.

Before leaving for my trip, I promised people back home that I would send email updates during the trip. During the first week I managed to find two places where I had internet and could log into Gmail to send my email updates and upload a blog post. For the rest of the trip, I either didn’t have internet access, or I didn’t have the energy to compose anything. A few weeks after I returned home, I started sending out emails again to complete the updates on what happened on my trip.

I started by writing 800–1000 words for every three to four days, but my word count slowly expanded until I was writing 1000+ words for every day on the route. I found myself enjoying the process of writing even more than I expected. I didn’t write regularly, in fact, I usually waited until inspiration struck. As a result, it would often go for months between writing sessions, and my progress was commensurately slow. It took over nine years, but I was finally able to edit and rewrite my updates into a book that I ended up self-publishing. It wasn’t anything amazing, but it was a large goal that I was capable of sticking with until it was done.

Why did I spend nine years writing a book? It certainly wasn’t for the money. I was able to get back the money I spent printing the books, but the excess didn’t come even close to compensating me for the hundreds of hours I’d spent writing and editing. The goal for writing the book about my bike trip was also not for recognition. If someone wants to make a name for themselves, there are other ways that are much easier and quicker than writing. The reason I finished writing the book was partially because of my dogged determination to finish a project I had started, but by far the biggest reason was to communicate to others what it was like to do what I had done. Probably at least 99.8% of the people I know will never have a chance to bike the Great Divide, but if I write a book about the experience, maybe I could help them experience a tiny part of what it was like.

Why write? I write because words are powerful, whether spoken or written. But even as powerful as they are, words are still inadequate to completely convey experiences such as what it’s like to ride the spine of the Rockies from Canada to Mexico, to hold your newborn child in your arms, or to experience a total solar eclipse¹. When they aren’t sure what to say, people might say, “I have no words.” In a similar way when you try to describe one of these experiences: “There are no words.” No matter how perfectly you choose your words or how you craft your sentences, there is a gulf between reality and your description of reality. But even as inadequate as they may be, words are still the best way we have to share our experiences with others.

In John 1 we meet the Word, the divine logos. In Colossians 1:16 we read that the Word was the one by whom the universe was created.

For by Him all things were created that are in heaven and that are on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or principalities or powers. All things were created through Him and for Him.

Colossians 1:16 (NKJV)

As humans made in the image of God, we have an innate desire to create. All around us from the vehicles we drive to work to music and art, we can see the results of the ingenuity and creative spirit that God put in mankind. That creative spirit also involves creating and communicating meaning using language, one of God’s greatest gifts. When we speak and when we write, we are in a sense reflecting the communicative and creative nature of God that was put into us at Creation.

It’s not necessary for everyone to create using words. Some people create in other ways, ways in which I feel completely inadequate, using wood, metal, or computer code. Whether someone is crafting a sentence, a bookcase, a painting, or a meal, some measure of God’s creative spirit can be expressed by humanity.

I write because I have ideas. Not all of them are great, in fact, many of them aren’t. Writing allows me to outline what I’m thinking to see how it looks once I have it on the page. As many others have said, “Writing is thinking.” By writing, I am forced to think through my opinions and ideas to see if they still make sense once they are laid out before me. Once I clearly see their substance, I can adjust their wording, rearrange their structure, or delete them entirely. Rarely does one of my ideas survive the writing process unscathed. If I am unable to clearly communicate an opinion or idea, it likely shouldn’t exist, or at least I shouldn’t noise it abroad.

Writing allows others engage with my ideas. They may agree with me, or they may disagree. Either way, my thinking is shaped by the input of others. If my thoughts and ideas are trapped within in the confines of my mind and are never seen by others, there is much less chance that I can get this input and change my thinking to more accurately reflect what is true.

Writing is humbling. I often come to the blank page with a burning zeal to say something profound. Sometimes, after wrestling with my unruly idea for a few minutes to a few hours, I’m unable to pin it to the page in any sort of coherent argument. I try desperately to connect the paragraphs of my essay with a few well-placed quotes and Bible verses, but the lack of context and coherence causes it to crumble into a pile of verbal cruft². Sitting there in the ruin of my ambitions helps drive home the truth that I’m usually not nearly as clever as I think I am.

I write because it’s fun. It doesn’t always go well, in fact, it is there is a certain amount of energy required to drag my thoughts to the top of the hill before they can start rolling down the other side. But once I get started, it’s sometimes difficult to stop. It doesn’t happen often, but I sometimes enter a flow state where I can type about as quickly as I can think, and the words that glide onto the screen are actually not half bad. But even when it’s hard, there is a satisfaction that comes from struggle that is perhaps as fulfilling as chopping a load of firewood or debugging a nasty software problem. It’s problem-solving in a word processor, and I love it. And even during those times when I don’t, there is a benefit to simply putting in the work. Not everything you do has to be or needs to be fun, and the earlier you learn that the better.

Why write? Write because it helps you think, because it keeps you humble, because you want to make your thoughts more real to yourself and others, because you want to share an experience, or because you are a creator made in the image of the Creator. Or maybe, just write because it’s fun. Whichever reason you choose, through your writing attempt to grow closer to God, and in the process, to more brightly shine His light to others.

Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.

Matthew 5:16 (NKJV)

1. Notice that I said “experience”, not “view.” Seeing a total solar eclipse in person versus viewing photos of it is about like the difference between seeing a picture of a waterfall versus standing beside being coated with spray and feeling the pounding of it in your bones. ↩
2. cruft: badly designed, unnecessarily complicated, or unwanted code or software ↩